"BoZo's Shaved Beaver"

From: ESInterGalactic
Date: 30 October 98
Formatting by: The FFF

It has come to my attention that someone shot an old man in space, I hope they find out who did it. I was transported on a surreal journey recently, why I don't know, but there are alot of happy Mexicans in Phoenix AZ, some sad ones too...the kind that just sit and stare at your birthed from a whale breakfast burrito as you eat it. They like fish I guess.

Small oriental villages could subsist on this burrito for six months, breaking it off into tiny pieces like Jesus saving his ass from a hungry mob. Why was I there and why had the gods sent me to an oncologist convention? Those smug dirty bastards with their fornicator action rings and scantily clad receptionist.

It was driving me dizzy. Walking around downtown Phoenix, one notices the persistant aroma of armpits until one changes one's fucking three day old shirt. Fucking oncologists they taunt me. The package liguor stores in downtown Phoenix are also seedy smoke filled bars full of swarthy men who save money by riding the city bus clinging to its under carriage.

Strange indeed.

So with oncologists before me and swarthy naked bus carriage grapplers behind me there was only one thing to do....I phoned Gonz, who was there before I knew it to wisk me away to BoZo's Shaved Beaver saving my life. It was there things began to shift into normal. BoZo's is the international bar of Tempe, AZ a remarkable place indeed, highlighted by a prominant fixture, OzO. OzO is certainly prominant and it soon became obvious he was a fixture.

Gonz and OzO helped me explore the joys of Happy Hour. Happy Hour is a time when the once happy barman gets real pissed as you get happier and happier. This point was proved to me by Gonz and OzO as they knocked back two glasses of some rocket fuel vodka substance to my intermittant injections of Cheap American Beer. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD! I drink Cheap American Beer because I am not from around here and drinking mass quantities is the only way to observe the goings on of this weird fucking planet you Erpers live on...but I digress. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD!

At first I was confused because I thought I was seeing double...it was Happy Hour Twins, Two for the Price of Two. How many of those little bastard glasses of what the hell ever was in there besides vodka could those bastards drink? I soon had my answer, they drank them all, every one they fucking ordered. The accents were heavy, the slurring was tremendous and the bartender having given up trying to communicate rationally grunted in an odd disjointed language known only to disgruntled bartenders. Newcasses is a fine dark beer by the way, next time you are in your favorite pub ask the bartender for a big fucking bottle of Newcasses. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD!

It was then on to Shaved Beavers, a place almost international, they get rid of cockroaches by playing music volume 11, cockroaches walk upwind and fart at them, or so I am told. Instead of little umbrellas in your drinks, you actually get little shaved beavers hanging from your glass. Of course, in my case they jammed the little bastard down into the neck of the beer bottle. It requires the skill of a gymnastic Yugoslavian clam cracking cunnilingust to get to the beer. Still, this was better than conversing with an oncologist. There are strange creatures at night in Tempe, creatures on two wheels who streak by you shouting from other dimensions for 85 cents to buy beers. I can understand this as I myself have stood on street corner with a small cardboard sign written in red crayon "Need Beer". And later, Gonz said 'oh, here post something on alt.drunken.bastards, if you want'.....

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It has come to my attention that someone shot an old man in space, I hope they find out who did it. I was transported on a surreal journey recently, why I don't know, but there are alot of happy Mexicans in Phoenix AZ, some sad ones too...the kind that just sit and stare at your birthed from a whale breakfast burrito as you eat it. They like fish I guess.
	Small oriental villages could subsist on this burrito for six months, breaking it off into tiny pieces like Jesus saving his ass from a hungry mob. Why was I there and why had the gods sent me to an oncologist convention? Those smug dirty bastards with their fornicator action rings and scantily clad receptionist.
It was driving me dizzy. Walking around downtown Phoenix, one notices the persistant aroma of armpits until one changes one's fucking three day old shirt. Fucking oncologists they taunt me. The package liguor stores in downtown Phoenix are also seedy smoke filled bars full of swarthy men who save money by riding the city bus clinging to its under carriage.
Strange indeed.
	So with oncologists before me and swarthy naked bus carriage grapplers behind me there was only one thing to do....I phoned Gonz, who was there before I knew it to wisk me away to BoZo's Shaved Beaver saving my life. It was there things began to shift into normal. BoZo's is the international bar of Tempe, AZ a remarkable place indeed, highlighted by a prominant fixture, OzO. OzO is certainly prominant and it soon became obvious he was a fixture.
Gonz and OzO helped me explore the joys of Happy Hour. Happy Hour is a time when the once happy barman gets real pissed as you get happier and happier. This point was proved to me by Gonz and OzO as they knocked back two glasses of some rocket fuel vodka substance to my intermittant injections of Cheap American Beer. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD! I drink Cheap American Beer because I am not from around here and drinking mass quantities is the only way to observe the goings on of this weird fucking planet you Erpers live on...but I digress. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD!
At first I was confused because I thought I was seeing double...it was Happy Hour Twins, Two for the Price of Two. How many of those little bastard glasses of what the hell ever was in there besides vodka could those bastards drink? I soon had my answer, they drank them all, every one they fucking ordered. The accents were heavy, the slurring was tremendous and the bartender having given up trying to communicate rationally grunted in an odd disjointed language known only to disgruntled bartenders. Newcasses is a fine dark beer by the way, next time you are in your favorite pub ask the bartender for a big fucking bottle of Newcasses. Hold up your fucking beer bottle and say CHEERS! Damnit you fucking TARD!
	It was then on to Shaved Beavers, a place almost international, they get rid of cockroaches by playing music volume 11, cockroaches walk upwind and fart at them, or so I am told. Instead of little umbrellas in your drinks, you actually get little shaved beavers hanging from your glass. Of course, in my case they jammed the little bastard down into the neck of the beer bottle. It requires the skill of a gymnastic Yugoslavian clam cracking cunnilingust to get to the beer. Still, this was better than conversing with an oncologist. There are strange creatures at night in Tempe, creatures on two wheels who streak by you shouting from other dimensions for 85 cents to buy beers. I can understand this as I myself have stood on street corner with a small cardboard sign written in red crayon "Need Beer". And later, Gonz said 'oh, here post something on alt.drunken.bastards, if you want'.....