Father Cupcake drinks a Corona

(and grabs a soapbox)


"Call me crazy but here is the most bittersweet bottle of beer I ever drank. There is something in it that displeases me; could it be its toxic aroma? I think not—perhaps the hops are too stale. Or perhaps the lifetime of oppression of the workers, who soil their shirts with sweat and bleed profusely over the pavement for the returns they sow, perhaps it is this which bothers me. But no, I am no unionist, I am no collectivist. I am however a discerning bar patron. I think perhaps it is the tastiness of this beer, combined with its unpleasant aftertaste which has struck a chord within me. Let us consider the rose, a sweet smelling flower, but quick to go rotten and stink up an entire area, whether indoors, out of doors or an enclosed courtyard. This is what I mean when I highlight the evanescence of earthly beauty. And so it is with beer. Now, consider the buzzing of the bee, or the lamenting yelp of the hound dog, as it chases its afternoon vittles down the road in the form of an ice-cream cart full of dog sausages – for sausage is known to go bad left in the summer heat, and so ice cream carts are sometimes put to this use. Consider the flux of the river, the changing of the seasons, and the perfect arc the sun makes in the sky in its daily voyage through our hearts and minds in time, space and serendipity. Then ask yourself, “Have I made the life of my fellow man just a bit more bearable?” Indeed such questions are not easy; the answers trouble us with repercussion and meaning we least suspect. There is an old Native saying, “He who is without the shade of an oak tree, is like a lonely reed.” The oak tree is the rock we build our lives upon – without a rock, a tree is but a mere twig, ready to be snapped by any passing mule or wolfhound. Such is the grim test of nature, as we are cast about day to day in an unremitting frenzy of rock, trees, and unquenching yet seemingly delicious liquid refreshment. Which brings us back to beer. Who among us has not tasted a premium lager, and thought, “Indeed, the brewmaster is a mighty fellow!” I wager not a one of you. For let us not forget the skill and knowledge, passed down from generation to generation, that made men like Alexander Keith’s into the well-marketed household names we rely on to feed our artificially contrived system of manufactured consumer wants. I believe it was that modern-day economic Methuselah and fellow Canadian John Kenneth Galbraith who once said "The richer we become, the thicker is the dirt.” I have no idea what that means, but clearly, the man was drunk off his cake. Which brings us back to beer…"