Not Broken, Just Bent.

Over the weekend, my father hands me a beer. He doesn't say anything, just smirks a bit in that Old Yankee Farmer kind of way.
I don't ask, Dad has pretty good taste in beer, though he likes his hoppy and I like my spicey.

I take a couple sips, mull it for a bit, and ask, "Well, what is it? It's not bad."
"You won't believe me," he says, eye twinkling.
"Oh, come on, it can't be that bad," I say, expecting him to rattle off some odd little mirco-brew made from shrunken heads from outer Hay-Stack-istan.

"Bud."
"What?"
"Bud."
"You're kidding."
"Nope."

We sit and mull over the open fire, gazing at the sun settling down behind the mountians, our breath slowly becoming visable, waiting for the cidar press to finish squeezing for a little while in comfortable silence.
He's still watching me from the corner of his eye.

"It's not bad." I say with a smile, "for Bud."

So that's the word, my friends. Bud "American Ale" doesn't suck.
- K.