Hold onto your coasters! The plot is about to get thicker than an Imperial Stout, yo!
Six-Pack explained that Brewpublic is actually a BrewPAClic, a Super-PAC designed to raise funds for the Romney-Ryan ticket this year. Angelo has been moving all over the West Coast the past four years not because he keeps getting kicked out of every apartment his friends let him crash at, but because he’s been actively canvasing the true blue states to turn them blood red for the biggest October Surprise of them all.
Yeah, I know. I was skeptical too, until Six-Pack started tracing Angelo’s travels on a map that I conveniently have hanging on one of my walls.
“Think about it! He’s been shoring up votes in tax-dodging Vancouver, Washington! He’s been spotted cavorting with Republican donors like Deschutes’ Gary Fish here in Oregon! He’s been sneaking down to SoCal to get out the victimized millionaire vote! For all we know, he’s been strangling hippies in Berkeley to prevent them from voting on November 6th!”
“Okay,” I said, “But what would Angelo gain from all this? He’s a vegan, for god’s sake. He’s sacrificed valuable advertising space on Brewpublic to showcase adorable, albeit delicious-looking, piglets to guilt people into not enjoying their beer with its most logical food pairing! Why would some bleeding heart honkie from New England want to torpedo a second Obama term?”
“That’s where it gets weird,” he tells me. “On December 21, 2012, the day the Mayan calendar ends, Mitt Romney reveals himself to be a Cylon invader, which not only means the end of western civilization but also another dreary, cynical sci-fi television show about how robots wiping out mankind is all part of God’s plan, just like rape apparently. Robo-Mitt then spends the next four years obliterating the last vestiges of hope and change until the world is so hungry for a non-android leader without a nervous, strained laugh that it elects De Ieso in a fit of desperation and lunacy.”
“Golly gee-whillickers” was my profanity-filled response. “Then what?”
“Then it gets worse. Can you imagine Angelo De Ieso II in charge of the free world? The guy thinks that you can serve 23 draft beers when you’ve only physically got 19 available taps, for Christ’s sake! Imagine what the economy is going to look like. And that’s just the beginning! Under a De Ieso presidency, all men will be required to grow bushy dark beards and wear eye glasses too large for their faces. Yankee Stadium will be obliterated with a nuclear strike and any surviving staff, players, and fans of the franchise will be thrown into a gulag. Any field that isn’t growing barley, wheat, rye or hops will be razed to the ground to make more room for cultivating beer ingredients, thus depriving macrobrewers of essential ingredients like corn, rice, and other cheap adjuncts. Eating a hamburger will be illegal and punishable by explaining your offense to the cutest, most adorable orphaned calf. People will look back on the soul-crushing despair of the Romney-Ryan years with fondness.”
“Sounds awful! But I’ve got one last question for you: why don’t you just report all this yourself?” I asked. “Why are you telling me? You’ve got a blog that people actually read!”
“Uhhh… wow. Good point. I don’t know. Hey, do me a solid favor and don’t post this online just yet, okay? Let me break this story on the ol’ School first, huh? This could be a big break for me! I can see it now, fame, fortune, maybe a twelfth beer festival hosting gig.”
“Hey, man, I’d take a Silver Bullet (and by that I mean a Coors Light) before I’d ever betray your confidence. It’s a total honor to do a favor for you in the first place, especially after all the nice things you’ve had to say about the taproom and me in particular on your blog. I won’t utter a word. This is between you, me and that keg of Upright Four currently in my kegerator.”