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Beer O'Clock GR

It's 1.10pm On Saturday January 23 And It's Happy Hour Right Now at 9 Bars In GR

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Chili Dogs and Beer: Our Roving Reviewer Goes Rogue (and Visits Monarch’s Club)

By Ben Brugger

Well folks, this is the end. Or the beginning I suppose. After only four reviews and a minor brush up with one of the staff, the people at Beer O’clock have decided to kick me to the curb. (Editor’s note: Ben Brugger is a filthy liar) Apparently, I am too long-winded and foul-mouthed to write reviews for their polished turd of a website. They broke the news after feeding me Jell-O shots at some honky bar out on 28th Street. (Editor’s note: Liar) I was so dumbstruck after hearing the news that I lunged toward one of the staffers and tried to choke him out, only to be struck down with a blow to the back of the head, after which, I was dragged out the front door, thrown onto a snow-bank, kicked in the ribs, and left to die. (Editor’s note: Pants on fire) It was a vile act of aggression and betrayal to bring down upon an undeserving voice-of-the-people and will not be forgotten any time soon, by me, or the 24 or so people that have read my reviews over the past half a year…

But, it’s okay folks. Don’t cry for me. I am just one victim amongst the hundreds of millions of shit-upon’s in this half-crazy World called Earth. 

And speaking of America, let’s not forget that we are truly blessed to live on a planet that allows us to drink our faces off when we are treated like second-rate trash. A place where we can overcome the short sighted, to rise above the shit-tide of greed and hatred that rolls down upon us from the West, North, South and East. A place where we can kick back and raise a glass to our God-given right to some-what-but-not-really do whatever the fuck we want…

So, where do we go from here? Well, after spending the night in the hospital with two broken ribs and a severe case of frostbite, it came to me. I, despite the influence of morphine, and my unforgivable dismissal from Beer O’Clock, would continue to write for Beer O’Clock. That I would demand to be kept aboard the sinking ship in order to steer the doomed vessel in the right direction, that I would be kept on as an unpaid, yet celebrated columnist in order to better serve the people of Grand Rapids and their unquenchable thirst for self indulgent ramblings and un-informative bar reviews…

And guess what folks? After six phone calls threatening swift and unrelenting retribution for the beating they brought down upon me, the spineless saps finally agreed. (Editor’s note: We’re suing you for libel, Mr. Brugger)

So, here we go, this is it. I’m calling it “Over the Rocks” (Something I am not going to explain right now, but that has nothing to do with drinking liquor “on the rocks”. Or maybe it kind of does, but who cares? Maybe next time.)…

Well Grand rapids, it looks like winter is finally over. Or at least that’s the way I’m call’n it this evening. Which probably means nothing. After all, my NCAA tournament bracket is a mess, and all of my ten-year-old predictions about who I’d be in twenty years have pretty much gone to shit. All of which, has left me with serious doubts about my once-promising career as a prophet.

I had been on a roll during 2012, having accurately predicted that former Cincinnati Bengal offensive lineman Anthony Munoz would appear on a radio program during a twelve hour drive back from Houghton, Michigan, as well as foreseeing that another guest would bring the exact same squeeze-and-sing Cookie Monster I had picked out for a two-year old’s birthday party. Events that had initially led me to believe I was developing a finely tuned set of psychic powers that would allow me to rise up from the gutter I’ve been sloshing around in for the past five years.

But, like everything that begins with hope in this world, my powers were fleeting. It turned out that my perceived psychic abilities were limited to short, uncontrolled, bursts of clairvoyance, that failed to benefit anyone outside of those concerned with buying birthday gifts, or anyone wanting to know when former NFL offensive lineman will be appearing in car commercials on sports radio. But, in spite of my shit-luck in life and the tournament, I have decided to push forward. To see the light at the end of the tunnel. To grab a hold of that elusive fucker, and raise it high in the sky for all to see…

So on that note…I’ll say it once again. Winter is over. Which brings me to a point. (Editor’s note: Finally!) Or rather it brings me to the point where I feel like I should probably make a point about bars or beer or whatever. So here we go. The Monarch’s Club on 4th and Stocking Has the best fucking deal on anything anywhere. Six Pabst Blue Ribbons and four Chili dogs for twelve dollars, all day and every day. Which, if the internet estimations are correct, comes out to somewhere around 2500 calories. That’s right folks, you meet your FDA recommended caloric intake for an entire fucking day for twelve bucks. And…YOU GET DRUNK while doing it. Jesus wept.

If I had had this kind of deal back in the days of selling plasma, I’d have been walking on sunshine and shitt’n out rainbows. Back then it was Bean Burritos, a 32 oz Mountain Dew, and Steal Reserve 40’s. Good god, the amount of rot-gut I could have saved myself had I lived anywhere near the Monarch’s Club. Well anyway, what can I say after that? I mean, I guess I could tell you about the top notch bar tending, or how the place looks, or maybe I could talk about how they’ve got tons of other daily and happy hour specials, but since I don’t write fucking bar reviews any more I’ll just say…6 Pabst 4 chili dogs 12 dollars! GO THERE. Word em up.

Full list of Monarch’s Club specials and Happy Hour deals