“Angels we have heard on high …”
Do you see that? That is eight, count them. Go ahead. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8 bottles of Zima!
A bit yellow in color, a smidgen stamped with a date of 2007, but still delicious.
I know you’re incredibly jealous and that you would like to know where you too can purchase some $3.50 bottles of Zima and I’m not going to tell you because they are MINE ALL MINE!
My precious. My precioussss. They wants me.
Okay, I’ll tell you. Behold the power of Twitter.
Once a month I whine like a poopy baby on Twitter all, “I WOULD SELL MY DOGS FOR ZIMA!” or “I WOULD PUNCH A KITTEN FOR ZIMA!” or “I WOULD MAKE OUT WITH BEN ROETHLISBERGER FOR … nah. Even I’m not that desperate for Zima.” But you get the picture and the picture is a melancholy, black-and white photograph of me with my sad forehead pressed against a rainy window pane like the poster-child for depression.
And every month, I get a few replies like, “Oh! Try this place.” or “I’m pretty sure this place has it!” and I follow-up with those places and the owners/proprietors/phone-answerers would be all, “ZIMA?! ZIMA?! HAHAHAHAHAHAH! Stop calling here, lady.”
But then a week or so ago, @dougkeklak tweeted me that he found a bar with Zima in Homestead.
Problem was this. Doug? Hates me. He says to consider this a peace offering and that “hate” is a strong word, so let’s come up with a word that is almost to hate but not quite to hate. Loathe? Horrified by? Can I punch her? Can I? Can I? Please? Pick one.
So I thought. Is this a trap? Is he luring me to this bar where I’ll be accosted by a large gang of ruthless pigeons, as if there are any other kind of pigeon gangs. There are no gangs of pigeons that knit afghans for the elderly. They’re all ruthless knowing bastards and whoa! tangent.
Doug gave me the name of the bar, directions to the bar, and possibly the GPS coordinates to the bar.
I mentioned to my husband in passing one day the possibility of Zima being found in Pittsburgh and he said, “Well, I’ll check it out,” but he never did because I failed to properly light the fire under his ass about it because I was a bit wary of Doug. Why the sudden change of heart?
Then a DIFFERENT twittererererer, this one named @MarkECib, who DOESN’T hate me, tweeted a picture from the bar showing me the actual Zima in the cooler.
So of course I got out the gasoline, the blowtorch, and the C-4 and I KABLOOEYED a fire under my husband’s ass, resulting in him heading to Pido’s Pub in Homestead/Munhall last night.
You know how a cat can discern if you’ve removed a can of, say, tomato paste from a cupboard versus a can of tuna, and the cat will pounce as soon as he hears the air around the tuna can move? That’s pretty much what happened when my husband opened the door last night and I heard the crinkle of a paper bag, which is a miracle considering how deaf I am.
I bared my claws and pounced with a hiss. He got scared and held the bags out in front of him like a man offering a baby bear back to the mama bear all, “TAKE THEM TAKE THEM TAKE THEM! DON’T HURT ME! I WANT TO LIVE!”
I heard bottles clinking, I lined them up on the dining room table, twittered a picture, opened one with my teeth, guzzled it and practically had an orgasm.