The Beer, The Whole Beer, And Nothing But The Beer: Standing Room Only

Ever since I fell off the back of a flatbed trailer in 1984 (which my uncle had asked to park on the side of our front yard, lacking his own sufficient space) into a clear plastic glass filled with vodka, I was hooked on alcohol and its “benefits”. Vodka was best then, as it looked like a glass of water. It did not make one walk and talk like they had just a few glasses of water, however. Concealing its identity was necessary at the time, being as I was fifteen. Now, while fifteen may reasonably be considered too young to drink, twenty-one is simply too old. A person, upon waking up for the beginning of their eighteenth year, can vote in political elections, or join the armed forces and go off to war to die for their freedoms, as long as those freedoms don’t include such blatant misuses of adulthood like consuming alcohol. I digress chronically, get used to it.

Satan's Nectar

This behavior continued, more or less, until I went cold turkey from the Wild Turkey in 2002. Moving on to present day, I no longer feel the urge to slur through life liquefied, but I do still like to sit down and have a beer or three. The difference today being, I actually care what the beer tastes like, as opposed to how little I might have to spend to achieve moments of clarity. Let’s say that for the better part of twenty years, I spent enough money on Budweiser to keep little Augustus Busch XV comfortably hooked on whatever pill is trendy when he reaches his addictive age. I’m sure our world really needs a male Paris Hilton to round itself into shape. He can fuck Clydesdales on national television, it’ll be a hoot.


What does a reasonably intelligent (former?) alcoholic do with their days off? That is correct, start a search for their personal “ultimate beer”. There have been quite a number that are immeasurably satisfying, to date. Landshark Lager, Pilsner Urquell, Grolsch, Yuengling to name a few. Unfortunately, there are also still beers like Coors. Excuse me, Coors: The Banquet Beer, as they’re trying to sell it as this week.

Do not trust this man.

I’ve had a long-running hatred of Coors, going back to the days when Mark Harmon would STAND IN THE GODDAMN BEER. He has not been forgiven. In fact, I think he should be found, and ended at the ankles. He can then have his stumps sewn into whatever version of Air Jordan’s we’re pretending Michael actually wore as he hops off merrily into another heartfelt episode of NCIS. The “banquet beer” pitchman is Sam Elliot. Fine. Picture yourself for a minute. Yes, you’re the type of person who organizes a banquet. You go to great lengths to make sure everything runs smoothly. You want your guests leaving happy, with a memorable evening. What do you do to help ensure this? Naturally, you stock up on Coors. Fucking Coors? Really? Get the hell away from me. The last thing I need is some gravel-gargling walrus telling me what I should drink.


To wrap it all up in one messy little package, I’m a recovered (my opinion) alcoholic who likes to drink recreationally. Rather than my previous interpretation, which was seemingly a race to find out how quickly I could introduce my face to the floor on any given evening. It managed to do a number on my memory as well, but that’s another story.

The Reigning Champion

The current heavyweight champion, in my world, is the Carlsberg Elephant.