Roofdeck, Beer, Abuse

I'm sitting on my roofdeck, blogging aimlessly while I should be studying the ancient religious practices of the Nilo-Saharan language family. But there is one thought that behooves my attention which is keeping me from delineating between henotheism and nontheism--the hunch that the difference between domestic and imported beer is the same as the difference between domestic and imported abuse. You see, domestic beer is cheaper and inferior--just as domestic abuse costs nothing and is rather negative. Imported beer, though, is pricier and of a higher ilk, just as, when Hans, the Austrian ski instructor, yells at your 5 year old American son when he falls on the slopes, you are taken aback not by his violent tone, but instead by his engaging accent. It is readily understandable, then, that Hans has a job--after all, one would think that his lack of skills, ability to communicate, and tact would render him unemployed. But, just like the bottle of brew whose label you can't pronounce, but nonetheless deem indipsensable, so too do we, as America's collective citizenry, quaff Lars with our thirsty yearning for ski talent.