Breaking news for you this afternoon: several employees at a law firm located in the downtown area have been taken hostage. Crime beat reporter Jessica Simpson joins us now at the scene with the very latest. Jessica?
Yes, we’re told that we’ve got now four officers on the scene, and this is quickly escalating into a full-blown hostage crisis. What first started off as a disgruntled employee engaged in a dispute now has innocent lives on the line. Detective Matthew Damon is here with me to provide the official update on the situation. Detective, what do we know about the current status of the folks now trapped in the building?
We’ve got 4 that we know of on site who have now been pulled into this mess, and we’re engaging in talks with the perpetrator to better understand their demands.
Stephanie, we’re gaining information as it comes bit by bit.
Jess, what about the coworker who has been shot? What is their situation?
We have confirmation that they have been transported to a local hospital to be treated for several bullet wounds.
And any developments in negotiations?
DOO DOO DOOO DOO DOOOO DO DOO DOO DAH DOO DOOO DOOOOOO
DOO DOO DAH DOOO DAH DOOOOO DOO DOOO DOO DOOO DOOO DOOOOOOO—“
I’m sorry, Jessica, what? What’s going on there?
—DOOO DOOO DOO DAH DOO DAH DOOO—
…Is that, are you singing the theme song to Diff’rent Strokes?
…eeeehhhhhhhh Oktoberfest (oh, I’m sorry, Marzen– fuck you) is a tired style. People who don’t even drink beer know what this is.
The most quintessential beer tropes…
Lots of big changes at Otter Creek. Mike Gerhart is fuckin out. No more tie-dyed hippie-ass ganja bullshit and slacker rock stereotypes
Wait, Long Trail released a CBD beer?
Look, Otter Creek is now one of the largest breweries in Vermont (wait, are they the largest brewery in Vermont? I don’t know, I don’t do my research, I just sit in my underwear at 12:30 in the morning catching a buzz and contemplating my mortality as I continue to type, pausing occasionally to take another drink and contemplate my mortality again. The futility of everything becoming more and more weightless, I glide into a monochromatic stupor: listlessness in a blender. Like watching Godard on fast forward—comical, yet frightening. The new autumn air hangs like a clashy curtain or like a soul awkwardly loiters during an out of body experience. Am I he? Or is he me? Who are you? Are you you? You’re arrested instantly by a specter of a memory of your father catching you masturbating that replays over and over and over and over and over and over
They can get away with whatever they want. They’ve earned it. If they want to brew a fucking collab beer with Brauerei Camba in Germany it’s their own prerogative.
I lay in a field, sitting up only to take another small sip. Face towards the sky, oblivion confronting, I belch. A few songbirds flee from their trees.
Orange and clear save a slight haze
White head, decent lacing
Another sip, my mind starts to wander
Biscuit, caramel, floral hops
Bright, mild banana bread
Somewhere out there, there is probably a small civilization run entirely by children. How do they value the worth of individuals within the citizenry? What is their belief system? Is their childhood a farce, or are they forever cursed in their arrested development?
Noble hop earthiness
Round sweetness in middle of mouth
I ceremonially bury my head in the wet earth and wonder,
Would I be a good hostage?
Blink 1 for yes
And 2 for Weird Al Yankovic Polka Power
*8.7 out of 10*