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7:53 p.m. - 2002-09-18
Pfft. 12%. It doesn't even convert into a clean fraction.
Bean got called up into the big leagues. Thatís right, 12% beer. Iím so happy for her that it almost makes up 1/3 of the emotion Iím feeling from the news, the other just over 2/3 being jealousy and resentment.

Here I have been for the last year or so, silently jocking the 12%ers, admiring, revering, damn near worshiping. I try my best to be smart and funny, quotable if you will, but nothing. Then she tells me she gets an email from cuppajoe, the proverbial head of their proverbial voltron or proverbial thunder cat robot, asking her to be a member, and *I* have to tell her what it is!!

This is all well and good, but the kick to my beaten down in the gutter egoís grill was yet to come. Fu-fu, the man I was ready to have a sex change in order to win before he got hitched, well he goes ahead and starts telling her personal things about his life and such in her guest book. Things that I am not privy to. Heís hobnobbing with her for fucks sake!

Well, you will all be sorry, 12%ers. *I* am finna start my own club. We will be the archrivals of 12%! One day soon, in a dark ally, there will be the sound of singing as me and my posse get ready to whoop some 12% beer ass. Weíll have choreography and bicycle chains, vocals and switchblades. And a gang sign, fuckers! You bastards are going down.

Yes, yes I know that this whole scenario born out of jealousy and spite has me pegged as the villain in this yet to unfold story, and thus I am likely to get my ass handed to me when the rumble finally occurs, but I bet there will sure to be some hot sex between bean and I once our love is forbidden.

Keep eatin those burritos, honey!

 

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