It was following a lack of sleep and a long morning of bacon and driving that Blight and myself walked purposefully into a Connecticut liquor store. Our pace was made by no ordinary determination to buy beer but actually a particular difficulty in moving through humidity so thick it tasted like ice cream flavored with the sins of the nearby casinos. We did this shit for the gleeful demons who demanded malted beverage to slake a thirst primal, perverse, and acute. There was no direction to the type of beer so much as there was a repetitive qualifier: lots.
Blight and I made our way across an adequate selection discussing the intricacies of purchasing a drinkable choice without dropping enough cash to red flag ourselves as deeply pocketed criminals on every agency watch list in the state. The cooler stacked up cases of vile waste and overpriced swill alike but for a small spot on the top shelf catching our eyes as we exited carrying our weight in cardboard, glass, and booze. There were words that I could not comprehend, like a nightmare that feels real but defies description. Budweiser was one. A hated word. And something else.
The grocery team was across the parking lot so we rendezvoused in the blank bland aisles with Richter, Leln, and Torte. I stood there and I thought. They tossed quantities of food in a cart never meant to be so burdened. There was something wrong there that I could not shake. Blight was gone as well, his mind left behind in that cooler. We walked back.
Clamato. That was it. Budweiser and Clamato. With salt and lime. It was one of those comforting moments where we realize no, we are not mad, it is the world that is mad and this thought was mixed with the singular purpose of needing to buy this four pack of pure fucking absurdity. Oh, and another 30 rack because fuck it. The cashier saw us again and asked if we forgot something and I said “Yes, this.” He confusedly scanned the can to find that they only rang up one at a time. Nobody ever bought an entire four pack of this. They weren’t even prepared for such an eventuality.
Subjecting ourselves to a mixture of piss beer, tomato juice and clam juice was one of those things that was done with such gusto that before I knew it Cram and Richter were outside shaking their cans with vigor and unconcern. The tab clicked the concoction open and we sipped and we did not speak and we passed the can to the next and, unsurprisingly, it came rather quickly back.
It was at this time that another Discordian guest arrived. He was handed the can and drank deeply and he turned and sprayed that amount in a fine mist. Many described it as terrible. This is not untrue, it is terrible. It exists to be terrible. Being terrible is the only fucking thing this could ever be and as such it succeeded so gloriously that it might be one of the most impressive beers I’ve had the distinct honor of guzzling with a very intense self loathing.
I believe Cram said that he didn’t dislike it at first, but with each successive sip he hated it more distinctly. It would explain why all but one can was abandoned entirely. My can. Because it had to be done. And Cram was wrong, here. With each successive sip I did not hate it more distinctly. Rather, with each successive sip I hated myself more distinctly. It is common to know regret following a long bit of excess revelry. It is not common to know it immediately and fully, and continue with that same act by your own free will. And for that, Budweiser & Clamato is a drinking experience like none other.