The Taste of Certainty

I may not subscribe to the Gary-Busey-on-Celebrity-Fit-Club level of insane sayings about life, but I do follow my own brand of pseudo-philosophy. You know the old saying
“Go with your gut”? I go one step further and follow my inner Beech. I trust him with my life, literally, every day.

I can’t speak for your inner Beech, but mine is always right. He should be. He’s known me for quite a long time now. If anyone is going to be able to predict
me and what I'm going to do, it’s me.

I have no prejudice against other flavors of powdered drink mix, and I certainly don’t discriminate between brands of powdered drink mix lemonade. No, that’s not
the issue. I enjoy a good cherry-watermelon-cantaloupe-kiwi-boysenberry punch as much as the next guy, I just like lemonade better.

I won’t even bother going on and on about the fact that there are too many gosh darn powdered drink mix flavors out there. I’m not going to mention that it
bothers me when my powdered drink mix selection is fruitier than half-off day Spandex Express. I will not allow myself to get worked into a fit of rage over those tiny
powdered drink mix packets that taunt me with their rainbow of powdered drink mix colors and variety of supposed powdered drink mix flavors that all end up tasting like the
SAME FUCKING THING!

My roommate said something about getting some “invisible flavored” powdered drink mix, but I ignored him pretty much like I always do because all he ever talks
about is how cool his wireless X-Box controller is. I figured he didn’t know what he was talking about and assumed he just poured a bunch of sugar in a pitcher and
swirled it around.

Out of curiosity and my quest for journalistic integrity, I set my laptop aside, got my ass up and poured myself a glass. It tastes like…

::Pauses and licks lips::

I saw some lemonade at the store today that I told myself not to buy. Once again I was right. Who the hell pays four bucks for a half gallon jug of lemonade? Just because
it was hyper-glycemic or hypochondriac or hydrogenous or whatever it was. No fucking way. If I’m going to pay that much for a bottle of lemonade, it better come with
a hot chick to serve it so I can stick my dick in her mouth when it puckers from the sour of its organicness turning her pain into my orgasmic…uhh…ness.

Wow, I reached really far for that one.

The other day I was going out to the bar, and I told myself to bring an extra pack of cigarettes. I told myself that I didn’t want to bother with putting that many
things in my pocket. I had almost a full pack already, and I didn’t plan on being out that late. Surely I would be okay with just the one pack.

Guess who was right?

That’s right: The Motherfricken Beech. I ran out of smokes before midnight. I told me that I told me so, and my penance to myself was having to bum cigarettes off
the people I went out with. They smoked the same style, but not the same brand. They told me they were close enough. I told them they were wrong, and of course I was right
again. Not so right that I wasn’t going to accept cigarettes from them, but at least I did so begrudgingly.

So, I don’t know you, and I probably don’t want to. I assume that you’re not that smart, so I won’t necessarily suggest that you listen to your
inner self. You’re much better off listening to my inner self, but don’t ask me anything right now, I preparing to mix up some lemonade.

Drat. All I have is Bahama Berry Blast.