CATHERINE STREET—Amid delightful outdoor celebrations, Ian P. Aleson sat comfortably among his fellow aluminum peers in their warm soggy box. Some of the dozen had already been selected by grubby hands, popped open at the surface, and guzzled by stubbly mouths smelling of cigarettes. Aleson patiently awaited his turn, blissfully unaware of the fate that awaited him. Finally, his time had come. A warm sticky hand reached and grabbed him by the scruff of his tab and yanked him open. Before he knew it, Aleson was stabbed in the side by a key, ripped open and greedily demolished in a matter of seconds.
Slightly embarrassed at having sprayed across the lawn and dribbled down a chin and sweaty t-shirt, Aleson was still honored to have served his life’s purpose. “My god, what a thrill. I mean being chugged is one thing, but this? WOW. It’s everything a little pale ale like myself could ever dream of!” Aleson reported, still riding the high.
All of a sudden, he was released and felt himself plummeting towards the ground. Momentarily relieved at being placed upright, Aleson’s horror set in as he watched a torn up muddy sneaker descending upon him. While Aleson cowered in fear, the foot arrived with a deafening crinkle and crunch. Aleson had been crushed.
All the pride he had felt was pulverized and replaced with humiliation. Through sniffs, Aleson managed to get out, “It’s just that you ferment for so long *crinkle*, and *sniff* I just wanted to let my yeasty bubbles shine. I thought I did okay *whimper* but being crushed, it’s mortifying. I’m a disgrace,” he sobbed.
Aleson was last seen in a rotting front yard quietly weeping among dozens of crushed peers.
