Somebody needs to show me these two beers.
I have heard about them all of my law enforcement career -- usually at about 3 o'clock in the morning -- but it's obvious that someone is actively engaged in hiding them from me.
I mean, there I am, driving along minding my own business, when I notice the bed of a pick-up truck sticking out of a house.
Now, this is the sort of thing that kind of requires a tad bit of attention, so I stop and get out to ponder the architectural statement of a bloody huge Ford tailgate protruding between a couple of very large bay windows.
As I meditate upon this, I notice a pair of trenches cut into the lawn that lead from the street to -- you won't believe this -- the pick-up truck.
This discovery, together with the bisected hedge, and the mysterious disappearance of the Mama deer lawn ornament that was formerly -- if memory serves -- located between the Daddy deer (now to the left of the trenches) and Baby Bambi (right side), leads me to believe that my professional services are probably required.
I call dispatch and have them run a 10-28 on the license plate prominently attached to the visible part of the pick-up, then further inform them that I will be needing the services of the VFD, a mentally-flexible tow-truck driver, and possibly EMS.
Then I scramble up onto the bed of the pick-up, duck under the collapsed eaves and into the living room.
The first thing I notice in the glare of the one remaining headlight, is Mama deer looking at me reproachfully from somewhere betwixt the radiator and the fuel pump.
The second thing, is the gentleman steadying himself against a bookcase with one hand, warbling a country song, as he relieves himself into some kind of potted plant.
Ah, I think to myself, here is Person of Interest #1.
I look into the cab of the pick-up, but I don't see anyone else. Behind me, George Strait left his saddle in San Antone, and I pad into the kitchen.
I quick twist of the taps produces no water. I had remembered that the owners of this house were summer-ing in Colorado; looks like they hadn't come back yet.
Even so, a quick trip through the bedrooms reveals only dust and a musty smell -- thank God -- so I return to Mama deer and Person of Interest #1, as Dispatch returns the name and address of the registered owner of the pick-up.
I step up behind the gentleman -- who is firmly shoving up-and-down on a unoffending branch -- and I clear my throat.
"What's on your mind, sir?"
"Summbeesch won-wonn--won't flusdht."
"That's okay, sir, ferns are bad that way. Want to tell me what happened here?"
"Welsh, I's tak-taken a whizz, 'n the thin-thingie won't fllushdt."
"Ah," I say, "And how much have you had to drink tonight?'
Behind my back, I extend two fingers.
He looks at his own hand, counts unsteadily, then waves a Victory sign at me.
Damn, I'm good. I should give lessons to Miss Cleo.
"You do realize, sir, that you have succeeded in parking your truck in a house?"
"G'wan funnymaansh ... wa-wait minnit. Yoosh a copdt."
Hello, higher brain functions! I wave the flashlight beam around the living room, the pick-up grill, the bits and pieces dangling from the ceiling. The decapitated plaster deer.
"Succinct, yet pithy observation. Let's go outside."
"Way,way,wayminnit! Yoush 'rrestin' me? Whafor?"
"Suspected DWI and hunting plaster deer out of season."
"Nonono, no. Mansh got ri',rite to do wha he wnats wi' his hoo -hou -, house!"
"Yes!" I exclaim, happily, "Yes, he does! And you are Mr. Jim Drunkard, of Onehorse, Texas, are you not?!"
"Yeesh! Da's me!"
"This is Bugscuffle. Onehorse is about 120 miles..." I point, "That way."
I want to see the two beers that can give a 270 pound man a BAC of 0.27%.
Seriously. Do they come in buckets, or what? Is there a secret non-cop beer mug measured in gallons behind the bar?
Of course, I suppose from the smell he could have been swimming in it. Are there special beer vats for dunking customers that I've never seen?
I want to see these famous two beers, dammit!