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Many Minnesotans are cheering the new law allowing liquor sales on Sunday, but some complain that buying booze nearby just isn’t as fun as driving to Wisconsin and smuggling libations back across the border. In losing this time-honored inconvenience, Minnesotans worry they’ve also lost the intrigue that went with it.

“Now that it’s legal, this tastes like piss,” said Hank Crosby, age 56, staring forlornly at his can of Coors Light. “Driving drunk across that icy bridge on Sundays made me feel like a dangerous man. I suppose those days are gone now. I was once a bold rebel, now I’m just like the rest of these plebes. Sigh. I guess it’s suicide for me.”

Crosby put a gun to his temple and held his breath. The blood from the bullet’s impact sprayed across the case of Coors Light, making it look extra dangerous and bold. The local teenager who mows Crosby’s lawn found him later that afternoon and removed a modest 15 percent tip from his wallet before calling the police.

This new freedom also had Rob Hendrickson, age 22, feeling a little down. Driving to the industrial neighborhoods of Superior, Wisconsin every Sunday used to be a real thrill, but now that he can buy real booze a block away from his apartment, his life has become empty and meaningless.

“Being forced to leave my house for half an hour and drive somewhere to complete a task really gave me a sense of purpose in my life,” said Hendrickson, sitting in a rocking chair on the roof of his apartment building. “It was a chore that a normal, happy person would do, and it made me feel a certain bond with humanity. Now that shred of normalcy is gone, and I’m just an antisocial ghost floating invisibly through the ether. I’m but another indecipherable grain of sand in the endless beach of life.”

Hendrickson leaned forward generously, sending him and his chair careening off the ledge. His body floated gracefully for a few brief, beautiful moments before splattering into a messy goo on the pavement below. The dent left in the sidewalk would always serve as a sobering reminder to his landlady. As the years passed, she would always stop at the dent during her daily walk, forever reminded not of the boring man who died but of the violence that shook her very soul that day. 

Wendy Purlmagoo, age 87, also feels lost. She says her morning snifter, which she fills with a top secret mixture of Wild Turkey and A1 steak sauce, just doesn’t taste the same since the law changed.

“They whiz in the Sunday ones now,” said Purlmagoo, who has continued drinking it regardless. “They pee right in the Sunday bottles. Old Grandma can tell. I remember that taste from my college days. And I pour my own, so it ain’t local micturition! Lordy. I’ve been alive so long. I’m ready to go whenever the Lord’s willing to take me. If they’re gonna change my booze, He might as well take me now. I just hope nobody feeds my cat so I can have her with me up in heaven. Smell ya later, buttfaces!”

Purlmagoo then walked a few blocks to the train station, where she laid down on the tracks and hummed the theme song for Snuggies infomercials until the train crushed her frail body directly into God’s plan. A young girl found her clavicle in a rail yard a block away and gave it to the family dog. The bone was thrown away two months later when the dog accidentally dropped it in the toilet.

For Larry Buttsworth, age 35, Sunday drinking ruined his life. A successful father of three, his world as a non-drinker was already perfect, but when Sunday liquor sales were legalized, he felt a small pang of regret, as if he were missing out. One dark Sunday, he purchased a bottle of Strawberry Boone’s Farm. The next day, he purchased a case.

“Yeah, I know my breath smells like strawberries again, Janis! Fuck you!” slurred Buttsworth, angrily throwing a loaf of bread at his wife for no reason. “I love this bottle! It takes me to Strawberry Town every day! The rehab centers you take me to smell like David Lynch’s sterilized farts! You’re leaving me? Fine! I can stick my hoohaw right in this Snoopy snowcone machine! I’m taking it with me to Strawberry Town, and you’re not invited!”

When both the bottle and the snowcone machine proved incompatible with his male hoohaw, Buttsworth decided to end it all. Shoving his face directly into Snoopy’s patented ice grinder, Buttsworth fiercely turned the crank until all his body’s motor functions ceased.

At least that’s what he tried to do.

“Son of a bitch, that hurts!” said Buttsworth, betrayed by the dullness of Charles Schulz’s shitty ice grinder. “God, that wasn’t anything like the movie Fargo. This shit can’t even grind ice. I wonder if Janis still has the receipt. Cripes, these Sunday liquor sales have really been a hassle for everyone.”

As he stepped outside into the warm morning sun, Buttsworth thought of his son and how much he missed him. He thought of their long Sundays playing games and how much he missed his hugs. “I’m going to kick this habit for good,” said Buttsworth, throwing the full bottle as hard as he could. Unfortunately, the bottle hit a nearby tiger that had escaped from the local zoo. Within seconds, it retaliated by tearing out Buttsworth’s throat. 

His obituary still listed him as an alcoholic.