Pabst Blue Ribbon Fairy Tales

Quick question: Have you heard the one about the drunk-driving woman who ran over and killed her own husband? You haven't? Weird. Wait, wait. How about the time the man charged with a DUI accused a unicorn of driving his truck into a pole? Haven't heard that one either? How strange. Maybe you live in an area of America where IPA isn't on tap ... in your bathroom sink. Out here where I live, these tall tales grow taller by the minute, never stop anyone from driving drunk as long as that local brew keeps flowin'.

Hmm, where to begin. Well, I should establish the above suppositions as fact, as far as newsprint fact goes. That's a good place to start.

On a wintry afternoon in ol' Montana, a couple--the wife in her 60s, the husband 50s--drove out to a little watering hole near Frenchtown. She drove her Toyota along Interstate 90, or "the freeway," as folks out here say, parked her car in a dirt covered lot beside the bar. She and her husband reveled in pints of Pabst and Moose Drool in the waning afternoon, sharing laughter over obviously very funny jokes and situations they remembered. Then, suddenly, Sir Moose Drool left Lady Pabst with the tab and made his way home on foot in the early evening. As the night wore on, Lady Pabst decided she missed her dear hubby and headed home in her trusty Toyota, speeding along the freeway as darkness fell upon her and other night dwellers. Lady Pabst confidently steered her auto into her driveway and parked her body in her bed and slept until morn.



There's Lady Pabst and Sir Moose Drool! Showin their brands, hangin' tough!

Then, it was the morning that struck her. Where was her husband, she wondered. Good goody that she was, Lady Pabst made haste back toward the bar, searching for her husband. In her hungover state, Lady Pabst failed to notice the gigantic hair-and-blood encrusted crack in her windshield. She saw a fallen man and uniforms forming patterns on the opposite side of the road. Lady Pabst swung back around and pulled to a stop. At the core of the gathering, she viewed the fallen man: her husband, Sir Moose Drool. What happened to him, oh I'm his wife, yes I was out with him last night: she rattled on for minutes on end, and then the detectives noticed her car and the enormous circle of fractured glass. Did she hit an animal on the way here, they wanted to know. No, I don't remember hitting anything, she told them. How could she remember anything? She ain't no Lady O'Douls.

The uniformed men determined that the dead man was her husband and that she was at fault. (Note: Due to the small population, it is likely that her car in fact killed him. It's a sophisticated science out here.) Somehow, somewhere some court determined that she didn't intend to kill her husband. A tough case to manage, I imagine, but one must consider the clear cut motive: the bar tab. That couple stalled out at that bar for a good five hours. Did he really make her pay for her share and his? Was she aiming for his lumbering figure on the Interstate? The world will never know.

Can you believe it? Wrap your mind around this next one.

Here's the second tale, a shorter one. This time figments, rather than tipsy wives, wreak havoc on unsuspecting objects.

A Billings man, last name Holliday (Madonna style), got his fix at a local bar one night just a few weeks back. It wasn't long until Holliday had his fill of sweet nectar of the hops. Or, conversely, it was long, but Holliday got tired of the same ol', same ol' company he kept at this bar. He was looking for something fun and fantasmical. And that's what he found.

Holliday drove a truck--though he probably still drives and what he drives is undoubtedly a truck--a pick-up to be exact. Ever been in a pick-up truck? They're sure roomy in some ways, but they don't have the highest ceilings. In other words, you gotta gauge the gallons of your hat before getting in.

Anyway, when Holliday hopped into his truck, his situatiaon spun out of control, literally. In some ways, the unicorn probably saved him, but "we'll" never know what truly happened. Oh, what's that, you ask? Yes, Holliday accused a unicorn, the most magically mythical figure of all, for drunkedly driving his truck. The rim of his 10-gallon hat covered his eyes as the unicorn mounted the driver's side. Witnesses of this incredible moment are spellbound by the majesty of the unicorn's driving. You have to admit, a hand-less unicorn driving a pick-up is quite the image.



Isn't the unicorn docile and endearing? It would never drive drunk! And do you see how tiny that guy's truck is? Give me a break!

After "they" hit the pole and the media rode the unicorn into the sunset, Holliday corrected the believers. A recent headline under the "Montana" section of the newspaper read "Prosecutor: Man did not blame unicorn in DUI case." He would hire a smart lawyer, wouldn't he.

Okay, I'm going to throw my two cents in. To be quite honest, I think it's obvious that the unicorn wasn't the one to blame in this situation. Holliday spent too much time carousing at his favorite bar and got in the truck with the wrong dude. It wasn't a unicorn. Could it have been? No way! A unicorn would never fit in this guy's truck, first of all. Have you seen the horns on them? They're huge! Second, just because they're magical doesn't mean they can sit upright just like the rest of us with drivers licenses. And last of all, his pick-up definitely didn't have a moon roof. Hell, it didn't have a sun roof! How was the unicorn supposed to even see where he wanted to go?

I may be the only person in Montana who knows what happened that night. I'll let you in on my secret: it was a leprechaun named Laffy on stilts who rammed Holliday's truck into a light post. Doesn't that feel a little bit more logical than a unicorn? Laffy was in the bar with Holliday, sipping a Guiness, playing it cool, and noticed Holliday's Celtic tattoo. Aha, Laffy thought, this is my kind of guy. Who ever said that leprechauns are totally hetero? That's a really crazy assumption, actually. Laffy hopped into the staggering Holliday's truck and pushed him aside. Every self-respecting leprechaun totes stilts for the sort of situation that presented itself. Holliday played a little too rough with Laffy and that's precisely when "things got out of hand."



That's Laffy! Isn't he happy and gay?

No wonder the guy retracted his statement about the unicorn. The truth is hard enough to hear.

I want you to know that I've changed the names to protect the guilty. I've changed the names because I prefer the names I suggest over their given ones.

Only in Montana? I sure as hell hope so.