An Oregon State University study indicates that xanthohumol, a substance found in hops, a principal ingredient of beer, inhibits a family of enzymes that can trigger prostate cancer.
It was getting late, around 10:30, and I was beginning to feel tired. I took a sip of Bud Light and, with what strength I had left, I raised the remote, pointed it at the television, and switched from the World Series to the Georgia Southwestern vs. Appalachian State game to Juventus vs. Barcelona and closed my eyes.
“Hey, there,” a voice called softly to me. It was my wife–my angel. “Are you coming to bed soon?” she asked, a troubled look on her face.
“I’m trying”–I halted to collect my thoughts–”to make it through three games. If I do that, I’ll be up to 80 ounces . . .”
“Don’t talk,” she said, and she pressed her finger to my lips. It was a good thing, because a belch rumbled up my alimentary canal and would have sprayed beer perfume in her face if she hadn’t.
“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.
“Better than my last exam, when I showed absolutely no signs of prostate cancer?”
“Um-hmm . . .”
“Well, sure, yeah–although you can never let your guard down.”
“I know–I just–I worry about you.”
“You’ve been drinking Bud Light all night–I think you should switch to Coors so you don’t become immune to Anheuser-Busch products.”
“Thanks.” We kissed and gazed into each other’s eyes. I felt as if I had my own personal Florence Nightingale.
“How long,” my wife began, as she watched Tampa Bay call a time out. “How long does the last two minutes of a football game take?”
“Usually about half an hour,” I said. “When you get twenty-two guys together in one spot with an average weight of 300 pounds, it tends to bend the space-time continuum.”
I grimaced in pain and grabbed my side.
“What’s the matter?” my wife asked.
“It’s those crappy natural almonds you bought at Whole Foods.”
“I wasn’t going to, but the store mime talked me into it.”
“You . . . you need to stick to Honey Roast peanuts.”
“Sometimes they’re out of them . . .”
“In that case, get Beer Nuts. It’s the generic drug equivalent.”
“I’ll check in the kitchen.” She scurried off to our pantry, and after a moment came back with some Planter’s Dry Roasted Peanuts.
“Thanks. This will tide me over until the morning.”
My wife looked down at me as if I were one of our kids suffering from the flu. “We’ll get through this,” she said, squeezing my hand tightly.
“With you by my side, and a cold frosty can of Ballantine Ale in my hand, anything is possible.”