Gramma,
There is a double-wide trailer in rural Wisconsin where you can get a cold beer. Just kick the chickens away from the front door and come in. Watch for holes in the floor. Grampa Pissy Pants sits in his wet, urine soaked Lazy Boy next to a Juke Box that is not working. The needle is broken.
At the Inbred Bar, also known as The Dollar Store, beer is a dollar. There is a reason for that. Making change is too complicated for the beertender. The one on duty now is the son. One eye looks up, the other down. There is a goat path lined with newspapers and other hoarder detritus that leads to the living quarters. It smells bad.
Don't eat there. Don't ask for a glass. The refrigerators are never cleaned, the gaskets are moldy and no cleaning products have ever been used on anything. Boiled eggs are sitting out for available eats. The clientele rivals the bar scene in Star Wars. Someone made the mistake of asking for a glass for their beer. The bartender grabbed a used plastic cup from the pile on the bar, emptied it out and poured the beer in it. The patron wasn't watching this.
My friend asked for a soda and got told, "This is a beer bar." The next visit, another friend asked for a Coke. My friend informs girlfriend, "You can't order that." "We have Coke today," says the beertender, testily. Give the bartender a twenty for three beers and you sometimes get eighteen back.
We like to stop at these places for the entertainment value. There is another bar that rivals this one. It is on the beaten path of four-wheelers and snowmobilers. Smoking in the bars is verboten, but not in the bar with a maximum occupancy of twelve. There is nobody to police these places.
We sit outside on the picnic tables. There is a lake far below. Up here, there are several non-motorized kid size three-wheelers and four-wheelers. Drunk adults race them down the steep hill towards the water. Unfortunately, nobody is willing just now. Bikers know all the best places to take a beer break.
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