End of Times Ale

To celebrate the mangled economy and its cut n' stay implications for the Goose, a new beer is reeking. This ETA promises to medically bankrupt everyone down to the last murky drop. Brewed with rotten barley and topped with moldy hops saved from the dumpster, it will taste,"like a rotting corpse, to reflect the state of the Nation," lamented the broken spirited pub brewer. He continued,"no sane person will be able to stomach this shit, just like the market." In an attempt to honor current events that have allowed the dying brewpub to linger, this fetid liquid will be drinkable only in the worst of times.

Another Round for Cut N' Run

The Rope a Dope worked. Cut N' Run was theoretically on the ropes looking donezo and then with astonishing economy of motion it violently weaseled its way back into our collective wheelhouse. The strategy was as effective as ever: play opossum, take your lumps and then explode with a flourish. We sat there ringside dumbfounded as the jubilant Proprietor announced victory thus guaranteeing diminishing "quality" and continued shady cost cutting tactics for three to five more years.
"Drinks on the house!" shouted the victorious Proprietor. My new found sobriety was challenged and my feng shui fucked. Things were out of order. Free rounds, sobriety, a black president, and the oxymoron of endless C N' R rattled reality. I turned to Hornings and mentioned my regret for falling for the closing and turning down the free rounds. Hornings shrugged and replied that all of his rounds were free. Order was restored. Then the madness. The pints were hoisted, and the cacophony was that of cheers turned to spewing, spraying and gagging. Mel chanted joyously until he fell face first into the bar with a sickening thud. Rene, crooked drooling mouth agape and looking more disoriented than normal, could only mutter meaningless gibberish. Kulpa, grasping his throat and foaming, menacingly predicted further poisonings as his eyes spun like Frisbees; and Becky impossibly managed to sink further into her stool. Being on the wagon saved me. Turns out the "free" beer was tainted, particularly the IPA. Suddenly the fight was ringside, and it was a fight for life. The faithful were falling left and right, writhing in bad beer agony. Hornings found the poison palatable but suspended his imbibing to set up triage. He discerned that the waitresses needed immediate attention although they hadn't drank the toxic brew. He was useless as always and dumber than dirt. I was in a desperate fight to save the chumps who bellied up to the bar for what they thought were the last days of Goose. Now it looked like THEIR last days. The place looked like Jonestown. Adan furled his brow refusing to acknowledge a problem and slithered out through the kitchen with the dueno. I was alone. Becky looked peaceful so I figured it was too late. I couldn't get close to Kulpa so intense were his convulsions, and Rene was too weird to even look at. Mel was long gone.

Cut N' Run has become a relentless beast. Rene's last lucid words before the blight were prophetic. He wished Goose was still closing. We all sadly nodded in agreement.