DEAR BUD LIGHT

Dear Bud Light:

I just wanted to tell you how very much I love you after a long, strenuous day at work dealing with unnecessary minutiae and incredibly far-fetched gobbledy-goop.  Having temperatures in the 90's with humidity levels damn near the same really isn't helping, either.

I crawl through the townhouse door, open the fridge anticipating something like ice water or juice or something healthy, but there you are.  Yup, there you peek out from behind the Gatorade, smiling at me in your long, brown, glassy suit, a hint of frost at your hips.

Yup.  I see you.  I see what you're doing there, enticing me, calling to me.

You're a beer-siren.  You bastard.

And though I have enough wax in my ears to rival Odysseus, I can still hear you whispering, singing a song that sounds vaguely like a beer commercial.

I'm thirsty, so very thirsty; I'm  tired, so very tired; I am disgusted, so very disgusted.

Help me, O-Bud-Light-Kenobi.  Help me battle the minutiae that plagues me during this September heat wave, this Death Star of Senselessness.

Bless you, and thank you for being icy chill when I need you.

Your friend,

Heliand