The Return of the Miller Cub
by LF (9/4/98)
"Warriors, come out and PLAY-EE-YAY . . ."
That line was the first thing that popped into my head after a co-worker and I snuck out
from the job early on a Friday afternoon two weeks ago, ending up at a local Harris Teeter.
Sitting atop the Miller Brewery section was a sole eight-pack of High Life Cubs,
seven-ounce bottles that I'd not seen in way too many years.
"Cubbies" were regular fixtures during my early drinking days, along with Mickey's
grenade-loopers and 79-cent quarts of Hamms. Unlike the others, they served
several extremely useful purposes, all of which are still applicable today:
They just don't look like beer bottles. Thus you can pull up alongside a
squad car while yanking on one of these and the Copper will not give you a
- They won't go warm unless you drink like a 68-year-old granny. Some
may consider the low volume a disadvantage -- they force the solo drunken driver
to reach over to the passenger's side way more often than operators of standard
bottles or 40-ouncers -- but then, the best road boozers I know always hit the
asphalt with a co-pilot. And their job is to keep their captain supplied
with fresh brew while peeling an eye for State Troopers.
- Cubbies are the best beers to have on hand if you pull the Big Casino and actually
get stopped. Even a full bottle will pour smoothly down in the long minutes it
takes for the officer to radio your tag in and then grab his clipboard. (There's
nothing worse than yacking-up a gout of foam when the dude finally knocks on your
window.) And do they hide well? Darn-tootin'!
As much as I advise against it, Cubs are probably THE bottles to launch
from your vehicle towards annoying scumbags, simply because they fit most hands so
well. And their smaller surface area will yield fewer incriminating fingerprints
if traffic altercations go horribly wrong.
As soon as I spotted those cute little beauties, I cocked my head to one side and
chanted the relevant line from Walter Hill's 1979 movie The Warriors,
which my friend had unfortunately never seen. That particular bit came near the
end of the flick, when this really wormy gang skell challenges the "good" guys
to death-rumble while clinking three shorty beer bottles on his fingers. Cubbies,
if I remember correctly.
I provided my pal with the skinny. Then he was up to speed.
We bought the Cubs and some other stuff, and hit the road. We got
pleasantly lubed before splitting off.
Up the spout