An ice-cold beer is the perfect complement to so many things: fish and chips, polish sausage, my left hand. Couple my thirst for a cold one with slow service and my miserly nature, and you’ll find me drinking every last drop from the bottle.
This is a problem.
The last swig of beer is always, without fail, a disappointment, a letdown akin to Hayden Christensen skulking around as an emo Anakin Skywalker or Molly Ringwald showing up in a pink potato sack to prom at the end of Pretty in Pink. It’s warm—you could heat a room with it. It’s flat, like a soda that’s been sitting on the counter for three days. And it’s sour…like backwash. That last ill-advised sip leaves your mouth tasting faintly of hurl. In other words, it’s puke-flavored broth. I don’t know about you, but this isn’t the taste I want left in my mouth at the end of the night. Um, you know what I mean.
This afterwaste is going to get an afterlife. Being thrifty and shit, I’m pouring the dregs of every last bottle and can of PBR/MGD/IPA/BFD into a vat and repurposing this pukewarm swill to make bread or shampoo. Flat beer may bring me down, but damn if it doesn't fluff up my hair.