Joe Six Pack was something other than a real man.
The kind of guy who would flinch. Step aside. Protect himself
when the damsel’s distress got ugly.
Sure, he was buzzed, but also cognizant of his own mortality and I think a drink should conjure immortality.
Save that girl.
Step in front of the bullet.
Or you’re just Joe,
just plain Joe.
And a twelve pack is a bit much, ain’t it? A six pack gets you up the chair lift,
but a twelve pack will lead you astray,
a ski stuckinarut,
and off the peripheral cliff,
onto the rocks
the end of Joe.
Much too much.
A nine-pack would give you the gumption to get up the hill and then
over the lip,
through the moguls and flats, over the jump into a Steamin’ Streamin’
(daffy, tip-drop, daffy, if I recall),
then back into moguls, dips, flats, and whatever the mountain had to present.
Represent, mountain, it’s our challenge now.
So let us all call unto the brewers, the big boys and the small taps. Give us a nine pack, we ask,
or give us death – or trepidation. We need neither, but the sweet spot in between, the middle, the fiddle-de-diddle.
Let us fight the tyranny of the six and the twelve together.