I could review this beer thoroughly in like, I don’t even know, a million words or something. But let me sum it up with just this one: strippers.
Yeah. They don’t put it on the label because wives everywhere would forbid husbands from imbibing, but I can tell you Heineken attracts strippers like a magnet. Allow me to explain…
I have no game, and a stripper made out with me in the back room. I got her number too. The only thing in the equation that wasn’t all me was the Heineken. So, by the rules of detection, I deduce that the Hollander beer was the deal-sealer. I figure that’s why the bottle has those four medals on it in French. I mean, who cares if the French give you an award? Especially when it’s written in Foreign. “Heeer eez ar eh-wahrd for beeee-inc goot eneff four Fronce.” Thanks buddy. So, I guess you won’t be needing that rifle over there either, right?
Like most European style lagers, or any beers for that matter from over there, all they use is barley, hops, water, and yeast. But so does Budweiser, so I don’t know how we Yanks fuck it up so much.
A week before the Fourth, we went to the strip club after watching fireworks. This was strange for me to begin with, because I’m not much of a gentleman’s club man. I figure if I’m gonna look and not get laid, I should be at home so I don’t get arrested when I whip it out.
Heineken also has this really cool built in feature:
When someone pays your cover and buys you a round, it actually gets stronger, but somehow smoother. Cleaner. It glides over your tongue and sweet-talks your liver and whatnot into letting you chill. It’s like having your buddy get you in because he knows somebody.
Ok, I also stole a couple pulls from the stripper’s Long Island. Maybe that was it. But I’m pretty sure the Heineken has magic in it. Or gin and tonic. I think there was a gin and tonic in there somewhere.
Whatever. The good part was that this chic thought I was cute and all that, and as an added bonus my friend was talking me up. Gotta love it. Anyway she hung out for a good hour with him before talking to me, and then another hour with me. She made maybe 30 dollars. So, I suppose that means she liked us for us. Right?
I got her number and asked where we could talk. She pulled me very quickly into the back room where they do the dances. Except instead of dancing, she sat across me in just her panties and made out with me. This was kinda odd because as soon as the song was over she just up and got dressed. Who cares, though, right? I got to make out and touch whatever I wanted. My only complaint was it didn’t last long enough.
We went back to the table and the whole sequence played again in my head. It dawned on me that I might owe her money. I asked if I did and she said she had to pay the house to bring me back there, 5 bucks. So I offered 20, and she took it. I’m an idiot.
I don’t know what happened after that. Oh wait, I remember now: I got hammered and went to the bathroom and probably took one of the most massive and disgusting shits I’ve ever taken. Disgusting because I was in a strip club. Otherwise it really wasn’t messy. I remember thinking I was going to vomit and sat there for a bit. Finally I cleaned up and all that. But I sat back on the john and passed out.
I come too in the parking lot - my usual place - and another coworker offers me a ride. That’s the night, right there.
I called Miss Lovely (who misspelled her “real” name in my phone) and all I got was a fumbled hang-up the first time, followed by no answer on the second attempt. I knew this would happen (no Heineken this time). Fucking strippers. Girl put a boner in my pants and left me.
Never again.
Well, maybe…
