In honor of the year of horrible “Hold my beer” moments that is, and thankfully almost was, 2020:
This Thanksgiving, I am eternally grateful for the things that have not been taken away. But props for the rest of it? OK, give me a minute. Need an adult drink for this one.
If 2020 were a beer, it would be a beer I would never drink again. A beer about whose awfulness I would write epic poetry and social media screeds. I wouldn’t drink it, even if it was free, and if you did, I don’t think we could be friends.
Thankfully, I’ve never tasted anything as bad as 2020, though mushrooms and sherry come close. The thought however got me plumbing my soul for any reason not to be bitter, for any practical good we’ve gained over or from the last nine months, give or take.
It’s a challenge, but force yourself to look at things from a certain perspective and there are bright spots to be found. One eventually skulked to mind.
It is, or was, the dirty bird.
Once upon a time, pre-pandemic, it was possible to order a drink at a downtown Colorado Springs watering hole, and get it “dirty bird” style.
What that meant was an attractive bartender, usually female, first transferred the drink, usually a shot, into her own mouth. The drink then was deposited into the mouth of the patron who’d ordered it, drizzle/fountain style.
Or, you know, like a dirty mama bird.
So thanks, pandemic, for bringing an end to mouth-to-mouth drink delivery and hopefully body shots of all kinds, for evermore.
(And for the record, it really shouldn’t have taken a 2020 to kick dirty bird out of the nest.)