drinking four-year-old beer at the UNESCO site
drinking four-year-old beer at the UNESCO site
the boys were invited to a weekend in a cabin, expecting a cool summer lodge with the occasional neon sign, coffee machine with three of each Starbucks capsules, a Jägermeister fridge and the faint, minute, but nevertheless present hope of a dusty game boy, or a greased up LCD game perhaps, or at least a musical instrument, a vain and desperate yearning that would greet them with all the more despair and disbelief upon opening the creaky door of a furnace-centered ramshack with no hot water, but solar pannels, the power of which would scarcely get them through the night, as one of the boys had been informed that once the last light started blinking, they were sure to be fucked, as it was getting late and their phones were getting tired, like them, who had travelled far and hungover from a proper send-off in the city with more boys from that luxury chalet town, most of whom would have instantly caved in at the sight of months old cheese in an uncold fridge, the spider residing therein, or the maggots underneath, all of which caused distress in our weare traveller’s sorry minds who, at this point, were too high and hungry to care.
After patiently waiting for the fire to burn, the water to boil, the sauce to reduce, and their minds to adapt to the lowering of culinary standards, they eat sub-par pasta from a cabin unlike the surrounding ones, made of stone and wealth. After all the beer is gone, only one brave drunkard decides to risk it all for that four-year old beer. The first sip is endowed with an evil taste, a foreboding buzz for the desperate. Every further sip is bliss disguised in shame. Needless to say, he almost drank them all. Finding solace in domino games and the new JPEGMAFIA album, the boys spend their evenings mustering the funniest devices to bring to such a centuries-old environment. A jumbotron, the McDonalds ice cream machine, that stupid singing bass that kitschy restaurants tend to have, RGB lights everywhere, a dance dance revolution station, a jukebox, a television running nothing but ads. At this point, we come to our senses, as the solar power doohickey starts beeping, urging us to go easy on the lights, turning them off if possible. It occurs to us that the funny, energy-inefficient contraptions we had been perusing were in fact, a funny comment on the unsustainable state of affairs in regards to sustainability. After all, we cam from furnace stoves and maggots, how necessary is the McDonalds soft ice machine in times of great shortage? Maybe it was the four year old beer, but I don’t think we should have Jumbotrons anymore.
We laugh at all the murder rampage jokes and the careless imagining of countless local cryptids. People from Wallis get treated like Native Americans by guilt-ridden city slackers of the imperial core. The hills surround the city and they all pretend they don’t. They alibize their respect by going to some shack in the mountains for a weekend, with crates of wine and shitty pasta.
I know what it’s like to imagine being poor, to stand by a charcoal-black furnace for hours, I can be trusted with highly flammable materials, classified or not. I’ve been huffing gas unknowingly, my neurons pay the price, and my lack of data causes me to blur out the outside
I‘ve been trapping in the woodsfor 3 days, avoiding the Lötschental Loonies and desperately looking for Wi-Fi to download more @rxknephew songs. We saw no cryptids, but there were spiders in the cheese and maggots in the fridge.
I did not have cabin in the wood horrors, nor cryptids after dark, nor walden illuminations, nor unabomber praxis. It was just a time to burn wood and smell bad, not shower and accept the fact I’m too broke to ever even own a ramshack. I barely deserve the poisoned beer I settled for in times of need.
