They called me the Cooler King.

“Those were trying days, son. Trying days indeed. I was in the cooler more times than I can remember. But Jerry couldn’t break me!”

Gee, Dad, I thought World War Two was way before your time. How is it possible you were a POW in Europe?

“POW in Europe? What in the chicken-plucking world are you talking about, son? Shoot, your grandpa wasn’t even born yet in World War Two. I thought you were asking about the Tastes Great vs. Less Filling Beer War of the 1980s.”

The… the what? I’ve never heard of that. Why would I be asking about…

“Yes indeed, that was a vicious fight, to be sure. A dirty business. But we knew we were in the right, and the battle simply had to be won. At least I think it had to be. Hard to say for sure. I was drunk through most of it.”

Then… when you say you were ‘in the cooler?’

“I mean I was usually rooting around in one of those Igloo Vertical Hard Liner nine-can, easy-carry beverage coolers, of course! Those things were great. No-leak, heat-sealed liners. Polartherm insulation. First class all the way.”

And… ‘Jerry?’

“Jerry Reniger, my poker buddy. He always brought the brews.”

Wow. You’re, uh, a real hero, Dad.

“They called me the ‘Cooler King!’”

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