30-1=29

29, twenty-nine, twenty-fucking-nine, veinte y nueve, no matter how you spell it all out, the fact remains that there are 29 fucking empty beers cans here in my room.  So what you say.  Well I bought a 30 pack, and I expected to drink the whole damn thing, not just 29.  The problem is that one of my beautiful Coors Lights grew legs, and walked off.  It’s not in the box, it’s not in the sink, it’s not in the trash, it’s not in the kitchen–this almost sounds like some twisted Dr. Seuss story–it’s not anywhere.  I know my roommates didn’t drink it because they aren’t here, and they haven’t been here.  I, meanwhile, have searched high and low for the missing beer, and have had no luck.  This is just terrible, I was really looking forward to that last one.  Someone get a hold of Fred and Velma, and tell them to get in the Mystery Machine, and get over here, because there is a grand mystery that needs to be solved pronto.  The mystery of the disappearing beer.  It’s a good thing I still have my Puerto Rican rum.  By the way, Gladiator is a fantastic movie.

~ by Perpetual Memory Loss on June 29, 2008.