That Funky Monkey

My friend lay in his driveway, unwilling to move, reeking of stale beer and vomit. He was a drunken mess, and I had just spent ten minutes trying to pour him into bed. No luck… and my patience was gone.

I took his car keys and headed for home, leaving my friend shivering and gurgling on the cold pavement in front of his house. I cared not. He had tempted Fate by mocking the power of the Brass Monkey, and he was paying for his insolence.

The Brass Monkey is not a drink for the cultured or the refined. It is the unholy alliance of malt liquor and orange juice and is brewed at the curb of convenience stores around the world. To those looking to get drunk fast, there’s nothing quite like pounding 40 ounces of Olde English mixed with imitation Tang. It’s the low-grade ambrosia and nectar of the Ghetto Gods.

Treated with the respect and dignity it deserves, Brass Monkey bestows a great buzz with a surprisingly pleasant aftertaste. The orange juice somehow annihilates the noxious flavor of malt liquor, leaving you with something akin to a mimosa on crack. It also improves your street cred to hoist your drink of choice in a brown paper bag. Looking like a hobo has never been so hip.

Scoff at its powers, though, and you’re in for a world of hurt. Brass Monkey gravitates towards people who want to relax and spend a laid-back afternoon with friends. It does not enjoy the company of obsessive-compulsive asses who bitch and moan about some shadowy Internet girlfriend or the girls at a backyard party or the snack selection or a host of other things no sane person wants to hear about.

So while I sat at a house I’d never been to, surrounded by people I had never met, Brass Monkey shone down its benevolence upon me. It graced me with a smile and a buzz; its generous size kept me from fighting for alcohol with the other partygoers. Conversely, my friend, eager as a lapdog to impress those around him, proceeded to incur Brass Monkey’s wrath by reaching for beer. Brass Monkey made him pass out, made him lose control of his bowels and made him a laughingstock. And to prove there is no karma in hanging out with obnoxious jerks, Brass Monkey bade me drive him home… but then blessed me with blissful, hangover-free slumber that night as reward for my devotion.

There are those who sip wine and wonder if the bouquet is almond or chestnut. To that I shrug and ask — what is a beverage without its soul? Brass Monkey has love for all. Experience that love this Christmas.