Pure Germantown is realness, real people, problems, and the issues that plague the lower and middle classes. It means to be up front, to the point, and to never back down from a fight if one shows its face before you. Living in Germantown means that while endorsing your local corner-store you'll also most likely run into the most honest of patrons, as well as some of the shadiest and most treacherous, but there won't be any need for a pinch to the skin to see if you're awake, because outside of the box that pop television and culture feeds us daily, this is the way that the everyday man lives. Being pure Germantown sometimes also means that you might take a forty to the head after a long and often times stressful day at work. It's the way of the world, and not much can make a world better than good company, food, and drink.
The only true etiquette while drinking a forty-ounce bottle of beer is to make sure it's damn cold, brown bagged up for the insulating factor, and for that brown bag to be twisted and scrunched down around the base of that forty's shoulders. The real dilemma isn't how to maintain the proper etiquette so much as it is to decide which poison is yours. I tend to be a beer snob if I have the choice, and given the right circumstances, but snobbery flies out the door when wielding a beer bottle the size of a football. Malt liquor is my preference, but not for its impeccable taste, or smooth advertising schemes, because let's face it, these would both be straight lies. The honest reason is because while skipping school as an early teenager, and trying to find a bum or hood wino to make the beer purchase, our lunch money could only afford us this product. These days the tradition lives on because of fond memories, but please be advised that fond ones can quickly become the reciprocal if you let that beer get warm.
Photo courtesy of: Marty Pearl
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