Beer Buffet

I entered the corner gas station with the paperwork for the loan on a tank of gas, and to my surprise I saw a salad bar. No, this was no salad bar. Why, it had no sneeze guard. I crept closer, rustling the chip display and stumbling over the full-sized beer wench (I know. I do a double take, too, when I see the 6’2′” bikini-clad blonde with a beverage in her hand. She’s not real. She’s so fake. She’s cardboard.). Sure enough, it was a 12 foot-long beer buffet. Twelve feet of iced alcoholic beverages. I gazed at the sweating cans and bottles reclyning on a bed of crushed ice and reflected on all who had sacrificed to make this real. Harp music replaced the classic rock station, a gentle glow replaced the flickering floresence; until the cashier, truly bigger than life, shook me from my meditation with:
“I got one in my basement.”
Seems the cashier, a young lady that could easily be a Monty Python Player, scored a buffet from the beer distributer and put it in her basement, next to the ping-pong table.
Says its a riot.

Pepina, if your reading this, never a world about your spending habits if you happen to find a beer buffet at a garage sale.
‘Nuff said.

Sin buffet,

P. S Out.

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