They told you this was the real shit. The good shit. “The best shit around, ATM.” You think it is shit. But in the crowded smoky bar, mashups mashing in the background, the hipsters speak of it almost mystically.
 
This is the real shit.

PBR cans crush underfoot. Pretty girls blow smoke into the faces of hapless boys in jean shorts, and the hapless boys drink the smoke like a sip of fizzy beer and wonder what the fuck they’re doing there.

It’s dark in there, and hot, and noisy. It’s beer and whiskey on the sticky floor, chemical stench wafting from the single bathroom and later most of these kids will vomit chemicals and cheap beer into squaterpad toilets or bushes behind brunch joints- Sunday morning coming down- while waiting to coat their stomach linings with grease and baconfat, and then snort it all off later.

This is the real shit.

The true shit. Uncontrived shit. Only four hundred copies shit. “The best shit around, ATM,” they told you. You aren’t thinking about the real shit anymore, or hearing it, you’re wondering why the second can of PBR tastes so rank, and why it makes your head spin like barbaric yawp.

They call it the real shit, and still they can’t be bothered to head to the backroom and pony the ten bucks to see the shit and eat the shit up and feel it- ten bucks is five PBRs brah, and at least two more hours of being seen, and heard, two more hours to look like they know what’s going on while “this is the real shit” hums behind the walls and projects on fuzzy closed-circuit TVs and the pretty girls blow smoke and look affected and the hapless boys flip their A caps and carry on.

This is the real shit.

Tally-ho.