Don’t be a beer whore

There was a recent story in the paper about three adults who ran afoul of the law. Each had agreed to buy liquor for a partyin’ teenager who desired some booze of some sort. The request was made in front of a liquor store, which meant that the teen in need was officially, as we used to say, “pimpin’ for beer.”

When the kindly adult consented to the request, he was promptly busted upon delivery of the contraband. It seems the thirsty teens were actually youthful cops working a sting. One can easily imagine the expletive-laced expressions of hurt and surprise voiced by the three arrestees.

I originally seized upon this story with the intention of working it up into one of those “is-there-nothing-sacred” semi-rants against the cops and how heartless it is for them to go after such an entrenched teenage recreation as good ole pimpin’ for beer. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized such a column would be a lunk-headed exercise in wrongness. As I tried to think of all the positives involved with pimpin’ for beer, I discovered that, well, there aren’t any. And no, this stuffy attitude has nothing to do with any lingering feelings of bitterness toward the black-hearted oaf who, 33 years ago, took me and my buddy Chris Yocum’s cash into the liquor store with instructions to “get some good hard stuff” and came back with a bottle of Crème de Cacao. That evening turned out to be, predictably enough, a lengthy but memorable introduction to the physiological phenomenon known as retching.

The scars of that tortured session notwithstanding, I couldn’t come up with one good reason enabling me to defend the act of buying a case of beer, giving it to some teenagers, and then watching them drive off into the night. In fact, the more I considered it, the more it seemed like an absolutely sociopathic thing to do.

Imagine being at the liquor store on a Friday night and approached by mischievous teens looking to get toasted before the big break-dance party. You consent to their request and send them on their way. Then, two hours later while relaxing at home, enjoying the beer that was your tip from the grateful youth, you’re suddenly thunderstruck with horror at the thought that you actually bought alcohol for TEENAGERS WHO ARE LEARNING HOW TO DRINK. AND THEY’RE OUT DRIVING AROUND!!! For the rest of the night, your mind will insist on communicating with you in all caps.

There you are at 3 a.m., in bed staring at the ceiling, your mind pummeling you relentlessly—CAN YOU SAY “HEAD-ON COLLISION?” CAN YOU SAY “MANGLED SCHOOL BUS?” CAN YOU SAY “FAMILY WIPED OUT?” And so forth.

So bust away, teenage cops, with your nasty little exercise in entrapment. And the next time peach-fuzzed youngsters approach me to do their dirty work, I’ll advise them to get their booze the old-fashioned way: steal it from mom and dad’s liquor cabinet.