I still couldn't kill the keg last night. Apparently, I never even got close. As I write this, a steady stream of unconsumed Sierra Nevada Pale Ale is draining out onto my back lawn as I prepare to return the keg. It's one of the saddest things I've ever seen. Not quite on the level of horror of, say, if I dropped a pricey bottle of Belgian beer and smashed it in my driveway, but it nonetheless seems sad.
For future reference, I think I'll have to note that my friends have dropped down to a pony keg level of drinking.
The New Yorker Cover, Interpreted
6 hours ago