5.2% ABV on draught
You signal to get the aloof bartender’s attention. You quickly scan the taps and order a beer. The bartender grabs a wet but clean pint glass and tugs you a draught. You blow the foam off and take a sip. The fluid hits your tongue and you taste the flavors, the beer slaloming down your throat and into your stomach, quickly entering your blood stream and liver. The blood carries the liquor toward your central nervous system, soon enough interfering with the CNS’s ability to analyze sensory information, resulting in you slurring your speech, losing your balance, consuming mass quantities of jalepeno poppers, your pains being dulled, and in you ogling ugly girls. The alcohol is soon headed to the frontal cortex of your brain which is the region concerned with conscious thought, muting that and causing you to lose your inhibitions, allowing you to make passes at the ugly chicks, scream obsenities at the beefy bouncers, and challenge those bigger than you to arm wrestling contests. Meanwhile, the liver begins metabolising the liquor, urinating out 10% of the bad stuff, which is a lot of shit to piss I’m sure you’ve noticed. A few more beers just increases all these things exponentially. Sounds like fun, huh? Of course, it’s the greatest time to be had this side of a no cover charge gang bang.
The only X-factor in this lengthy equation is what beer one chooses to make the aforementioned Rube Goldberg-like series of events occur. For some people, the beer is simply a conduit for drunkeness, a means to an end. While for others, much of the experience comes in the journey. I am in the latter group, those that enjoy drinking a quality beer in order to achieve nirvana. Much like fucking a fat girl may still lead to an orgasm, drinking a shitty beer will still lead to intoxication. But in both cases one won’t enjoy the experience as much and afterward you will be left feeling bad about yourself. This brings us back to the ghastly Stella Artois, the “fat chick” of beers. It’s no wonder $30,000aires love this beer, it acts as a proxy for the kinda girls they score with.
Stella smells and tastes bitter and pungent. Gotta be one of the worst Belgian beers on the market, it’s only a tad better than a Bud. A little more flavor and body I suppose. And the name is fun to say I guess. I truly loathe this beer. I hate how it tastes, I hate how it makes me feel, I hate the kind of fucks that order it. I can be engrossed in the most compelling drunken conversation in the world—Steven Hawking robotically telling me about the cosmos and the secrets of life; Damon Lindelof informing me how “Lost” ultimately ends; Scarlett Johansson revealing how she is simply Ryan Reynolds’s beard and truly wishes to date me—yet if I hear someone behind me at the bar order, “Two Stellas, bro” I will snap my head around so fast it gives me whiplash in order that I may leer at this despicable human, and 9 times out of 10 it is indeed someone that deserves our scorn, sportsfans.
Eh, what else is there to say, Stella is the beer for the man more “ambitious” than his Almstel Light brethren. For the man that likes to say, “Hey, I’m a big enough balla to pay $7 for a pint of foreign macro shit. And, I like the name Stella, it sounds like a girl I might date if I wasn’t a giant vagina in a Brooks Brothers sale rack suit.”
“Steeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeella! Your beer sucks.”
(NOTE: I love how the bottled version of this beer comes with a “classy” foil wrapping over the cap. Like that one cent piece of aluminum is gonna trick us into thinking this is one fine brew. We know better.)