So the other night, I was merrily rolling along on a new batch of homebrewed – from a kit, but still – beer. Assembled the keg, checked the spigot, did the sanitation process, mixed up the wort, dump it all in, add the yeast. Wham, bang, boom. HERE’S BEE-
WHAT THE HELL!?!?!?!?! WHY IS THERE BEER ALL OVER THE COUNTER?!?!?!?!?!??!?!
Obviously, there’s a leak somewhere.
The spigot is leaking?
I CHECKED THE MOTHER#($*%*#()@)( SPIGOT!
Yup, it’s leaking.
That’s pretty much a verbatim transcript.
The spigot was either screwed in too tight or not tight enough and there’s no real way of knowing which. Beer keg spigots operate on the same principles of obfuscation that our elected leaders too. Ironically, both also make you want to drink. The fix required sticking my entire arm inside the keg to fiddle with the little rubber gasket thingy. That, of course, rendered the keg and the beer no longer sterile thus ending my latest foray into homebrewed delight.
With knobs on it!
Maybe I was rushing to much and got careless. Maybe I should have paid a little more attention to the water on the counter during sanitation. Maybe the spigot is just f-ed up. Maybe it was just one of those things.
That last one is a killer, isn’t it? It was just one of those things. Don’t you hate it when something bad happens and that’s the best your friends can offer as consolation? You don’t want to hear that something just happened and it was no one’s fault. You want to hear that someone or something screwed you over. You were wrong. It wasn’t you. It was him/her/it/society/drugs/lightning/illness/Howie Mandel. Something, anything, but you or, worse, random chance.
So there it is. Whatever happened, I lost my beer and the time I spent making it when I could have, I dunno, been building ships for widowed orphans to sail to buy dry goods and slide rulers with which they could draft better maps to chart their course to dry goods much more efficiently. Or something.
Show of hands, or, better yet, show of comments, who has watched a project go up in flames (if it was literal flames, that’s even cooler) and wrestle with who to blame for it? Or maybe it’s not a struggle. You know damn well who to blame – YOU – and want to use my blog space to unburden yourself. Go for it.
Consider it my beer-soaked penance.