No God. Only Pabst

Pabst and Peace Be With You

You know this guy. Hell, maybe you are this guy.
He shows up late, loud, and already halfway through a twelve-pack.
He doesn’t care what you believe in, what you think of him, or what day of the week it is.
If it ain’t cold, canned, and sold in a 30-rack, he ain’t interested.
He’s been thrown out of church picnics, family reunions, and more than one wedding —
not out of malice, just because he’s him.

He doesn’t need guidance. He’s got a gut full of beer and a truck full of bad decisions.
He’s said “amen” exactly once — and it was when someone handed him a fresh Pabst.
He’s equal parts menace and mystery,
the guy who turns every conversation into a story no one believes
and every beer run into a blackout odyssey.

He’s not looking to be saved.
He’s looking for an open seat, a busted cooler,
and someone dumb enough to challenge him to a chug-off.
This shirt ain’t edgy to him — it’s just the truth.
He found what works: beer, bullshit, and a lifestyle
built on not answering to anybody.
Especially not some sky daddy with opinions on his drinking habits.

He laughs too loud, drinks too much,
and always leaves a trail of crushed cans behind him like a beer-soaked breadcrumb trail.
He doesn’t argue religion — he avoids it by being way too drunk to care.
He’s baptized in bad decisions and living proof that rock bottom can actually be kinda fun
if you’ve got the right playlist and enough beer to share.

This shirt isn’t a punchline. It’s a personality type.
And if it fits, you’re already halfway through another can.

Blessed with beer, burdened by nothing.