Wanna hear a story? No? Well TOO BAD!
Hey-ho Muggheads, guess who’s back? Back again? Frosty’s back, tell your friends!
Tell them what? Hell if I know!
Hey, speaking of friends, it’s about time Frosty told the story of how he met one of his best friends ever! And no, I’m not talking about beer!
This is the story of how Frosty Mugg met Señor Juan for the very first time!
Like all good stories, this one starts with a drink. Many years ago, I think (drink?) it was 2014, I had just left the hospital after visiting my good friend Slim, who was laid up after being hit upside the head with a beer bottle (AJ says it’s good for SEO if I post a link to the story; I don’t know what SEO means but here ya go!). Or in this case, I had just been thrown out of the hospital for bringing in beer. I left the hospital and made my way through the neighborhood, looking for the nearest place that served beer to downtrodden and depressed jerks like me who had not only lost love, but also hospitalized their good friend and wasted beer in the process.
Like a beacon of hope glowing in the darkest of nights, a corner store’s sign shone brightly, displaying a beer mug with the words “Cold beer here” underneath.
Salvation!
Taking care to step over a sleeping vagrant, I made my way into the dingy little corner store, which was poorly lit. I guess they used most of their lights on that sign outside and didn’t have enough left for the inside of the place.
I surveyed my surroundings, staking out the scenery and ascertaining the astounding assortment of alcohol behind the bulletproof barricade that covered the counter.
I spotted my usual brew, slid the Chinese man at the counter a ten, then took my six pack and sat down at a booth behind a couple of Mexican fellows habla-ing away in el español. As I cracked the cap and took a sip, I reflected on the previous events that led me to this little booth in this little corner store in this little neighborhood in this little city in this little-
Sorry editor, I’ll stop!
Like most tragic stories, this one had began with love. Chantou, my Cambodian queen, the Pol to my Pot, the Khmer to my Rouge, had tantalized me with the promise of love in exchange for a few bottles of Heineken.
And like most tragic stories, this one ended with love lost. Not only had Chantou left me high and dry, but I had left Slim high and hospitalized after smashing a beer bottle across his face. As if things couldn’t have gotten any worse, the bottle had been full of beer. The love of my life had left me at a lonely loss, my best buddy had been battered and beaten, and I had abused my amber alcohol-filled ally.
So here I was, after all of this, sitting in some dim little corner store, sadly sipping a sixer and swilling my sorrow away while two guys seated behind me spoke Spanish.
I reached for my third beer, and in a cruel twist of fate the bottle slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor, spewing its foamy contents everywhere. The man behind the counter shouted something in Chinese, while the two Mexicans stopped talking and focused intently on the commotion behind them.
Not again! Not like this!
It was too much for me. I began to sob uncontrollably. I had just wasted even more beer! Had I leaned NOTHING from the previous night?
As I cried, I felt a hand on my shoulder
“ey señor why you cry?”
I glanced up and wiped the tears from my eyes to see one of the Mexicans standing over me and smiling compassionately.
Choking back more tears, I explained my situation, recounting the tale of Chantou, and its bitter conclusion with Slim hospitalized and beer wasted. I lamented that I had somehow managed to FUCK THINGS UP EVEN MORE by spilling YET ANOTHER beer!
The Mexican man just smiled reassuringly.
“you no cry over spill beer señor is accident accident happen you clean up accident and move on. Al have mop he clean floor”
Indeed, Al the Chinese man had already begun cleaning up my accident, grumbling in Chinese as he mopped the beer off the floor.
The Mexican man handed me a five dollar bill and patted me on the back.
“Here amigo you buy new beer is on me”
Free beer? Hey, things were finally turning around for ol’ Frosty Mugg!
As I waited at the counter for Al the Chinese man to finish mopping so I could buy a replacement beer, I pondered the advice my new Mexican friend had just given me.
The Mexican was right! I may have spilled my beer both metaphorically and literally, but there was no use crying over it! Chantou may have left me, Slim may have been hospitalized by my hand, and I may have spilled a couple of beers in the process, but I couldn’t let that stop me. You can down a good mug, but you can’t keep a good Mugg down! It was time to grab that mop, clean up my mess, and buy another round!
Filled with a newfound vigor, I pulled out some more money and slammed it down on the counter.
“Mr. Al, I’ll take another beer over here! And one for my new friend…”
I paused, realizing that I had never gotten the Mexican’s name.
“Hey guy, what’s your name again?”
“Me llamo Juan,” the Mexican replied.
I put my arm around Juan.
“A round for my new friend Juan!”
Al said something in Chinese and continued mopping.
I would go on to stand at that counter for ten minutes before Al got those beers. However, I would go on to be great friends with Juan for ten years (and hopefully longer!!).
And that, dear readers, is the story of how Frosty met Juan! Juan would later go on to be the advice columnist on my own website, “I’m Feeling Frosty”. I’m Feeling Frosty would later go on to FAIL MISERABLY, but that’s another story for another time!
Or IS it?!