Rusty's Diary, Vol. 5: The Great Wallet Assassination of 2026

Had to crawl out from the photobooth today because some human was SOBBING into their phone about spending $78 on three drinks at that fancy place downtown.

Three drinks! For the price of what used to buy you a small car!

I watched through the window as corporate overlords in khakis explained to news cameras how their $19 craft cocktails are "artisanal experiences" ... apparently adding a sprig of rosemary and calling your bartender a "mixologist" justifies charging more than my uncle's monthly rent behind the Arby's.

Meanwhile, these places are paying $8,000 a month for rent in buildings that used to house reasonable establishments, then wondering why they need to charge the GDP of a small nation for a beer.

But here's the thing that makes my tiny raccoon heart swell with pride (and also mild indigestion from eating too many dropped dino nugs): Dive Bar has kept our prices lower than my self-esteem since 2021.

While everyone else is treating beer like liquid gold, our humans can still get properly lubricated without selling a kidney.

Sure, our "ambiance" consists of sticky floors and questionable stains, but you know what we DON'T have? A sommelier explaining why your IPA pairs well with "notes of pretension."

We've got cheap drinks, decent humans, and me, a bitter raccoon who judges your life choices for FREE. Some might call it a dive bar. I call it the last honest place in America.

-r.b.