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Your Humble Ruler, Rajah Cheech Beldone, King of the Gypsies.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Who garden? Me garden?

I promised the Wee Irish that I'd post this story.
This is one of two Hoogarden stories I have, the other is personal.
Too personal for the likes of you lot, that's for fuckin sure.
WARNING: The following account entails some pretty oogy shit, and may very well put you off consumption of Hoegaarden for life, if the actual swill itself hasn't already.

So yeah, I've never been a giant fan of the stuff (Hoegaarden witbier, especially in them comically huge glasses, the bar owner's nightmare, that might as well have STEAL ME painted on the side)

not that I'm any kind of beer maven or any fuckin thing, I mean, you know me, the simplicity of my tastes is a matter of record.

Any fuckin ways

A few years back, there was a certain fairly well-known travel show, in which the host, let's call him Kenny, traveled all around the world and basically got hammered on whatever the locals drank.
Not the stupidest concept for a TV show, that's for sure.

So, as it turns out, one year they'd planned on the show coming to Big Stinky for CNY, under the laughably uninformed notion that there would be a host of traditional food & drink-related festivities associated with the occasion.
And, as it further turns out, the show (with which I'd had zero familiarity prior to this, me no TV looking, right?) was actually produced back in Calgary, by this production company at which at least a couple of the creative personnel were old friends of mine.
So the producer, who is married to a guy I used to know, reaches out to me for some ideas about New Year stuff they can put in the show.
And I'm like, uhhhhhhhhhhh...
So after some back and forth it was finally determined that, unless they wanted to have a complete show of some family spending 14 hours in the car driving 60 km, followed by them sitting around the dude's Ma's house watching TV and freezin their asses off for three days, a different theme was perhaps called for.
Anyways, they came a little later, and one of their segments was beer housing, so they went to the Taiwan Beer Factory Pub

And I was in the segment as the (sort of) local host-y type deal.
I saw the final aired cut some time later and they cut out nearly everything I fuckin said, as, you know, they do.
Anyways, old Kenny, like he really pounds it down during the taping.
Like seriously.
And we were hanging out, and I asked him, you know, if he ever got too hammered to work, and what was it like actually taping segments of the show at least partially shitfaced and then watching the footage later.
He said, you know, you get used to it, and at the end of the day, who wouldn't want his job.
But he told me about one time when they had a real problem.

So the deal is, in the Amazonian regions, they have this stuff called chicha, which in some variations consists of casava chewed up by old women who spit the resulting juice into a big jug.
The enzymes in the spit apparently speed the fermentation process, and the stuff turns into wicked powerful hootch over fuckin night or something.
Apparently, making chicha is a popular (literally) cottage industry along the Amazon, with the producers living in huts all along the motorways. When they've got a fresh (!) batch, they hang this flag outside and the truck drivers will pull over and enjoy a tasty beverage or three.
I'm not sure which part of that is the most disturbing.
So they go to do an episode down there, maybe Peru, who fucking remembers.
And they did one segment, and Kenny drinks it, and is OK.
But then they had to go back and do a pickup or something, and that's when, according to him, the problem started.
Not from drinking the Grannyspit High Life, but from mixing batches.

Yeah, if there's one thing you want to be careful of, it's getting gob from ONE ancient old Amazonian crone mixed up in your gut with gob from ANOTHER ancient old Amazonian crone.
Any fuckin ways, shortly thereafter he got so sick they had to carry him back to the van because he couldn't walk.
Spent the next 3 days in his hotel room, crippled by non-stop Dual Axis Projectility.
BUT, and here's where things get interesting, according to him, not only did the horrible shit have the same colour and consistency as the fuckin Hoogarden, it was generally served in them giant Hoogarden plant pot glasses stolen from the bar (see above).

Kinda renders spitting in some dude's beer redundant, doesn't it?

So after that, he was kind of off the Hoogarden.
And after HEARING that, I was DEFINITELY off it me fucking self.

Think about that the next time you're about to dive into one of them steroidal motherfuckers.



Hey, thanks for the fuckin feedback.
Readers' opinions and feelings are fucking important to me.
No, I'm fucking serious.