As I write this, it’s all-but-impossible to realize it’s been a month! Oh, sure, I could point out the couple days that technically deny a moon cycle, yet it would be so disingenuous to do. Fact is, four weeks ago today, Andrew fired off an email announcing his train would be rolling through Braşov and he intended to support Campionatul Mondial de Bere by flinging a sack full of goodies out the window when he passed by. Clearly, it would behoove me to show up somewhere near the tracks and playout my NFL receiver fantasies.

And that’s how it was, y’all. Da big mastapimp A-Dawg came rollin’ inta town, ‘cept dem foolz at da gara done wrecked his train schedule and mista playa man had to spread some chedda on a maxi taxi. Now, I didn’t know this, so I wuz str8 playin’ that soldier until I got the 411. U kno how it goez. We be adjustmentikatin’ n shizzle. Word.

The trouble got started early because the dude shows up with this heavy sack of berii. As the first official sponsor of Campionatul Mondial de Bere, Andrew came well-armed with Sovata, Neumarkt, Dracula and Aro beers to help fill out the participant roster. It was like an alcoholic halloween! As one might guess, that means somebody has to carry all that around a while…

For realz, he be a tru playa in da sport of Bere Mondial like the rest of U only wish U wuz. U know we had to get tha Drew-Daddy to pop the top off a sticla, right? Fo’ sheezy! Next thang U kno, we be chillin’ at them gara beer-stand thingz gettin’ hassled by the gyspy beggars (and U kno we didn’t waste no paper) while tryin’ chug down a forty half-liter.

So there I was, hanging out with supercool Andrew and drinking beer with a mesmerizing young woman. The conversation flowed pretty thick and pretty fast. Well, that is, until Mr. Man essentially told us to shut up because he was sick of talking, then abruptly took off inside the gara to the ticket booth. Don’t try to deny it, fool!

N-e-waze, that boy wuz either fascinated by my celebrity status or couldn’t stop staring at tha hottie in orange, becuz Sucka came creepin’ back like a punk n’ spittin’ weak lines ’bout getting ganked by the dracu bilete woman. Yes, yes, y’all… he gonna be delayed a bit n’ hafta start reprezentin that TeeGee side.

LOLz!!!11!eleven

Hyperbole aside, it was fun. He ended up being stuck in the sparkling wonder of Braşov a couple hours longer than expected, so our little group decided it was safe to hoist another bottle of beer or two. Er, no, it was more like a mandate. A duty, in fact. Campionatul Mondial guest judging and all that. Giddyap.

At some point, we started the marathon timer to intiate a hurried quest for the best kebab in all of Romania. Our efforts were aided by the fact that I already knew how to find the place. We jumped into a cab and headed towards parcul central, yammering in English all the while expressly in order to draw the curious eyes of our taximetrist.

Weaving dangerously outside the vehicle, we stumbled the final few steps until we entered shoarma nirvana. Andrew pops off in his nearly perfect Romaneşte to place an order, which makes me look like a complete idiot as I fumble the words around and beg for help like a little girl with a skinned knee. But then I’ve absolutely no shame when it comes time to procure the world’s greatest sandwich. Mai multe ardei iute, va rog!

We managed to land another taxi and raced back to the gara, so Andrew wouldn’t miss his train. We got there with a couple minutes to spare, but the ticket line was moving slower than molasses which resulted in Andrew being told the train had already left. Plan B? Wait, let’s check that monitor. Platform 3, right? Damn, your train hasn’t left yet — it hasn’t even arrived! Back in line only to be told by the very same (incompetent and self-loathing) CFR employee that she wouldn’t sell him a ticket and he could buy one on the train.

Sound out of place? Well, it kind of is and kind of isn’t depending on who you ask and how it gets handled. In other words, it’s apparently quite subjective at the discretion of the train ‘conductor’ (aka ticketpuncher). Maybe some of y’all with deeper experience in this area can enlighten us? Basically, the idea is to get on the train before it leaves and then worry about finding a staffer who can sell you the required ticket.

Theoretically, you should be able to just pay the fare. But, then, theoretically, you didn’t buy a proper ticket and might be subject to a fine. The way I understand it is that it’s all about timing. If you get the ticket before the train actually moves or possibly immediately thereafter, you can probably pay regular price. Assuming you’re Romanian that is.

Poor guy; A-Dawg boards the train and quickly looks for the conductor. Maybe there was only one person on shift because a journey through several cars was required to find a uniformed bloke. Andrew explains the situation about how he tried twice to buy a ticket but the lady refused to sell him one. The conductor scoffs. Andrew explains how he was instructed by CFR staff to buy a ticket on the train. The conductor scoffs again. Why? Some might say the conductor was possibly doing his job, but I’m sure it’s because Andrew was an American… you know, a filthy rich idiot just waiting to have gold nuggets shaken out of his pockets because all Americans are stupid and wealthy. You knew that, right? Right.

After some negotiation, for a small bribe plus the normal ticket price (all of which was probably pocketed by the CFR conductor), Andrew managed to get himself a very cozy spot in first class where he could enjoy his ride in peace. Though, I think the train dropped him off at his destination around 1am or 2am which may or may not have caused further adventures outside the scope of this post. Not sure.

What I do know is that we have photographic evidence that he was safely on the train loaded with loot in the form of a 2-liter of Braşov’s finest…

Imagine how panicked you would be while standing in line at the Luca checkout counter as the girl behind the register notes with surprise that you are back, again, to buy yet more beer and as you hoist the hefty bottle of generic CBA bere blonda onto the counter you worry less about what she thinks of your purchasing decision than you do about the sudden knowledge this beer is made by IMEX, private labeller for Carrefour! The horror! The flashbacks! The nausea!

“Al ceva?”

“Sure, babe, gimme a box of condoms, one of those porn mags, a packet of Lucky Strike, and… and some breathmints.”

Presuming she didn’t speak Engleza, she’d probably give you a really funny look and finally say, “Doriţi un packet de Lucky?”

“Nu, glumesc.” No reaction. “Nu vreau. Atut.”

She probably couldn’t wait to get rid of you, stranger in a strange land. So, you’d walk home with too many bottles pulling down the stretched handles on your over used plastic bag that some greedy store owner charged you 10,000 lei vechi for, wondering exactly how close you’ll make it before it tears.

Don’t they sell any cloth bags that don’t break? Why are they charging you such a high price for a cheap plastic bag which you need in order for them to profit from your patronage and for which they only pay about 500 lei or less? Post-communist mentality: gouge everyone!

CBA. Carrefour bere again? You’re not even sure you want to go home and open this puppy, but it’s your duty as the ever stoic adventurer. Maybe that’s not a good description. Ah, well, it’s a working definition.

Just as the game was about to get underway, emergency rescue workers had to be rushed to the scene as Spammy was refusing to referree and had created a somewhat controversial demonstration against tasting any more Hiproma-style beer.

Once cut down, Spammy went on a bit of a tirade threatening to boycott the entire Campionatul Mondial de Bere rather than be involved with any more of Hiproma’s foul concoction misleadingly labelled as beer. After a lengthy period of tense negotiations (including demands for event-sponsored life insurance), our perky pink pig was softly eased into the idea of trying a few sips.

And so it was that CBA got the ball first, uneasily moving down the field to the jeers and insults of the snickering crowd. Amazingly, Luca’s brand of beer did not jumble things up and knock the checkered sphere into its own goal. Broadcasters even indicated that the stuff was nearly drinkable. Almost.

Spammy decided to call his inside connections in the SRI’s shadier bureaus and set up an espionage ring outside of IMEX. How in the world could these guys in Satu Mare make a relatively beer-like drink for Luca’s private label reselling, while at the same time bottling rat poison for Carrefour? The mystery needs answering. Tap the phones. Keylog the computers. Open the mail. Whatever it takes!

Otherwise, we’d be forced to conclude that it’s similar to making prison wine where one version turns out slightly drinkable whereas the other one is best used for engine degreasing.

Well, yeah, so Spammy was kind of distracted with these conversations, but ESPN highlights of Match 10 showed that Skol ended up scoring a goal based on taste. Halftime show was great party music from Manu Chao. Neither team was able to muster pricing or ABV dominance. Things ended peacefully and spectators had a relaxed good time involving some wild dancing.

Final score: CBA 0 – Skol 1

Hot diggity! We had ourselves a barn-burner on Sunday night, ladies and gentlemen. Trust me when I say you wish you would have been there. Despite the unfortunate postponement of Caraiman vs Noroc, the ninth match of our little series went off without a hitch. Y’all should’a been at this here hootenany, I tell you whut.

As the third foreign beer in the tournament, Tuborg Strong invaded the BraşoDome and were welcomed by the fans as conquering heros. That’s right, Timmy, the Romanian beer drinkers were actually hailing the mighty crimson and black from the frozen north of Denmark. These Danish warriors were menacing and somber with a keen eye toward revenging the loss of their sister team Tuborg Gold.

The crowds mostly ignored the yellow jerseyed brand when they entered the coliseum. Sure, the funny commercials are well liked in Romania, but to actually drink some? I’ve never seen it. Ever. At all. Leading beerontological experts believe this is a consquence of Bergenbier’s status of a cultural mutt. It’s brewed in Romania, has Belgian ownership, and the name is a mixture of Norwegian and German. And yet, flying in the face of overwhelming anecdotal evidence, some bean counters claim it was the leading beer in 2003.

At the cap-off, things got wet quickly as the eager competitors went neck in neck. That is, their bottle necks were nearly down the throats of the judges necks. As the first to be orally enclosed, Tuborg Strong has the first chance to make good on its rage. Racing down the sidelines to the deafening thunder of the expectant crowd, Tuborg Royal Export stung the thirsty palates with its patented flavored of a sugared-up sourmash. GOAL!

Nonplussed, the sticla din Belgia surprised the complacent judges (who had been secretly fearing the worst from this heretofore unknown taste) with a full-bodied and outrageously delicious balance of light malts and hard hops that washed away all concerns with a slightly nutmeg characteristic in just an instant. GOAL!

In fact, the Bergenbier flavorings shocked both the crowd and officials alike by completely dominating the tastebudinal aspect of the game, when it was assumed that Tuborg Royal Export would win that category. Yet, for all the predictions of the betting public, the radiant Truth came shining down on the blessed referrees as they greedily relished large swigs of this Lager As Lagers Should Be. Astonishing all present with undeniable great brewmastery, Bergbier struck again before the half. GOAL!

The inter-period break featured the very talented discography of Tool, which made rock lovers of all apartments surrounding the BrasoDome. The gathered faithful played a little air guitar, took their try at singing, and even engaged in a little headbanging fun. During breaks between songs, the game caller notified alert sportsfans that some health conscious smack talkin’ was still raging on about possible side effects of Ciuc.

During the second half, Tuborg Strong evened things up with the expected superstar forwards using the devastating alcohol content to push the yellow defenders back on their heels. GOAL!

As you mostly cannot tell from the photo above, the Danish Royals (and not the royal danish, mmm yum) were a strong straw color while the Norwegermans were close in coloration but with slightly more amber hues darkening them. Either way, the image is a complete failure to capture what at the time seemed like a relatively simple scene to nail. But between the lighting, mugalogical differentiation, and general incompetence, it turned out a bit shoddy. Sorry, gents.

Ever persistent, the boys of Bergenbier took their succulent, savory time in passing the ball down the field. Eventually, their costational lownitude paid off when the far side left-wing struck gold on a flying scissor kick. GOAL!

Tensions mounted in the stadium as the lush drunkards anticipated a counterstrike from the mighty alcohol of Tuborg Royal Export. Indeed, the crimson worshippers were not disappointed when the expected attack came with the sheer brute force of seven point two percent alcohol by volume and the very breath of Tuborg Strong sent the ball sailing on a saturated wind. GOAL!

Satisfied with a draw match instead of a loss, the weary crowds shuffled towards the exits, muttering under their breaths and fumbling around for taxi money. Invariably, the louder folks were chattering about the upcoming match between CBA and Skol. Talent scouts discovered CBA was managed by the same brewer as Carrefour, so bets weren’t being made about who would win, but rather about how much nonsense the judges could suffer.

Oh, but strange things happen. With most of the beer drinking public already squabbling over who got shotgun in the 1968 Dacia taxi, everyone paused in disbelief at the sounds of a roar coming from inside the BraşoDome. While not many people had remained behind, the excitement unextinguishable as newly loyal Bergenbier fans watched them but the nail in the coffin with a late shot based on the insanely low price of only 1,39 RON. GOAL!

Fantatical supporters stormed the field and tore down the goal posts. Fire works were set off and someone opened more bottles. The party raged on into the wee hours of morning when Mirinda, the janitor tasked with preparing the BrasoDome for the next match, found a number of individuals passed out on the field… including Spammy, conspicuously absent from the game after his recent injuries, who was found wearing earrings, lipstick and a wig in what is sure to be a scandal for some time to come.

Romerican security survelliance captured images of two otherwise anonymous judges the morning after a triple-header.

More madness and scandal here in the BraşoDome, sportsfans.

The third and final leg of Saturday’s triple-header featured the mysterious Carrefour Bere Blonda you’ve all been looking forward to learning more about as they sought to crush opaque offering from Ursus Breweries. Let’s face it; the odds were entirely unequal as Carrefour weighed in with a h-u-g-e two liter plastic bottle pitted against a couple of half liter glass bottles of Ursus Black.

With their sister team Ursus Premium having been humiliated early in the evening, Ursus Black approached the field in a somber mood. Now, when the Description Committee says “black” then you can rest assured it was indeed black. Not brown. Not dark. Nossir, truth in advertising is what you get when you crack open a portion of Ursus Black. Take a look at the difference between a full bottle and an empty one when both are backlit.

The beer sold generically at Carrefour, under the “brand name” of 1 (literally the number one), is slapped together by sadistic zombies at SC IMEX SRL (who, believe it or not, create another beer appropriately named after a coma) and then is actually provided to Hiproma (the primary Carrefour franchisee who has exclusive rights to the Romanian market).

For the opening move, Ursus Black poured itself into a pint glass and appeared strongly reminiscent of Guiness, except the foam wasn’t nearly as thick.

The taste was unlike the creamy smoothness of Guiness, however. Instead, the northern bear has a noticeably thinner mouthfeel and a distinct smoke flavor that reminded the judges (a little bit) of the glory days of Blackened Voodoo (made in the world’s last cypress tanks, before the flooding). As you might have guessed, this meant Ursus Black struck home first and lit up the scoreboard. GOAL!

When Carrefour got its turn at the gaping mouth, the world flipped upside down for a moment. The monsterous taste of this frankenstein beer nearly caused all consumers to blow their biscuits at first swallow. Seemingly undescribeable in the midst of the confusion, later survivors would recall the flavor was extremely close to how one might imagine Clin or Windex might taste.

Clearly, this disruption in the force did not go unpunished. While everyone was confused by the notion of this filth being marketed under the misleading label of “beer,” the poor saps from Carrefour actually shot the ball into the net — their own! GOAL!

The poor naseauted staff desperately clawed for a swig of Ursus Black just to wash out the aftertaste of bleach, but the Cluj players had a notion of their own. With blazing speed, the rich dark intensity flowed past lips and on toward tonsils to the delight of the tastebuds in the crowd. That stout woody pleasantry nearly blew the ball into bits and pieces when it shot yet another tasty strike. GOAL!

The halftime show broadcast live from RadioLynx. These nonconformist radicals of radio abandon all pretense of any format contraints and simply play a wide variety that’s perfect for your ADD problem. Where else can you hear Billy Ocean, Ozzy Osbourne, jazz fusion, 50s music, reggae, bizarre 70s rock bands covering Abba tunes, and then Weird Al Yankovich all in a row?

With Ursus Black getting the majority of the playtime, the two bottles learned how to use their small stature to their advantage, darting in and out of the monolithic two liter’s path. It wasn’t terribly long into the second half when so-called king of beers used its rather substantial alcoholic domination on a corner kick to bing one off the lid of a fellow bottle and into the open target. GOAL!

Normally, experts would have predicted that the IMEX creation would eventually score a goal for based on its price positioning, but that just never materialized. Instead, the marca un sticla must have drank some of its own contents because it started acting insane, pushing referree Spammy down to the ground in a tantrum.

As frightened attendees scrambled over one another to get as far away as possible from Carrefour’s deadly poison, the screams of a crushed pig went muffled under the repeated jumping a plastic bottle until all was silent. Riot police and army reserves were called into eject Hiproma from the game…

Final score: Carrefour 0 – Ursus Black 4