Sit a spell, dude, and I will tell you of how the high fashion sense with which I was once associated is today soiled with the dankest of brews.

To begin, let me assure you the seemingly flippant application of “dude” to your person is, in fact, a sign of the utmost sartorial adulation. Your muted fall wardrobe is top notch, and I was simply recognizing that fact with the proper, historical usage of the term “dude” as originally intended. And your monocle—oh, that monocle! You sir, top and tails and all, are dapper in every sense of the word!

Although, and please forgive me a moment of bluntness, the decision to wear white loafers, post-September—and in lieu of a seasonal and more reasonable chukka boot, no less—is certainly peculiar. But what am I saying? Worry not! We can work with this, and we will, but before that time there’s something, um, something I need to—

DUDE! HAVE A BEER! IT TASTES GREAT! LESS FILLING! HOLY FUCKING SHIT! FOOTBALL SPORTS GAME! THE MAGICAL CAN TURNS BLUE WHEN IT’S COLD!

Ahem. Blue. How apt, for I always am.

At this time I feel I must explain myself. Such is the sorry state of my existence that I often, and quite randomly, fire off beer commercial copy into the ether. It just happens. What’s that? Why yes, I also managed to fire off several gobs of uncharacteristically heavy spittle, didn’t I? Please, dry yourself off with this fine silk handkerchief—direct from Italy! No, please, you may keep it. My gift to you. Yes, the golden monogrammed “D” is me, the original dude. Nothing but the best!

YOU WANT TO BE THE BEST, BROSEPH? THE BEST HORSE IS THE CLYDESDALE. IT IS BIG AND STRONG LIKE OUR BEER AND ALLOWS YOU TO SUCCEED AND HAVE LAUGHS IN A BAR SETTING WITH NO MORE THAN FOUR MULTICULTURAL FRIENDS ONE OF WHICH IS A HOT TWENTY-SOMETHING WHITE GIRL. SEX!

Gah! So embarrassing!

Continuing on, “dudes” are sharp! Yes, sharp! They are bred in free-spirited Western cities and dress impeccably well, just like you! They are infinitely savvy and know—quite easily—the differences between half Windsors and half Nelsons.

Sadly, dude, as you can readily see the years have eroded my meaning. Gone are the fanciful days spent rubbing suede presidential elbow patches (bandbox 1883 debutante Chester A. Arthur comes to mind). Instead, they have since been replaced by the 1970s surfing scene, Ashton Kutcher missing car movies and, sorry, this again:

TASTE THE ROCKIES MAN FRIEND! TITS AND ASS IN YER DUDE FACE JUST DRINK ICE COLD COLORADO SPRING WATER AND BATHE IN ITS DRINKABILITY!!!

Three exclamation marks? Made up words? Really? What off-price textile-wearing copywriter produced this utter schlock?

My dude friend, I apologize again for the raucous abeyance, but I am a beer peddler. It shall happen again. For now, though, let us reminisce about my run as a 19th-century lexeme of note and sophistication.

I was once—uh… FUCK FUCK FUCK!

DUDES! BEER BELLIES BREED HOT MARRIAGES AND RELATIONSHIPS WITH BUXOM SNOW BUNNIES! DRINK YOUR FILL AS YOU WILL BE BETTER AT SPORTS ESPECIALLY IF YOU DRINK ULTRA BEERS LIKE LANCE ARMSTRONG

Where was I?

Ah yes. The illustrious past! Ascots, dandies and cherry-cheeked Evander Berry Wall, the famed “King of the Dudes” socialite who carved New York up like seamstress shears in the unabashedly modish 1880s! This is what being a dude truly is!

So you see? My present day shenanigans aside, fashionable history and dudes are inextricably linked. The term should be scooped up and worn—tied about the shoulders, perhaps, like a soft cashmere sweater—not discarded to the curb like so many aluminum cans!

But NO, instead I’m—oh, for fuck’s sake.

The wind changes again. I must stop. Stale barley and hops assault my nostrils. Enhanced bosoms beat me mercilessly about the face and neck. Slovenly fat men appear clutching waifish empty-headed jezebels at their sides. A long lost celebrity, Carl Weathers perhaps, is poised to burst from my chest in mimicry of a college football team’s pre-game run onto the field.

It is again “Miller Time,” dear friends—dear dudes—and I am ashamed.