In Texas Everything is Bigger...Unless You're from Alaska

Yesterday evening I bought a six pack of "Texas" Busch beers with the exclusive intent of getting drunk. I know they were "Texas" Busch beers because the cans proclaimed this proudly to the world. And these weren't your ordinary 12 oz cans of beer. No, these were 16 oz. cans. A full pint bound together with a reinforced plastic bird killer. Everything's bigger in Texas...At the liquor store I couldn't buy 12 oz cans in a 6-pack. Though there was a cooler of individual cans. Just in case you only needed one for the road. So, I grabbed a 6-pack of "Texas" Busch Pints and headed for the counter where I exchanged friendly banter with the middle aged, slightly grey streaked, overweight Indian clerk who inflated my liquor starved and shriveling ego by referring to me as Boss. I refrained from letting him know that in Alaska our Busch beer comes in 40's and we buy it by the case. I thanked him, as much for the Boss as for the beer, and headed across the street to my friend's apartment.

The apartment is surrounded by a steel fence. All entrances are gated and you need a special remote to open said gate. I, of course, don't have such a remote. Thus I rely on timing and old fashioned resourcefulness. Meaning I hang around until someone opens the gate and then I dash through occasionally throwing in an Indiana Jones slide just for good measure. Initially I was worried about the video cameras posted around, ensuring the security of the residents, to catch sight of my loitering and cause trouble to rain down upon me. However, I quickly noticed that the video cameras are not looking out upon the dangerous world, tracking suspicious looking characters lurking near the entrance clinging to 6 packs of "Texas" Busch, but instead are trained within, carefully monitoring the activities of the residents, presumably ensuring noone escapes into the minimall infested streets of Houston.

Once I had maneauvered my way through the gate, I sprinted up the stairs and casually sat on my buddy's balcony. Cracking my first "Texas" Busch beer, I looked down upon the fire station below, which is, unfortunately, the view. I could have done with a swimming pool surrounded by nubile young Houstonian women instead of a helipad, but hey in life you get what you deserve or so say grumpy old white men the world round. So obviously I deserve helipads and middle aged white men sliding down poles. Time for "Texas" Busch 2.

So sat I for the rest of the evening, downing 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer. I pondered much about life, desperately seeking the profound. But the only thing I discoverd worth knowing is that through 96 oz. of "Texas" Busch beer it is ridiculously hard to find a buzz.