Propeller Skies

Fuck. I wake up to rolling thunder, which means the East Atlanta beer festival may be less than pleasant. I turn on the computer and compulsively refresh the weather every five seconds. Looks like this might be a go after all.

Running late. Of course the Downtown Congester is packed with Maryland farmers driving five miles per hour.

I get to the gate a few minutes after opening and greet an undisclosed recurring Prizzo Skeezy reader. I pay twenty five ducats and an anonymous festival volunteer issues me an insultingly small glass. This will be my last East Atlanta Beer Festival.

More rain. I take shelter under the Old Savannah Brewing Company tent. Their name is nothing but lies, as they have been in business only a year and the beer is brewed in China. Ghost Ale is rather dull and flavorless. In contrast, their Pale Ale is respectable. Geoff wanders by and stops for a drink.

Eventually precipitation stops and I find my favorite brewery from South Carolina, Thomas Creek Beer. The sales manager complimented my shirt (yes, the one with mythical animals prominently displayed) and I struck up a conversation. Throughout the festival I stopped by for tasty Thomas Creek Beer, particularly the Amber, and to chat. I would have requested a number, but South Carolina is OTP - making her geographically undesirable.

During the afternoon, recurring Prizzo Skeezy character The Professor joins me. We drink plenty of beer and piss on the side of an old boarded up school. Portable johns were another amenity the organizers skimped on. The festival ends and The Professor and I head east to our next mind blowing adventure.

Recurring Propeller Skies characters should not be surprised that I am opposed to illegal immigrants, because illegal immigrants cost me money. Long time readers also know I am lazy. Enjoy Jack’s commentary on illegal immigrants.

Saturday afternoon, I ventured OTP to the special circle of hell known as the Central Perimeter to participate in a beer festival with recurring Propeller Skies characters Lisa, Lori, Jim, and Mark. Low and highlights of the Dunwoody Beer Festival included:

• Mullets galore;
• Shirtless white trash;
• A distinct lack of hotties that were not my friends or marketing floozies; and
• Sierra Nevada Pale Ale - in contrast to other craptastic beers employing teams of blonde marketing floozies, the Sierra Nevada tent featured exactly one aged white dude because the beer tastes that fucking awesome.

Although I recommend the Dunwoody Beer Festival, the lack of hotties better damn well be fixed next year. Additionally, the t-shirt was a pain in the ass to carry around. Hopefully the organizers will omit the shirt and knock a few dollars off the price of admission next year.

I found this sweet bumper sticker in my ghetto fabulous apartment complex parking lot Sunday afternoon.

Because most bumper stickers are either stupid, a cliche, or both, the Bumper Sticker of the Week™ will not be a particularly regular feature.

Progressive made me return the Hyundai Sonata, because Nalley Collision could not be bothered to repair my Acura TL on time. The body shop rented me a Nissan Sentra to drive while they sat around jacking off instead of fixing my whip. Although diminutive and ugly (like all Nissans manufactured after 1999), the Sentra is a decent economy car.

The hamster providing power was weak sauce, but responded quickly when kicked in the nads by my right foot. Steering feel and handling was far superior to the Sonata and encouraged flogging the rodent in the engine bay. In contrast to the Sonata, which drank gas faster than a frat boy funnels beer, the Sentra averaged 32 miles per gallon.

I recommend the Sentra for broke ass short people.