Why men like beer

Published April 17, 2014 by merbear74

Men like beer.

I honestly couldn’t tell you why, I have always found it to be bitter and unpleasant.

 I asked my friend Al to come by today so I could ask him a few questions about the subject.


Al: This is some really good beer, Mer.

Mer: But why, Al? What makes it so good?


Al: Well, this glass has a full head on it. See?

Mer: Yes. I do.

But, how do you get past the taste? Bleh.


Al: It gets me good and tossed, Mer.

Mer: That’s a good enough reason as any, I suppose.


Al: Plus, it’s a manly thing to do. My father drinks lots of beer, too.

He’s the manliest man I know.


Al’s dad: Bottoms up, son!

Mer: Look at the head on that one.

Well, I appreciate you stopping by, although I still don’t quite get the reason why guys like beer so much.


Al: You look pretty good in that nightgown.

Mer: It’s 5 am somewhere, Al.

You could have been a cheerleader

Published April 17, 2014 by merbear74

Ever since I was young, I have worried about being a bad person.

I can trace this niggling feeling back to my school days, when I zoned out in church instead of paying attention to the long-winded sermon, or forgot to use my napkin at a fancy restaurant. I was constantly doing something that was deemed bad by somebody, and all I was doing was being my free-spirited, flaky self.

I didn’t do well in school, not that I couldn’t have, but because I couldn’t be bothered. There were always books to read, and T.V. shows to watch. I passed my classes without even trying, though, skimming along on a high C and the occasional B-.

Eh, throw a D+ in there, too.

My parents were not happy with my grades and lack of ambition, but not as much as my uncle was, who would pay us kids for only the A’s and B’s. (My brother always made out better than I did.) I was scared to show my uncle my report cards, and I always got a talkin’ to.

Didn’t I want to be a smart girl and go to college?

My interest in college was nil. Bad girl.

The older I got, the chubbier I got. My uncle seemed to take it personally that I didn’t end up blonde and beautiful like his own daughters did.

I can still hear him now….my goodness, didn’t I want to be skinny so I could be a cheerleader and have a football player as a boyfriend?

Gimme an F!!!

That obvious comment of disapproval has stayed with me for close to 30 years.

I never went to college. I never did get skinny. He caught my brother and I with cigarettes hanging out of our mouths, the F word lingering on our tongues. He said he wasn’t surprised that we had turned out to be just like our mother, uncouth and defiant.

That was a huge compliment, now that I think of it.

I think the last straw was when I had a child out-of-wedlock. Growing up Catholic, this was a big no-no. My uncle has never tried to get to know his brother’s grandchild, which comes as no surprise, because he certainly never bothered to know me.

We were “bad” kids, after all, and he basically washed his hands of us while we were still very young. He was MIA after my father died, only coming around to harass my mother and nag at us heathens, running amok.

I swallowed my pride and asked him for help recently. I was both offended and insulted. I should have known better to even attempt it, but sometimes desperate times will make us do asinine things.

After my conversation with him over the phone, I felt like an intimidated little girl again, and very heavy. (Ironic, eh?) The things he said to me were not deserved. Like I previously stated, my uncle does not know me from shinola, and has no right to judge me.

He never did.

I hung up with him last night, and cried for a few minutes. Then, I realized that I would never have to talk with him again, if I didn’t want to.

I don’t.

I might still be bad in his eyes, but at least I’m free.

The river fish

Published April 16, 2014 by merbear74

She watched as the water sluiced across her toes, the river cleaning away the days grime. The cuts on the soles of her feet stung viciously. Losing her shoes had been the worst thing, but she had no choice but to leave them behind.

She hoped the thick mud was happy with her Nikes.

She saw some sort of fish swimming close by, and wondered if she could catch one without a fishing pole. She had Alan’s pocket knife, which was dull and had been practically useless to her so far.


Her eyes started to fill up with tears. There was nothing she could have done to save him. The fall had broken him into bits, and he had begged her to go on without him. After keeping a 2 day vigil over his still body, she finally gathered all of her strength and started walking north, staying close to the river.

It was too late for Alan, but not too late for her.

She took her bottle and filled it with water, then drank until she thought her stomach would overflow and give it back up. It helped with the hunger, but she knew she had to find something to eat soon. Her weak body needed some protein. The berries she had found, picking them off faster than she could scoop them into her mouth, were long gone now.

She took the knife out of her pocket, held it’s weight in her hands.

A fish swam by, coming so close to her, she wondered if it was offering it’s own life to save hers.

She raised the knife in slow motion, and then as the fish came even closer, she plunged.

A war cry escaped her as the thin blade pierced the fish, and she felt a rush of excitement. She lifted it from the water, holding her catch high into the air, so the owls and wolves could see what she had done.

A bit of glass from Alan’s eyeglasses would help her make a roaring fire. There was at least another hour or two of sunlight still left. The fish would taste wonderful cooked over the flames. She felt alive for the first time in days, hopeful and full of determination.

Maybe a city girl could survive a hiking trip gone horribly wrong.

Alan had laughed at her when the mosquito’s started biting her that first day, before they decided to stray off of the path. She should have protested more, told him that he was crazy for wanting to climb that wall of rock and shale.  His hands had lost their grip, his feet had slipped, and as quick as that, a beautiful day had turned into a living, breathing nightmare.

But she had the fish now. Everything was going to be alright.

She fell asleep, contented, her tummy filled for the first time since this whole ordeal had started.

As she lay on her bed of pine needles, sound asleep by the dying embers, the man who had been watching her the entire time decided it was time to make his move.

He was hungry, too.