Sunday, June 26, 2011

Dear, Birra Moretti.

You are my friend. A long distant chum imported from Italy. A premium lager in six shimmering bottles. You don't pride yourself on quantity, for even though you're a .8 ounces away from a solid 12 ounce bottle of beer, you make up for it in golden power and taste. You can only be described as a magical elixir that can cure all ailments and diseases. Or ground up, liquefied leprechaun bones.

You wear a fedora, and I like that. Your suit is green, which so beautifully matches said fedora, and I am pleased by that, too. Your mustache is fun, and can only be elevated in hilarity once you get it smothered in beer foam. Which will most definitely happen, because you are awesome.

You've taught me so much, Birra Moretti. You've given me strength to learn a foreign language, for now I know that "tradizione" means "tradition," and "qualita" means "quality." And I will take this knowledge and use it wisely and and in the most intelligent way imaginable. Like naming my firstborn female child "Qualita." It's got a certain flair to it.

The mystery of who you are and what you do only adds to the appeal, Birra Moretti.

Are you a puppet maker? Do you design and fashion wooden shoes in a cramped and dusty store? Are you all alone while you work, Birra? Are you a widower? Did you lose a child to a gang of gypsies? Is that what's driving you to drink?

Is "Birra" your first name? Is your name the way "beer" sounds in an overblown Italian accent? Or am I that stupid to just realize, while writing that last sentence, that "Birra" simply and obviously means "beer?" Me dumb. Me so very dumb.

But what about Moretti? Is Moretti your last name? Why, upon closer inspection, do you start looking so mysterious and sinister? What are you hiding, Birra Moretti? Check below, you'll be surprised to notice a clenched fist being made. Hiding something, Birra? Or am I mistaking it for rage?

Everything about you is an enigma, and I wouldn't have it any other way while getting drunk. You're an absolute delight with a dark and tortured past, or a fun loving party animal with heavy stock in goofy beer bongs and inflatable palm trees.

And that's that.

I love you, Birra Moretti.

I LOVE YOU.

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