This is not a love letter.
It is a hate letter.
I hate PBR. PBR is shit.
Your dadly money is best spent on…not Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Consider a medium-cheap whiskey, like Jameson; get a different commercially produced beer, fucking Coors ‘ll do.
But not PBR.
Pabst Blue Ribbon courses through my intestines and out my asshole like a butter lump.
My flatulence reeks, and I have yet to eat supper.
PBR is swill; it tastes like water with a nip—not a bite—to it. There is an aftertaste, the aftertaste is bad.
My empty cans:
They pile.
Why?
Why, because the day was beautiful and a cold beverage beats tap water. But I’ll never drink this shit again once done with what cans remain.
I do not like them, no I don’t,
No I do not like them,
Never again—no, I won’t!
Or so said Dr. Seuss—or something along those lines. He knew better than to drink this bullshit.
Dr. Seuss drank the fine shit.
Yeah, stuff like that—
That fine shit.
Got enough money for some PBR?
Get anything else instead.1
I’m open to recommendations.