A Starving Father at Costco



We usually don’t pick up water mammals, but we feel pretty good about this one. Hop on into the cart partner – let me just push aside these vats of mustard. 

The sun’s piercing rays snuck around the edge of my car door as I pushed it open, blinding me momentarily. Planting my feet on the sun-drenched concrete, I gazed out upon the dozen of rows of cars and abandoned, colossal shopping carts. The carts were large enough to fit a family of five, a pilot whale, or 23 jars of relish into. My parents had come for the relish, but would just as easily settle for the pilot whale – if it came in a 3-pack, simply just because.

Some say original Costco/Price Club founder thought every business should be run like it was a Manhattan night club.  Others say he had an itching phobia that undocumented shoppers were making off with 17 gallons of Pepto Bismol on the regular. Whatever the case, Costco was the first and to this day, only shopping establishment to employ bouncers demanding evidence of membership just to get in.

State your purpose,” the woman at the entrance quizzed. She was the only person standing between us and the ability to buy 600 liters of canola oil.

“We thought, just maybe, if we’re lucky, if you would be so merciful and let us pass so we can purchase 47 pounds of shrimp cocktail… gosh, we would be forever grateful,” my mom stammered.

“Do you plan to eat all that or are you feeding a family of sea lions?”


Hungry? Gosh, darn, we, well do have shrimp, but unfortunately we’re committed to buying more than we need and wasting it in our freezer. Sure wish we could help.

“Well, we plan to eat a few and then keep the rest in our freezer until they go bad or for when we think we need room for a box of 400 Otter Pops – whichever comes first.

“Very well, please pass,” the guard bellowed, seemingly pleased at our glaring intent for food waste.

We made our way into the belly of the gluttonous warehouse beast, an odiferous stew of samples and cardboard wafting in our path. The massive building was filled from the floor to the ceiling with everything a human could want…had they been a giant who hadn’t eaten in five centuries.


I had skipped breakfast and the lunch window was quickly waning. I stepped out of the office and immediately felt the crisp autumn air nipping at my nose. It was a dark and gloomy day, the ominous clouds engulfing the morning blue sky seemed ready to unleash a fury of precipitation at any moment.  Perhaps my subconscious daydreams back to my childhood visits to Costco were playing in my mind that day because I couldn’t stop thinking about a Costco hot dog. I was cooped up all day at my desk so I decided to burn off the future caloric intake by walking there. Visions of plump, artificial meat, topped with tasty, condiment goodness danced in my head with each step. 

“I’m actually just here to get some food,” I notified the “bcostco-food-4ouncer” at the store entrance when I arrived which I had done many times before.

“You have to be a member sir,” the woman chirped.

“To buy a hot dog?” I retort.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Well, I am a member, I just don’t have my card today,” I lie. I never carry my card, mostly because, well you shouldn’t have to carry a membership card to buy a stick of processed pig scraps.


Son let this be a lesson to you. You try to buy a $1.50 hot dog without a membership and this is what happens. Despicable. 

I was then escorted over to member services like a new prisoner being paraded through the prison yard.  I was already labeled a trouble maker.

“Look I’m just looking to get lunch real quick, I’m sure this will only take a second, I just don’t uh, have my card on -“

After a few quick keystrokes from the membership services representative, my situation became even more dire.

“It looks like your wife removed you for a Nicole Albrecht?”

I should’ve figured then and there that being removed from our CostCo membership was probably symbolic. A loved one doesn’t blockade their partner from buying a BBQ brisket sandwich without cause.

“Yes that’s her sister, but I pay for that membership, I mean we spend thousands of dollars here each year. I walked all the way down here and have nowhere else to eat.”

“Sorry, that’s policy.”

At that point a person walked by about to take another bit of their tasty combination pizza, a drop of oil running down the side of their mouth. My mouth began to water.

“What’s the worst that happens. I sneak into the store and attempt to buy 24 bottles of pickles before getting tackled and tasered at the register?”

“You’re welcome to talk to the manager.”


Just keep stuffing your face while I wallow in chickenbake pity over here

“What exactly should I talk to her about? That she’s left a man to starve to death, while the rest of the store’s patrons gorge themselves on chicken bakes? You know what? No. No I’m not going to talk to the manager. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do – I’m going to walk on out of here, trudge back in the rain to my office and buy a bag of sun chips for $2.75 from my work’s vending machine for lunch. What do you think about that?”

And I did. That really showed them.

After hearing about my saga, the decision on membership was discussed Costco’s next board meeting.

“This isn’t about rules or a lack of general morals set forth by the founders of this great establishment Bill,” began the CEO.  “This is about not standing by and letting any billy bob buy a nitrate-filled stick of pig blubber that wants to. What type of people would we be if we did that?”

“But sir-“

“What’s next? Just anyone can walk in off the street and purchase an 8-pack of toilet bowl cleaner? A 24-pack of dental floss when they want it? Only people who have paid their membership (or whose wife hasn’t removed him from his membership) can walk into a Costco and pick up a chicken bake, berry smoothie, and if they choose – a 172pound bag of flour… 12pack.”

When I’m not eating lunch from Costco, which apparently is always,  what beer am I drinking?



Brewed by: “Tap 79 Brewery”

Style: American IPA

ABV: 6.5%

Unlike Costco, Trader Joe’s lives their life on the edge, allowing any cut-throat, rabid zombie, or obsessed kale chip addict to cross the threshold into their establishment. So it seems only fitting that the beer featured in this entry should come from there.

I’ve seen unknown breweries at Trader Joe’s before but didn’t realize their clandestine plight until now. It was difficult to find anything about this beer for one simple fact: the brewery doesn’t exist. Tap 79 is the Trader Joe’s moniker for LA-based brewery, Golden Road. You wouldn’t know this though because they aren’t allowed to market it. I can’t confirm, but it’s likely because Trader Butch, the well-known Trader Joe’s brewing savant wants people to think it is him who is hard at work, and not the Los Angeles brewery giant.


No need for hops in this batch Jim, we’ve got all the ingredients we need

With that said, this isn’t a bad IPA. Decent flavor, perfect ABV, but can’t hold a beer jock to other Golden Road classics. At $6.99 a six-pack, you can’t beat it. Love its golden color and drinkability, but aroma doesn’t jump off the page despite what BucannonXC5 on Beer advocate says. This chap suggested the aroma not only smelled like soap, but pinpointed the brand (Irish Spring). Not sure how many soap bars he had to smell before connecting the two, but ultimately, I hardly think that a beer smelling like a clean Irish guy is a plus.

If you’re looking for a hop-riddled, powerful IPA, this is not your choice, If you’re looking for a cheap IPA and don’t mind it disguising itself as something else, great choice.

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The Second


On second thought, no. No I do not want to have a second child. 

Asking someone if they’re going to have a second child is like asking a shark attack victim if they’d like to take a dip in the chilly waters off the South African coast wearing a seal outfit bathed in bloody tuna.

“Nope, didn’t hurt a bit there Jim,” you reply. “Yeah…I do think I want to give it another go. That shark tooth still lodged in my sternum doesn’t remind me of the pure horror from last time at all. In fact, this time I’d like to get inside a real seal carcass and swim around the bloody chum while inside it. That will be a real hoot.”

Once you have a significant other people start asking when you’re getting engaged. Once engaged it’s when you’re getting married. Once married it’s when you’re having kids. And once you have a kid people become obsessed with when the next one is coming. But why would a first-time parent ever want a second child? If you don’t have kids and are trying to relate, new parent simulation is easy. When you’re at a bar with a buddy, buy him a shot of whiskey. Have him stand up to take it and when he does sock him right in family jewels as hard as you can.  After he’s spent thirty minutes curled up in a ball on the ground ask him if he wants to do it again. It’s just like that. I think.  Turning to violence is never an answer yet seems to be the emerging theme of this blog post, but anytime people asked me about the next one, I felt like doing one of those Happy Gilmore moves where he yanks the guy’s shirt up over his head and socks him right in the face.

“Yeah I’d love to get two hours of sleep a night, damage my eardrums from piercing cries, and lug hundreds of pounds of strollers, seats, bags, and toys around until my traps go numb. That sounds amazing.” (Surprisingly, 8 pound babies require 213 pounds of equipment defusing a million years of scientific proportional weight relativity algorithm theories).


Who does #2 work for? 

And the bewildering thing? Despite all this – you do it again! Fear rides off on a donkey, yet for some reason the misery of child-rearing rides off on a cheetah. You forget. It’s god’s sick trick to keep humanity growing.

So on August 18th number two was plucked out of the depths from somewhere between the spleen and lower intestine forced into the world whether he liked it or not and I was just as green as the first time. Memory erased.

And I’ll be honest, he’s pretty darn awesome. I can’t imagine it any other way. But I sure didn’t miss the sleep deprivation and lack of a social life.  Luckily that’s where beer comes in. (See beer review below).

So what happens after number two? What do people start asking then? The conversation comes to a fork with both paths leading to an unleash of anguish.

81344782“So are you going to have a third or get snipped,” they start asking – as if there aren’t any other options. It’s as if just because you were able to produce two children, they think your penis is a societal menace, a fire hose gone rogue, spraying life at an unsustainable rate for earth. It needs to be eliminated at all costs if you’re not completely on board with a third. There’s no time to waste. You barely get home with baby two and the vas deferens-sautering-militia has already colonized and is heading straight for you. I don’t know what question comes after this but I’m guessing it’s about when one’s own funeral is because without a functioning vas deferens it can be quite flippant to ask when number four is coming.


You can take my vas deferens, but you will never take my my 82 WPM typing score on Mavis Beacon 

Of course I don’t want a third. I’ve yet to have the memory erased from the second. But what if I change my mind down the road? I’m only good at two things. I’m a good typist. And I can produce at least two children. (Luckily you don’t see people being pressured into sautering their fingers together to get them down to 40WPM so at least I can say there is still a god).  What if there is an apocalypse and the only humans left are a cabal of women (let’s say they are all a mix of Megan Fox, Mila Kunis and Minka Kelly just because) roaming the countryside looking for a man to save the world’s population? After weeks of searching, they finally pull me from the rubble, beaten and battered.  The women rejoice that they’ve just saved the world’s population and demand to get started procreating immediately.


Uh… sorry Minka it’s not you- it’s my vas deferens

“Well, about that ladies… i was uh… told that I either had to have a third or make a decision to sever- … You know what? Never mind,  let’s give it a try…”

So what does a dad of two drink to keep his sanity?

Blind Pig

Brewed by: Russian River Brewery   Santa Rosa, Ca

Style: American IPA

ABV: 6.1%

Cut from the same mash cloth as the world-renown Pliny The Elder, Blind Pig is the less-attractive but completely underrated sister from Russian River Brewery. Her sister will always be the hottest girl at the party but when you’re starting at a 10, this 9 is pretty darn good, and most people don’t realize she’s there. That’s when you swoop in. (Are we still talking about beer or – this is getting awkward). This is just a really good IPA without the glamor, lights and economic supply and demand annoyance that comes with Pliny. This is Pliny dressed in a pig’s clothing! Really, really good. 

russian-river-blind-pig-ipa1It doesn’t have the aroma hop punch that other high IBU beers have but it makes up for that in being one of the more drinkable IPAs on the market. It’s likely because my taste buds are disabled due to my lack of sleep so I will quote someone on Beer Advocate who says it has “nice resinous hops with huge notes of pine, grapefruit, lemongrass, and must.” It’s also possible I’ve just never spoken in tongues that include words like resinous or must. If he means to write musk, I never want to drink the beer again and if he means must, well I’m still lost. But nonetheless I think he’s onto something. Great beer. Give it a try. I’m turning my back on my steady maiden Pliny and turning to my mistress who is a pig. A blind one at that. 

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An Insider’s Look Into What Really Goes on in Dad Groups

ArandaA new moms’ group is something special and sacred. It’s a place where new moms can come together in a safe environment to share in the same triumphs, challenges, and everything else in between. It’s a place to meet new friends with kids since many new moms see their friend list dwindle as their single friends choose the wine bar over an evening of breastfeeding and countless diaper changes. There is no adulation in mom groups.  They’re a place of understanding, openness, showing vulnerability and always void of judgment. It’s all about knowledge and connection, through and through.

But what about dad groups? They’re doing the same right – spending afternoons together filled with emotional connection, the exchanging of stories about cuddling with their baby, and sharing tips on how to be a better child rearer right?

Sort of, but not really.

For those interested in a real insider look as to what really goes on in dad groups, I’ve broken it down simply by mommy group activity below:

1. Moms are learning about baby feeding and nutrition

Dads are stuffing themselves with chicken wings and beer with a total disregard for nutrition. The guy who can’t finish his sextet of atomic fire wings is called names too offensive to include in this blog and forced to drink three-day old Coors light out of a baseball cleat. After that he regains the respect of the group.

2.  Moms are learning about infant and toddler CPR

Dads are putting honey on the hand of the dad who’s passed out in the lazy boy then tickling his nose with a feather until he wakes up and covers his face with the viscous substance in an attempt to itch his nose. He’s also forced to drink beer out of a cleat.

3. Moms are doing yoga with their baby

Dads are trying to relive high school wrestling days, tackling one another in the front yard at halftime of the football game. The loser has to chase down and tackle the first passerby and fill their shoe with three-day old Coors light and drink. He then regains the respect of the group.

4. Moms are learning baby sign language

Dads are pumping their fists up and down at the TV and making grotesque gyrations in the direction of a fellow dad’s face when their football team scores a touchdown. The dad with the least popular grotesque gyration is forced to drink beer out of his own shoe while wearing it on his foot. He regains the respect of the group if he manages to do so without tearing all four major ligaments in his knee.


Will someone shut that thing up? And while you’re down there make sure it isn’t stepping on any of my Xbox cartridges.

5. Moms are learning about how the relationship changes after a baby

Dads still haven’t realized they even have a baby, and wondering where their wife goes during the wee hours of the night. They’re also wondering what that high-pitched shrieking is coming from somewhere in the house. Ultimately they’ll conclude it’s a nearby howler monkey who is repeatedly being harpooned each night and for some strange reason living in his former man cave.

6. Moms are learning from an infant sleep specialist

Dads are literally asleep in a pool of nacho cheese with the football post-game show blaring on the TV. If anyone miraculously happens to still be awake, they probably don’t realize they’re not wearing any pants since dads don’t have much of a drinking tolerance since they became “mature” fathers.

7. Moms are sharing endless amounts of information with one another attempting to get to know every last detail of each

Total words exchanged between guests:

Mommy group – 44,288

Daddy group – 7 (8 if the keg runs out and someone has to be notified to refill)

8. Moms are learning about how to get more milk from their boobs

Dads are trying to figure out how to see more boobs

When a dad returns home, the conversation goes something like this:

Wife: So how was it? Did you guys talk about sleep training and dad and baby bonding?

Husband: Yeah I think so. But the highlight was Brickhead ate a whole bowl of sour patch kids faster than Tim could do a beer bong.


Brickhead right after inhaling the enormous bowl of sour patch kids.

Wife: Brickhead? You mean Michael Joseph Lawrence IV? You know he is a diabetic and shouldn’t be eating that much sugar? He’s on medication and it runs in his family. His brother who lives in Sweden with his wife and three children, and sister who is a veterinarian in Kansas both have it. He’s also a Scorpio whose biggest life fears are vulnerability and gaining acceptance from his dad about his career. How do you not know all this? I found that out within two minutes of talking with his wife and you spent an entire day with him.

Husband: I didn’t even know his real name.

In all fairness it isn’t because dads love their children less. We’re just neanderthals that revert back to our debaucherous group mentality at first chance.  But the good news is, it makes us better fathers because of it. That short experience makes us appreciate how great we have it and how much we can’t wait to get back to that small bundle of joy. Of course, it’s impossible for wives to fathom why men would need to watch 7 hours of football and stuff ourselves with pizza rolls in order to know that, but we don’t expect you to understand. It’s sort of like how a dog can only hear certain high pitches that humans can’t. Exactly like that. I think. No, probably not.


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Who-Ville Medical Team Generates New Heart Tissue Using Stem Cells – Grows Grinch’s Heart Three Full Sizes

The-GrinchIn the spirit of Christmas, I thought I’d share this article I came across on my own laptop and start a new theme on they blog about kid’s books and characters. What better way to start it off with one the of the classics – The Grinch?

Merry Christmas. 


UnAssociated Press 

December 24, 2015

After researchers grew the Grinch's heart from two sizes too small to one size too big, the ecstatic Grinch claims he now loves Christmas

After researchers grew the Grinch’s heart from two sizes too small to one size too big, the ecstatic Grinch claims he now loves Christmas

Who-Ville, Norway – Every Who down in Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot, and now after years of experimental treatments using donor stem cells we can also say that the lone resident of North Who-Ville likes Christmas a whole lot too.

A Who-Ville team led by zero revolutionary scientists were able to grow heart tissue using an experimental method and can now equivocally say that the Grinch’s heart is three times larger than before. Working around the clock, or near one at least, this science miracle came to life by using stem cells accidentally donated from a Christmas cookie. 

How did this discovery happen? 

Others quickly learned not to talk behind Mousey's back

Others quickly learned not to talk behind Mousey’s back

Growing replacement tissue from stem cells is one of the principal goals of biology. So far, scientists have grown tendons, cartilage and an ear coming off the back of a mouse which actually served no medical purpose whatsoever. It has however, forced that mouse into a life of despair, ridicule, and solitude despite being able to hear for miles through his back. The mouse was last seen loitering outside a dive mousetrap gluttonously ingesting an entire wheel of cheese. 

“We knew that stem cells were being investigated in the regrowth of tissues, and there was no better test subject than that of The Grinch,” the lead researcher proclaimed to himself in front of a mirror. “First we tried using stem cells from a snowman, a reindeer, then a nutcracker with no success. It wasn’t until one of our researchers accidentally dropped part of his Christmas cookie into a petri dish and that’s when everything changed. All this fizzing and such started happening.”

No one would've guessed that this cookie would change mankind forever

No one would’ve guessed that this cookie would change mankind forever

Typically the first stage of any experimental trial would begin on animals before advancing to humans, but The Grinch makes this trial quite difficult to discern. 

“Since we really didn’t know what species The Grinch is, it made it tough to know who or what to get the stem cells from,” a researcher answered when asked about the source of the stem cells. “The Grinch is neither human, nor animal. After asking him many times for his medical history and getting only incoherent gibberish about his head not screwed on right, or his shoes being too tight, we eventually agreed this is what we were to expect from someone who didn’t even realize he wasn’t wearing any pants.”


Uh sir… you feeling a draft of any kind or…?

This is not the first time Grinch has been in the news. Born with a heart two sizes too small, and with a scornfulness for Christmas, his disdain hit its pinnacle in 1965. After ignoring calls from PETA and gluing antlers onto the head of his dog Max, he made his way down the treacherous mountainside and ransacked the town of Who-Ville the night before Christmas. He stole stole everything from pop guns, bicycles, checkerboards, and “Housewives of Orange County” DVD’s.

“All I know is that morning I woke up, went downstairs; you know the usual routine, and that green crook took all our gifts including my Justin Bieber calendar,” a local Who-villian mentioned in an interview shortly following the heist.

What's that? This blog post doesn't contain any actual real information? I don't believe you.

Sorry, what’s that? The Grinch is a fictitious character? So my entire life’s work – complete waste of time. Great. I hate this blog.

Addendum: The local Who-Villian did contact us after publishing to state that the Justin Bieber calendar wasn’t actually his,, claiming it was a gift. He requested that be noted.

The Grinch was eventually cleared on all charges when he returned all the gifts he stole, carved the roast beast at Christmas dinner and agreed to watch three seasons of MTV’s “Jersey Shore”, continuously as his punishment. Since then, despite beliefs that he would finally lead a jovial and compassionate life, he regressed and has spent the last several years brewing with hatred until this magical elixir was discovered; stem cells donated from a christmas cookie.

Prancer is not bitter at all

Prancer is not bitter at all

The news of this discovery spread all the way to the North Pole, but not everyone was impressed.

“We already have the science to give every reindeer a red nose but selfishly Rudolph has fought us tooth and hoof,” a disgruntled Prancer contemptuously exclaimed when interviewed about the discovery.  “In my opinion, if it wasn’t for that foggy Christmas Eve, that egocentric future-wall-mount still wouldn’t be playing any Reindeer games.”

So what’s next for The Grinch and his new heart?

The Grinch's favorite TV show

The Grinch’s favorite TV show

“Most of all, I love Christmas. I want to chop down my own tree, fill a stocking, unwrap a present, or just enjoy some good ole’ fashioned yule tide cheer. I want to experience it all. I’m starting to see life in a whole different way – seeing things I’ve never noticed before like birds chirping, carolers singing, like – Holy shinsplitters! I’m not wearing any freakin’’ pants!”

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Holiday Beer Pairings for When Santa Claus Comes to Town (assuming he’s not on the wagon-sleigh)


In 1871 Santa recorded the lowest toy delivery rate in history. Only 32% of children got their toys that year. (13% lower than in 1936 when The Grinch snuck into and ransacked every home in Who-Ville). To add insult to injury, his poor delivery rate was only a piece of the Christmas pie.  Of the 32%, only 6% got what they asked for. Timmy in Spokane asked for a baseball and bat, but received a doll. Cathy in Springfield asked for a new bike but got an empty can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Sally in Pittsburgh asked for a new doll but received a carton of cigarettes containing mostly empty packs.

There were some initial reports that Blitzen had torn his HCL (Hoof Cruciate Ligament) and slowed the sleigh beyond belief. Another supposed eye-witness claimed Mrs. Claus accompanied Santa on that fateful night and demanded Santa pull over and ask for directions which set them back hours.

Neither story is true.

The true story finally emerged in 1998 when a journal was discovered stuffed inside the attic wall of a home in upstate Vermont. Written on faded and torn pages and tucked away for decades, the secret of what really happened was revealed.

Two men, Ralph Shucksbucket and his good friend Buck Billywiggle, happened upon Rudolph, Dasher and Blitzen playing craps, er, I mean “reindeer games” outside of Bilbo’s Pub shortly after 2am one evening. Inside they discovered a jolly, inebriated Santa regaling the locals while guzzling a pint of spiced mead. The rest of the story sort of tells itself although doesn’t do much to explain exactly where the tiger with three elves riding on its back came from that galloped into the frigid snow when the bar owner opened up the doors the next morning.

The only reason authorities accidentally happened upon the evidence was because they coincidentally were investigating the murder of Frosty the Snowman which evidence showed happened on the front lawn of the residence.


Despite Gore’s shovel left right at the crime scene, near the chalk-snow line of Frosty, he was acquitted on all charges.

Al Gore was the prime suspect in the case and arrested on murder charges. Gore claimed it was global warming and not the direct of result of him building a bonfire in the yard, putting Frosty in direct line of the blistering inferno.


Luckily for Gore, Frosty had ultimately prognosticated his own demise in a recent song which lyrics read,  “let’s run and we’ll have some fun now before I melt away.” Jurors ultimately decided it was either suicide or Frosty was one helluva clairvoyant. The latter didn’t seem plausible considering frosty had ice for brains. The judge later admitted that during the case he learned Gore had invented the internet which led him to then influence the jurors in Gore’s favor. He had recently entered into an agreement with a young man in Nigeria where he would sign a lease for a local apartment and send the Nigerian $2,200 but in return the man had promised to provide the judge with $2 million once he arrived in the U.S. The judge wasn’t about to lose out on that deal and figured that if he imprisoned Gore, the internet would cease to exist, therefore making his transaction impossible.

So what does this have to do with holiday beer pairings?

Absolutely nothing. But I figured I’d tell it anyway.

Holidays are a time for families to gather, enjoy a meal, and engage in memorable conversation. For beer drinkers it can be a time of palate overload and chaos. With so many different dishes combining a bevy of flavors, it can be difficult to quell one’s desires for pairing perfection. However, unless Aunt Edna brings her mystery meatloaf, these should treat you just fine.

PRE-DINNER (As in the moment you wake up until the time you take a bite of the first hors d’oeuvre)

Food: None.

Beer Pairing: Keep things light and don’t overwhelm those taste buds or your liver with a hop-laden IPA or heavy-hitting stout that’s going to knock your stockings off. Here are a few suggestions:

great whiteGreat White by Lost Coast Brewing (witbier, 4.8%),

Scrimshaw by North Coast Brewing (German pilsner, 4.4%)

Big Wave Golden Ale by Kona Brewing (link to previous blog) (American Blonde Ale , 4.4%, 20 IBU’s)



It can be tough to pair beer with Aunt Mildred’s brussel sprouts, shrimp cocktail and the mystery cheese platter, so just pick one and enjoy.

Food: Aged cheese platter

Beer Pairing: Belgian ales or anything strong in fruit flavor and yeasty esters go great with aged cheese. Saisons, Farmhouse Ales, or Golden Belgians are your ticket to satiated taste buds here. Some suggestions:

Hennepin by Ommegang Brewery (Farmhouse Saison, 7.7%)

Matilda by Goose Island Brewery (Belgian Strong Ale, 7%)

Allagash White by Allagash Brewing (Witbier, 5%)

Food: Sharp aged cheddar

Beer Pairing: Aged cheddar has a rich flavor and slightly tangy bite, making it better to pair with IPAs.


Strong IPAs, in particular Belgian IPAs are great with aged cheddar

Cali-Belgiuqe IPA by Stone Brewing (Belgian IPA, 6.9%)

90-minute IPA by Dogfish Head (Imperial IPA, 9%)

Food: Shrimp cocktail

Beer Pairing: You have two uniquely different flavors here: shellfish and the spicy tang of cocktail sauce. Typically you want to pair with the strongest flavor so if you just go with shrimp, then you’ll want to pair with something fresh and light that you’d drink on a warm day. If you get the inkling for some hops, do a session IPA like Lagunitas DayTime Ale (Session IPA, 4.65%) When pairing with the sauce, you want something to accentuate the spiciness or to cool it down. I personally think that Dechutes Fresh-Squeezed IPA (American IPA, 6.4%) is one of the best beers to pair with anything, and no exceptions here. The sweetness from the IPA cools the heat, but also has just the right amount of bitterness to compliment it.


Food: Turkey

Beer Pairing: Turkey can be quite plain, and one goal when pairing is to pick a beer that is opposite. What’s opposite in the case of this poultry?  Robust beer bursting in flavors or maltiness. There’s nothing a beer can drown out here so holiday beers rich in spices or strong German beers are great. A few ideas:


Dead-Guy Ale by Rogue Brewing (Maibock, 6.50%)

Fireside Chat by 21st Amendment (Winter Warmer, 7.9%)

Tumbler Brown Ale by Sierra Nevada (American Brown, 5.5%)



Food: Glazed ham

Beer Pairing: Both sweet and salty earthy beers with some sweetness, examples listed below, are best to pair with this favorite holiday meat. If you’re really adventurous, try a Gose beer. Gose beers are uniquely tart with a salty backbone. The first beer on this list goes with just about any dish in my opinion because of its slight bitterness, robust sweetness and citrus overtone.

Fresh-Squeezed IPA by Dechutes Brewing (American IPA, 6.4%)

Winter Ale by Alaskan Brewing (Old Ale, 6.4%)

Golden Gate Gose by Almanac Brewing (Gose, 5%)

Cherry Kush by Ale Industries (Fruit beer, 4.4%)


Food: Gingerbread men, Christmas Cookies

Beer Pairing: This is the time to break out the heavy Christmas ales or, if you’re looking to completely pass out under the Christmas tree, a barleywine.


Merry Maker Gingerbread Stout by Sam Adams (Milk stout, 9%)

Delerium Noel by Brouwerij Huyghe (Belgian Strong Dark Ale, 10%)

Hog Heaven by Avery Brewing (Barleywine, 9.2%)

Don’t forget to leave some of these dessert beers out for Santa to go with his cookies. Happy Holidays from all of us at Pampers n’ Pints.

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“I have nipples Greg – can you milk me? (Words Caillou’s dad can never mutter)

caillou dad

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A Letter to Our High Maintenance Roommate

Dear 2-year old roommate,

Let me start by saying it’s not you, it’s us. I mean, we are just different people, us roommates.

We like to wear pants in the house for example. You parade around more naked than Justin Bieber on a vacation balcony.

Well when you put it that way - sure I will go outside

Well when you put it that way – sure I will go outside

We like to sleep in, make it a nice easy-going Saturday and sort of ease into our weekend. You like to wake up before 6am and repeatedly bang matchbox cars on the hardwood floor. Afterwards you tug on our arms while screaming “Outside!” atop your lungs. Sure, the first time is cute. But by the time the fourth one comes bellowing out of your mouth we’re almost certain you’re possessed by the four horseman of the apocalypse and a pack of revenge-seeking apparitions who likely fell down a well during their time on earth, and still haven’t quite resolved that minor issue posthumously.

Here are a few other things us roommates have observed.

Look, you stink. And you lie about it.

Wait, so you haven't been living in our spare room? Then what is possibly causing that smell? Wait a second...

Wait, so you haven’t been living in our spare room? Then what is possibly causing that smell? Wait a second…

No, honestly. You smell wretched at times. And when we ask you where the stench is coming from, you always have no clue. We’ll literally see you straining, and then two minutes later an odoriferous atrocity that only a herd of zombie cattle who took up residence in our den for weeks could’ve produced wafts through the living room.

Your cars are giving me flesh wounds

During the day your cars are neatly organized. Miraculously, when I’m hung over and attempting to reach the bathroom in the middle of the night one always seems to be parked strategically in my path. Typically it’s one with multiple sharp edges that fit perfectly between the soft part of my foot and pinky toe. Apparently you own a whole fleet of porcupine convertibles that only come out after nightfall.

So if all the cars are lined up at bedtime, how do the sharpest ones end up outside the bathroom door?

So if all the cars are lined up at bedtime, how do the sharpest ones end up outside the bathroom door?

Your tantrums are for the birds

I want to sit and watch the same four videos of trucks all day in my pajamas sitting in poop too but I don’t. Why? Because I do it like every other respectable man in four, 40 minute sessions throughout the day in the bathroom. Well, I guess I don’t blame you for that tantrum – I’d be pretty upset too.

You vomit more than a person going through an exorcism

A previous roommate was notorious for vomiting but he was a DJ who had dad issues and commonly drank a bottle of vodka in one session. What’s your excuse?

You make a scene when you see a breast – honestly it’s embarrassing

Oh thank god its just you to clean up after. For a second I was worried it was our roommate vomiting again

Oh thank god its just you to clean up after. For a second I was worried it was our roommate vomiting again

Yes, we realize this phase has passed for you, but the roommates still have PTSD from when you were a baby.

You keep demanding to sleep in the beds of other roommates

If one of my guy friends told me seven years ago that someday I’d have a roommate who would climb into bed with me every night I would’ve been thrilled. (Let’s assume a beautiful woman for this reflection). Getting jolted out of bed by the cacophonous sound of a wounded zebra only to rush into your room and notice you are perfectly fine is not exactly what I’d call thrilling. You then demand to be taken to the roommate’s bed where you proceed to methodically push me off the side, and kick me at random times in the junk until morning.

You’re going to make me eat that now aren’t you?

You slobber on your food, then demand I eat it

If I really I wanted to eat a piece of bread dipped in human saliva I well… Ok, I’d never want that under any circumstance.

You act like a lunatic in public

I know what restaurant patrons are thinking when they see us out: that individual is making a racket and throwing enough food on the ground to feed a small village. I feel sorry for the wait staff. Those folks should be ashamed of themselves that they take him out and bother everyone.

What they don’t realize is that it’s much easier paying someone a $5 tip on a $2 bowl of Mac n’ Cheese than to scrape hardened cheese off our carpet, couch and cat for the next three weeks.

You’re addicted to truck videos

It may not happen today or tomorrow but at some point Blippi Liam Neeson will find you and he will kill you.

It may not happen today. It may not happen tomorrow. But at some point Blippi, Liam Neeson will find you, and he will kill you. (The character not the guy – everyone calm down – the guy is an amazing actor let’s face it)

I guess it’s not really the trucks that are the issue. It’s that son of a bitch Blippi.

You never want to go into the bath, but then once in you don’t want to get out

We’re all adults here. Well ok, you’re not. We know that you need a bath (see comment above about unpleasant smelling posthumous bovine). We also know that if you don’t get out of the bath, you’ll turn into an old wooden shoe. (ok we made that up). Please stop with the mind games – we’re spending money exponentially on beer as a result.

You’re an exhibitionist

I’d have to go back and read the original Craig’s List ad we posted for your room two years ago, but I’m certain it mentioned we typically wear pants in the house. Perhaps a clothing-optional exhibitionist colony might be more your thing, considering you love running around naked?

You take forever to go to sleep

First you want a book. Then you tell us you need to go the bathroom and sit on the potty when in reality you are just messing with us. Then another book. And another. Then you need to be rocked. Then you need to be placed in your bed while holding a lovie with your face at an angle six degrees northwest and left pinky toe seven centimeters out of the blanket. And it’s got to be a Tuesday. From there you need one hand on your upper back, another on your hand, a foot on your lower back, and a third hand on your face. It’s like playing a game of Jenga Twister and you can only win if you’re a nimble-fingered octopus. It’s not exhausting at all.

Who are you guys really? You are super humans

Who are you guys really? You are super humans

You’re a carrier of more minor illnesses than white settlers on the Oregon Trail

Miraculously you seem to contract, then shed illnesses with ease only to then pass them directly to the rest of the roommates (probably a result of the slobber bread we’re forced to eat). We then suffer with these rare communicable diseases for weeks. I’m not sure what crew you’re running with at day care but they’re likely experimenting with a blitzkrieg of genetically modified strains of the black plague. Your immune system may be turning into an impenetrable force-field but the roommates are left to fend for themselves. If I come down with Cholera I’m heading straight for that dirt-ridden kid Tommie.

In conclusion, it actually isn’t us – it’s clearly you. But… (Sigh) the roommates sort of love having you around, despite it all actually. We wouldn’t want it any other way in fact. That and you signed an 18-year lease, so we’re sort of stuck…

I knew it...

I knew it…




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Introducing a new column: “Get Styled with Beer Styles” Issue #I: Blonde Ales get to have all the fun

Introduction: Welcome to a new subset of the blog – a regular column, which teaches you about different beer styles. This concept was created by a newly hired team of well-oiled creative monkeys working ‘round the clock with one goal in mind – craft the greatest topic in Pampers N’ Pints history. Since the regular writer’s brain makeup has been compared to that of a monkey, very few will realize new writers have actually been added to the staff.

Wait, so that's not who's been writing these things the whole time?

Wait, so that’s not who’s been writing these things the whole time?

The craft beer scene has exploded, and with it, so too has innovation. Breweries around the country are on hot pursuit to take alcoholic capitalism by storm by doing something unique. As a result new and reemerging beer styles, sometimes dating back centuries, have hit the shelves. But the questions are now firing like Donald Trump on The Apprentice – what the heck is a Gose? A Rye beer? How does one discern between a Belgian Tripel and a Belgian Dubbel? How about a German Helles Lager and Dunkel Lager? A California Common and a Steam Beer? Ok, so those are the same thing…

C’mon, it’s confusing enough! What is this the Punk’d of beer blogs? Is Ashton Kutcher going to jump out from behind my growler?

Amazingly, no. Finally, you might actually learn something from this worthless blog.

This first publishing will compare the difference of a lager and a blonde ale

To a novice, both styles tastes relatively similar. And when you ask an uneducated bartender how to describe a blonde, they’ll usually say ditzy, lots of makeup, and firm thighs, but eventually explain “they’re like a lager.”

He’s halfway correct. Blondes may look like a lager, but the reality is, they are completely opposite in how they’re brewed and how they’ll impress one’s parents.

Let’s start with the basics. There are two types of beers. All the rest you see are subtypes of these two categories – lagers, and ales.

She's full-bodied, that's for sure.

She’s full-bodied, that’s for sure.

An ale is a type of beer brewed from malted barley fermented at higher temperatures than lagers. The yeast used, which is a strain of brewer’s yeast, ferments quicker than lagers and generally produces sweeter, and more robust tastes. Many ales contain hops which balance the sweetness of the malt.

In contrast, the crisper lager, boasting drinkability and propensity to dominate the beer scene on a hot beach day, is fermented at cooler temperatures. Instead of the varied grains of ales, a lager is produced often on a massive scale using cheaper options such as rice and corn (known as American adjunct lagers). Lagers generally fall flat in the taste department but are more drinkable due to less bittering hops, and their light bodies – at least for the ones doing jazzercise twice a week. Lastly, and most important in differentiation is the yeast. Lager yeast produces less fruity esters than yeast used in ales. Examples of lagers are of course Budweiser, Coors, Miller, Heineken, Yuengling, Pabst, Stella Artois, Hinano, etc. etc. Every country has one you’ve heard of. It’s science.

Do those suds go all the way up? What's that? They do? Oh. I see.

Do those suds go all the way up? What’s that? They do? Oh. I see.

So why do blonde ales get to have so much more fun than lagers? Well, contrary to what most match.com users think, blondes have a more complex profile. Underneath that layer of foam, a fizzy complexion, and hour-glass, glass lies a silhouette bursting with full-bodied flavors. But don’t be fooled by a blonde ale that isn’t truly one – there are lagers out there doing their best to trick you into thinking they’re something they’re not. Just ask Hank Baskett. Trust me, you’ll thank me the next morning.

Here are some examples of Blonde Ales you may have tried:

Big Wave Golden Ale by Kona Brewing Co.

Hoptober Golden Ale by New Belgium Brewing

Twilight Summer Ale by Deschutes Brewery

Summer Love by Victory Brewing Company

Third Cast Beer by Bell’s Brewery

Redhook Blonde by Redhook Ale Brewery

Barrio Tucson Blonde by Barrio Brewing Company

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Smarter Than Your Average Bear – Retro Edition

What do you do when you don’t have time to post new content on your blog? Naturally you re-post a previous post! This one got more views than other other posts on the blog and is great for anyone going through a pregnancy… who also loves beer of course. Don’t want to read about babies turning into picnic snacks? Scroll to the bottom and read about a review of the greatest beer on the planet – Pliny The Elder!



Tales from the 1st Trimester – Originally posted July 2013

With first trimester comes an emotional roller coaster of mood swings, nausea, and bizarre food cravings. And then of course there was how my wife was feeling.


Alright Rex, on three we start… one…two…three… how come you’re not doing anything? What’s that? You are? Oh boy…

I was about prepared for a pregnancy as a Tyrannosaurus was for a face-slapping competition with Gumby.

So, like Stevie Wonder at an orgy I was left to feel my way around the first trimester.

How did this actually happen, I kept asking myself, and I mean that in a good way. I can’t even navigate my way home from work sometimes and I’ve done it a hundred times. How on earth did my sperm find its way? It must’ve been pure coincidence. Like for example, the sperm accidentally backed over an object while driving in the fallopian tubes and it just happened to be the egg?

car(Amazingly this comic was not drawn by a newborn…that’s 33 years of doodling expertise right there. You’re welcome.)

There are plenty of books, articles and movies for women in the first trimester and rightfully so, but not as many for dad. The ones that are available however are pretty good. It’s just that I didn’t read them.

How hard can this roller coaster be I thought as I handed my nifty pregnancy ticket to the pregnancy park usher.  Well, it’s the type of roller coaster that takes you up 300 feet, drops you, takes you up 300 feet, drops you, takes you 300 feet, up, down, up, down, up, down,  so by the time the second trimester comes around you’re no more than a useless piece of mental jelly.

The allen wrench is the only tool invention which results in the same outcome as using one's own teeth to assemble furniture

The allen wrench is the only tool invention that results in the same outcome as using one’s own teeth to assemble furniture

If the first trimester was a piece of furniture it would be one of those Ikea dressers that come with four less holes than screws just to make you think you’re an idiot and did something wrong. Month three hits, and you’re left standing in your kitchen watching your wife devour a carton of Rocky Road ice cream and all you have to show for yourself is a worn down allen wrench.

One day you’re absolutely ecstatic and the next day you’re frantically scanning the bus schedule for direct routes to Portugal.

How am I going to afford this thing?

What if he or she hates me?

What if he comes out as the devil reincarnated like in that movie The Omen and begins plotting my demise? Say I come home on a random Tuesday and find him in my den with horns and pointing a fiery pitchfork?


Yeah remember that time I told you to clean up your room? I was totally kidding! Ha!

These were the things keeping me up nights.

My wife downloaded another app which gave her dynamic news for every week of the pregnancy.

Her favorite part was telling me what the baby’s size was each week.

“This week our baby is the size of a pea,” she’d tell me.

Another week it was the size of a plum.

Another? A yam.

Jesus, did my wife get knocked up by the cast of Farmville? Or did Yogi the bear surreptitiously make his way into our apartment with his basket while I was at work, put the moves on my wife, and now she’s filled with picnic snacks?

Thanks to you my wife is set to deliver a ham sandwich

Thanks to you Yogi my wife is set to give birth to a ham sandwich

How does the app determine what your baby’s the size of anyway? Is it fruits and vegetables for every city or just the ones with the propensity to for healthy eating?

Meanwhile at the baby app headquarters…

“We’ve got another subscriber here boss- this one from San Francisco.”

“Dynamite work Jimmy, let’s turn their baby into a fruit salad, followed by a hummus dip, and then hit them with honeydew for the third trimester. That will shut them up.


“Jimmy just do it – trust me on this one.”

What about in other parts of the country?

“Another one boss – looks like a Houston baby this time.”

“Great job Jimmy, ok let’s see, make it a doughnut, then a beef brisket, and at 22 weeks, make their baby the size of the largest Big Mac the world has ever seen.

This app is the only one created that was successful in making me actually want to ingest my baby. By the 26th week, I was a full-fledged vegetarian.

wait a second, that's not an eggplant parmesan! I've been bamboozled

Wait a second… that’s not an eggplant parmesan! I’ve been bamboozled

The first trimester is also when medical professionals ensure you don’t sleep at night. At the end of an appointment you receive a document informing you of the exact chance your child will have some horrific disorder, as such, one previously found only in manatees.

“So there’s a 1 in 321,000 chance your child will have a condition that will actually swap their left foot and their genitalia,” the Doctor tells you after careful examination.

“Doc I don’t think that’s possible – so let me get this straight, my kid could possibly come out with a penis for a foot? Is that even legal?”

“Yes, and after examining with close precision looking on this monitor here, we’ve also determined with nine percent accuracy that your child will have a higher incidence of Indian burns when he or she is older.”

“Like the ones you get when someone turns both hands on your wrist in an irritating manner?”

“That’s right.”

People asked me.

What if your child comes out ugly?

Doesn’t like sports?

Is a communist?

Doesn’t love Justin Bieber?

Looks like Yogi bear?

Well after the Doctor’s assessments I would’ve been happy with a cross-dressing, hippy, peg-legged transvestite for a child, as long as he was healthy…wait a second did you just say Yogi Bear?

That son of a…

And now to the bear I mean beer (darn that Yogi!) portion of the blog…

What beer is in Steve’s fridge?

plinyPliny The Elder

Brewed by: Russian River Brewery   Santa Rosa, Ca

Style: American double IPA

ABV: 8.0%

If I could live out the rest of my days swimming in a pool of this stuff I would, but no one will give me the construction loan I need to make it happen. Perhaps it’s because I always ask while under the influence of this delight.

This beer is so good it literally is no longer in my fridge because I’ve drunken it since I started writing this sentence.

This beer is so good brewers melt into gold when brewing it.

If this beer was an orgy it would consist of Megan Fox, Kim Kardashian and Jessica Alba.

Have I mentioned this beer is amazing?

The taste of this beer is the epitome of perfect balance – hoppy, but not too hoppy. Malty but not too malty. Fruity but not too fruity. Sweet but not too sweet.  I mean who are these guys? They are the perfect ying and yang of beer making. No ingredient is too much or too little!

These guys could seriously throw any ingredient in and it would come out perfect.

“Bill what if we threw in this old moldy sock?”

“Mmmm… not bad… a little moldy, but not too moldy, perfect…”

This is a heavy IPA yet goes down as smooth as blackberry lemonade at a hot day which makes things a little dangerous with its high alcohol content.

Unfortunately this beer is almost impossible to find. You have to go directly to the brewery or be lucky enough to find it at a bar, but unlike Lewis & Clark’s discovery of North Dakota, it is worth the effort.

Like this?

Try on some other posts for size:

photo (24)


There’s an App For That 





   Two Pink Lines




 My Husband Thinks I’m Fat 

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Why I Started A Blog

Recently, a craft home brewing website called Noble Brewer asked me to write a post on why I started a beer blog. They take high-quality home brews, brew them at a commercial brewery, pretty them up and then ship them off direct to your home so you can have exclusive beers no one else has. Pretty cool.

Since I haven’t written on here for a while I figured I’d double-dip a little bit, and post the blog on here as well. Although this blog title should probably read Why I started a beer blog yet don’t ever write on it making me one pathetic loser, but you be the judge.

Here it goes…

Today anyone with a halfway decent internet connection and a hint of something interesting to say can start a blog. For me it was no different when I started mine about fatherhood and beer (naturally two things most fathers know go hand in hand).

So why did I start it? Was it because I’m insecure, crave instant gratification and am under the false impression that others actually have an interest in what I have to say?

Pretty much, but if that was solely the case, I could’ve started a blog about just about anything. After all writing a beer blog is a fairly difficult task, and it’s not because you need a degree from an esteemed university, must possess infinite creative wit or have the aroma-sniffing nose of a grizzly bear in heat. Sure, those help, but the real issue is documenting every fleeting thought at a time when you could be at the very least, slightly intoxicated.

So why did I think I was up for the task?

When a hospital handed my wife and me a beautiful baby boy in June 2013 without instructions or a gift receipt of any kind, we found ourselves lost, confused, and somehow responsible for another life.

This is it? I thought to myself as the release form was signed and dated. You’re just going to hand him over and then what do we do?

The iTunes disclosures when downloading Angry Birds are more legally binding than the paperwork you sign to receive a human.

Shouldn’t we receive a six-week training course, a 200 page manual and some sort of buyer’s remorse guarantee if we decide that dirty diapers, zero sleep, and having one’s life controlled by nine pounds of screaming monster simply isn’t worth giving up game night and Pub Crawl Thursdays?

The lack of required preparation and basic knowledge of something so important made me realize I had no idea what I was doing. As a result of the stress and confusion, some pretty hilarious blunders began to take place and I felt that they needed to be shared. That way other fathers could either relate to them, or more likely, be relieved that they weren’t the least capable dad on the block.

Before I launched I decided to sit down with a favorite beer and do some research to see what was currently on the web. What I found was that there were several dad blogs that provided parenting tips at different stages of fatherhood journey. But what dad wants to read solely about caring for a child? As far as I was concerned, I had planned to learn that part as I went and deal with it the same way one deals with a monster under the bed – curl up in the fetal position and hide under the covers until morning. I knew that in order to capture the attention of other dads my blog would have to be entertaining and funny but it couldn’t just stop there. There would have to be another draw.

I took a swig of my golden Belgian ale, holding it in my mouth a second longer than normal to let the yeasty notes and fruity sweetness embrace in a tornado of passion like two horny teenagers at their first keg party.

I swallowed and as the lingering floral aroma danced up and out of my nostrils, I felt the new parenting stress departing my body.

I took another swig and it hit me.

Now that I was a new father, I needed this beer for a temporary escape. I didn’t just need it – I relied on it. I knew I couldn’t be the only one. Every new dad, or every dad for that matter could use a beer once in a while right? Does that make us bad fathers? Quite the contrary actually. And just how would other dads know which beer to drink? And most importantly wouldn’t they want to be entertained when reading about which beer to drink?

And from that, my blog was born.

So what’s so different about it compared to other beer blogs? There’s certainly content out there notifying readers what they’ll taste, just like there are plenty of riveting Facebook posts notifying followers when someone sneezes or heats up a bowl of leftover macaroni.

My goal is not to tell people what the beer is like – I want to show them how it makes me feel. That’s the story that I try to put on paper. Sometimes that story also includes random ruminations you won’t find elsewhere such as what the surfboard-toting shark on the label of Lost Coast’s Great White does to pass his Sundays. (Clearly important).

Beer is fun to drink, and rightfully so, a beer blog should be fun to read.

A good beer gets the job done. But a great beer transports you to better times when life made sense and all was right with the world. Because that’s what a great beer does- not only do you get the satisfaction that comes with drinking it, but it can conjure up pleasant impactful memories of times past. For example, like the time your father showed up during your shift at Arby’s and let you know he finally accepted you weren’t going to be an astrophysicist like him, and then you shared a German Doppelbock next to the roast beef slicer. These are things that deserve to be put on paper and quite frankly if I don’t – who will?

At the end of the day I started the blog to have a creative outlet, but also because I want others to get enjoyment out of it. And in some rare cases, just maybe learn a thing or two.

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