A Rebel Yell of Good Times Forgotten Past

“Stepping out into the morning dew Pipe Adams and Brady Taylor Thomas may have well been stepping onto the sands of some distant moon.

A gypsy approached as they made their way through the station and out into the soot. Clutching in its knurled digits some trinkets, which it offered for sale, it barked something neither could interpret as they brushed past; they held their packs ever closer.


“Cappuccino’s, gentlemen?”

Our boys strained bloodshot eyes to see the Kamhoz hostelier Xavier plying them again with sudsy caffeinated tipples.

“Good mourning Budapest,” thought Brady softly into his pillow. He strained his mind’s eye for a return salutation but none came. For this is a city with neither greetings nor salutations. It merely is and exists independently from all other places on earth.

“Good morning Brady,” whispered Xavier.

 


Hurtling through the European countryside and on towards Prague our heroes reposed, filled with a certain indescribable uneasiness having just been witness to the theater of the macabre. Wiping the grime from his can of Hungarian beer, Brady filled Pipe’s small plastic cup. Finishing it all in one gulp Pipe continuously bit the cup, marring its lip with uneven striations.

Brady eyed the anxiety riddled goblet without pity.

“I wonder how Marlo fares in the tropics?” queefed Pipe, lazily.

Brady opened his mouth to say something but words failed him. He took a sip of beer. Looking out the window into the Hungarian hinterlands he wondered not about Marlo…”


A recent foray into the refrigerated section of a local fancy organic supermarket yielded the author a bottle of Rebel, a Czechoslovakian brew. A tour of Eastern Europe in years past with compatriot Bradriot yielded unfavorable reviews of any and all Czech beers. With Marlo continuously reminiscing about his times spent studying in Prague and its remembrance dreamt of delicious Czech brews, it was decided to give this lowly Czech brew another run at the taste gamut. Of course, as it should with the sampling of any Eastern European delicacy, memories of a great hurrah resurfaced, and your author slumpt into his chair, sipping beer and dreaming of good times forgotten past.

Rebel (Czech Beer): alcohol content unknoweth. Syrupy in an average way. Know that it will lead to hangover if not consumed in moderation. Forgetful.

The Blue Sabino:
1 Part Absinthium
3 Parts Blue Malina
Drunk with the crook of one arm covering one’s face as if shielding one’s eyes from the privates of a young gypsy boy.

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4 responses to “A Rebel Yell of Good Times Forgotten Past

  1. Bradrian Roethelsslinger

    I rather enjoy the saccharide smalt of Rebel beer, found at your nearest “Whole Foods”.

    The ultimate traveler, Bill-I-Am Sabino, is stuck in Eastern European space-time, weaving in and out of a timeless egg-cream wormhole in which aging passersby encounter him twice only; never once, and never more than twice. He’s the picture of health (less mental) the 1st encounter and the grotesque evil twin the 2nd, sleeping wit one eyyyye open, in lint-pilled blankies, hostel lobbies world wide. May be the time has soon come to skip the matteusz fantastic once more and get whisked away in the cold wintry pleasuredoms of Polish staring eyes once again. After all, refusing the Euro has never been so superficial! Hat tip goes to plastic crinkle-faced WWII-era Hungarian aging geriatric leftovers for laughing at silly puttssies and goulash poolash steaming puddle vats. A lot goes on in Budapest in 24 hours, but after that, in creeps the malaised awareness of a 50 year Forinth flat-line. In line skating and uncomely facial piercing means the 90s are back in a big way. Tata Ta-Ta!

  2. This Bradrian is some kind of words-smith. I’m just a humble porn star, and even though I am billed as the most intelligent of the flock, and can hardly read. I can however drink up egg-creams from any asshole that’s willing to squeeze them in my face. thanks. xoxox

  3. Yo Sasha, Chiggety Check Ya-self before you wriggety wreck ya-self cause big dicks in ya ass is bad fo ya health.
    -Dr. Drew

  4. Pingback: Springbok! | Manboy in the Promised Land

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