I placed the Einstok’s Icelandic Pale Ale can with my trophies and thought about how I won it. I was in Bjork der Bjork, Iceland. Again. I keep winding up there despite my efforts. The woebegone, badger clouds and citizens who were more igloo that person smashed my soul in a George Foreman Grill every time. I sat at Sven’s Tarvern and Crepes Inn when the bartender slammed a vodka shot down, almost smashed my thumb, nodded towards a woman who grinned at me with teeth that could have held a barn together. She had skinny elbows, wide abs, and enough curves to make a square jealous. Basically, the perfect beauty. But far too tall for me; I prefer women under seven feet tall (I’m only a medium-sized person myself). “She wants your manhood,” the bartender mumbled, and sulked off. There’s no way my manhood could handle a giant, so I bet the bartender the Einstok’s she’d be after his manhood by the end of the night. Long story short, she had her way with me, but the bartender believed I earned the beer and awarded me with it.
