So it’s a Sunday afternoon, and you’re relaxing in your mahogany man-cave, flipping through your hand-copied 17th-century manuscript of the Book of Kells. Suddenly, the doorbell rings; it’s Burt Reynolds, the Old Spice Guy, and the Most Interesting Man in the World. Later, you’re two or three hands into a high-stakes game of hold ‘em – the $1 chips are worth $1,000 and the $10 chips are classic American sports cars – when Burt Reynolds suggests that he’s a little thirsty. Obviously, no standard beverage will do. You reach into a jewel-encrusted liquor cabinet, and you pull out one of these:
This is extreme Scottish beer maker BrewDog’s newest creation, “The End of History.” It’s a 55% ABV beer that combines high-octane badassery with small mammal taxidermy to create the most manly beverage possible. It’s also the Sugar Shack’s newest endorsement, despite costing $765. It’s named after a work of high philosophy called The End of History and the Last Man by Francis Fukuyama, and it’s probably bottled only by Navy SEALs who have summited Everest and made out with Queen Rania of Jordan at the same time.
The only reason why this post isn’t categorized under “Beer Reviews” is because we will never be able to buy it. You can’t see me, but I’m weeping softly into a throw pillow right now. Are you there, Burt? It’s me, Staker! Please, please bring this beer to us. Please. I’ll never ask for anything again.
Somewhere during the aftermath of Aaron Boone’s walk-off home-run against Tim Wakefield’s kunckleball in the 2003 ALCS, I fell into a deep depression. I would stay up into the wee small hours of the morning asking questions. Why didn’t Grady take out Pedro? How did this all happen? What’s this movie on Showtime?
It would start off representing how I felt: A melancholy teenage girl forced to deal with undesired outcomes and a newfound tenderness of the breasts. But then it turned into so much more. Something I can only describe as…well, Beautiful. I would spend the next year of college spreading the Good News. The news about an independent film that answered all our questions: What would happen if you threw two incredibly hot, barely legal chicks together, and put them in a soft-core love story about two hot chicks that do it?
These guys are heroes, but that’s not the only reason I’m posting this. These guys don’t pronounce R’s either, and they also appear to be wearing the Australian version of a Southie tuxedo. Ladies and gentlemen, the new sport that’s all the rage and the Shack’s newest endorsement*: ghosting.