An Open Letter To A Beer Thief

Warning if you’re offended by sweeping generalisations and sickening exaggeration please clip yourself over the chops and move on.


Dear Beer Thief,

Firstly, let me preface this note by acknowledging the futility of a response if I am to assume correctly that you do not possess yet the skills to read and/or comprehend written language. Perhaps I could translate the core elements of my missive into something a little easier for you? I was thinking a series of grunts?

Now just in case you’d forgotten already what the thief title refers to (I know you must have a very busy life) let me refresh your memory. Last Wednesday – probably between drowning kittens and getting your own name tattooed to your chest in a gothic font – you entered my garage and helped yourself to three cartons of my beer. Three of the five cartons I won as part of The Hottest 100 Craft Beer poll a few months ago. Didn’t you even read the blog?

When you stole those cartons, you stole a part of me.

I mean, why did you have to take the beer? Why couldn't you take something shit and worthless, like the bag of Brosnans my grandparents gave to me when I was 13? They were sitting right next to them. Not much development for me in the last 14 years on the golf front, I still can't work out what a chipper is. Shit, you could have liquidated them down at Cashies for a cool hunj. Think (take it slow if you have to) – you could have then taken that sweet cash-money down to the Liquor Lands you haven’t been banned from yet and got yourself a couple of cartons of Extra Dry – you know - just the usual, mate.

I think I’m mostly annoyed, not because of the loss of the beer – I won it after all – but the fact that you probably took one swill of Hop Hog and exclaimed: what’s this fucking fruity shit? Did you even appreciate the perfect melding of grapefruit-pine aroma, subtle caramel maltiness and a pleasing bitter finish? I fucking well think not.

Oh well – I’m a forgiving guy and once I realised those rage fantasies of waterboarding you with Coronas were futile (probably enjoyable for you), I learned to accept my revenge would no doubt come in the knowledge you’ll probably live a life as bland and dull as the beer you wish you’d stolen.

One last parting message – you’re safe for now but if Judd ever finds out who you are – you’ll rue the day you crossed that man. Never, never, get in the way of Judd and a beer.

Here’s to hoping you live a brief life,