On Beer, Hair, And Ports Security
Yesterday afternoon, a small group of my friends and I were hard at work, adjacent to the Hudson Piers, doing our patriotic duty to ensure that all shipping of beers from the bar to our corner of the room was done only by certified mostly-Americans. We were at constant high alert that absolutely no beers would be handled or transported by any dirty foreigners, especially nun'a'dem shifty United Arab Emiritians. The safety and security of our nation's beer portals is always our utmost concern.
Well...that was the original plan, anyhow. Typical of your standard American jingoistic edict, our Zone Of Safe Transport was thwarted almost at once, by that most cunning of sexy foreign operatives, the Hung Brazilian, who brazenly defied our trade sanctions with a wave of a $20 bill and a thickly accented offer to buy us all a round. Talk's cheap, and draft beer is $3 a pop, so from there ensued a raft of extralegal non-domestic beer shipping. Yes, we can be bought. We're a lot like the Port Authority that way.
After the Brazilian shipment, we accepted delivery from a nation on the State Department's Travel Warning list. That shipment was followed immediately by a shipment from that new country on the outskirts of Turkey. You know, the one that's shaped like a clock? It's called Tofurkey or Turducken or something like that. Anyway, all that dirty foreign-funded beer began to fill me up with shame. And beer. I felt so un-American. And drunk. I left my not-American beer shippers and their discussion of the finals on Pakistani Idol (fo' realz, swear!), and slipped away towards the can.
Just outside the restroom door, my elbow was grabbed by a passing acquaintance. "Hey, Joe. I've been meaning to ask you something. You don't have to answer if it's too personal."
Well, there's no way this will end well, is there?
"Too personal? Hehe, that doesn't sound good," our hero muttered with false joviality.
"Ha, ha. Yeah, well I've just been meaning to ask you if you are using that hair stuff, you know, Propecia or whatever."
I shook my head. "Nope. All I use on my hair is Irish Spring. Where did this come from?"
"Oh, well I've just been noticing that the last few times I've seen you, you don't look as bald as you usually do."
Tell the man in the turban that I'm ready for another round.