The ringer

I found that this little snippet was backed up at some time or another.  I wrote it quite a while ago.  I called it a snippet because it is not really a story or a short story or much more than a musing (see what I did there, that’s some unintentional genius-type stuff).  I found three of these documents that I obviously thought were funny and that I enjoyed writing.  Maybe this is the place for them (and maybe not), but I’ll probably post two of them.


You know what’s fun?  I’ll tell you.  Polishing off a six pack by yourself on a weekday for no other reason than you wanted to.  Not a sixer of nice high-priced beer in a pretty little cardboard carrying case, but one that comes in the sea-gull killing plastic rings.  The plastic net that is tight enough to keep them together as a team or close-knit family, but don’t even try using it as what you’d think would be a nice handle.  Because if they’re cheap enough, and they need to be, that plastic will send at least one of your little buddies to his purgatory of shaken up solitude (at least till you’re ready for him…let’s say 20 minutes later).

And as you knock’em down you can’t throw them out because if you’re busy doing something, it will make you laugh as you pick up and shake the backwash of the empty few before finding the golden goodness you’re currently working on.  What a delight.  Of course you have to have had a few before this hilarity takes effect.  And you need to be doing something so that you might lose track of what little silver soldier you’re presently attacking.  (If it’s the kind of cheap I’m talking about it will without doubt be mostly silver).

And as an official rule you need to drink the very last one of your current sixer while it’s still got that baby seal strangling noose around its pretty little neck.  That’s why it’s called the “ringer” you know.  People use that classification for plenty of other reasons, but you know in your head what it means to you:  the end of an era, albeit an era that lasts only 90 minutes if you’re taking your time, but an era all the same.  A great time in your life when you have only you and fermented barley to thank.  Thanks.

CAUTION:  don’t even think about trying to drink all six beers while they’re still in the plastic net.  While it may seem like fun and a good idea that will only lead to a chipped tooth, crushed nuts, and worse…spilt beer.  That glory should be saved for the chosen last beer (of this six pack.  The next, waiting, six pack will have a ringer too, no need to get sentimental).  I speak from sad and depressing spilt beer experience.


It has not been edited but probably should have been…  Now, prior to my posting this for the entire world and my entire readership (which currently only equals me), no one had seen this.  But I find it incredibly amusing that I wrote this while I was in the pipeline to get the highest level of security clearance that I’m aware of.

I will continue to think that the snippet above had nothing to do with it, but after 3 years (THREE F-ING YEARS) of adjudication, I was not granted that level of access.  I can almost laugh about it now.  Almost.

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