Michelob Golden Draft Light

4.1% ABV bottled

Friend of the Vice Blog and Minnesotan The Captain’s Chair sent me a nice package of local beer last week, wanting me try some of the finest brews his state has to offer. He sent me great stuff from Surly, Schell, and other Land of 10,000 Lakes breweries. Any Minnesota beer review you see in the next few weeks will be courtesy of him. But The Captain humorously also wanted to send me the worst his state has to offer, some pure “nastiness” as he calls it, telling me he’d like me to sample it “if (I’m) brave enough.”

It’s a “special” release that Anheuser-Busch apparently only inflicts on the great states of Minnesota and Wisconsin. The Captain described it thusly:

“It’s basically horse piss, but all the mullets around here drink it like it’s their job. I wouldn’t touch it with someone else’s lips. Might make for a funny review though.”

Sign me up. As much as I love great beer, I also love seeing if I’m man enough to drink liquid garbage. It’s a sickness I have.  And I should note that I was dumb enough to drink this stone-cold sober.

The clear bottle Golden Light comes in is an obvious sign of a piece of shit brew. It’s like they want the beer to be skunked to as high of level as possible before you drink it.  The label reads “…the exceptionally smooth taste you expect from Michelob.” Riiiiiiiight. Why are macrobreweries bigger stretchers of the truth than politicians? I actually expect nothing but pain, misery, and agony from Michelob.  And I would soon learn that I should sue Michelob for blatantly false advertising.  The Vice Blogger v. Michelob, the Vice Blogger contending that Golden Light is about as unsmooth as possible.  That would be the trial of the century.  But more on this in a sec.

I popped the top and I was hit with a pungent aroma. Terrible. A stench like flatulence. I had to clamp a clothespin on my nostrils like I was some cartoon character. The taste is even worse. Like a poisoned Sprite Remix. The beer injures my tongue. It was like pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. I’m not sure if Golden Light heals open cuts though. It singes and bubbles as it goes down your throat. Atrocious.  If Anheuser-Busch considers this “smooth,” good Lord!

Abominationally bad. The Captain was right. One of the worst beers I’ve ever had. It’s like the wretched Corona but far more painful going down. My mouth and gullet felt like a bum raped my pie hole.

This one should be advertised as beer for bulimics because it made me want to throw up. It’s like (marginally) alcoholic ipecac. “Beer for Bulimics.” Kinda catchy actually. Could be used in some trendy new modern-day vomitoriums.

Luckily, I only had to drink one of these and afterward I cleansed my palate with the Cuban from the UWS’s Cafe Con Leche, maybe the best sandwich in all of Manhattan island.

Never again.

F

Bleue Legere Light

4% ABV from bottles, cans, taps, and anything and everything else

In French Canada the Labatt Blue Light flows like water and the men make David Beckham look like John fuckin’ Wayne. I think I drank about seventy-five “Blue Lights”–as they’re known in the region–in slightly over two days while not seeing a Mapleleaf male with a waist larger than 26 inches the whole time.

On Saturday night we drove into the big city of Lakefield, Quebec looking for a place to wet our whistles and possibly our nether-regions. Driving around a town that is striving to one day be two-bit, we surprisingly found numerous watering holes, but not a single one of them a straight bar. How queer! Why were there so many gay bars and so many homosexuals in this town? It was like the Christopher Street of the Great White North. Eventually, we realized these pixieish little men, with their sleeveless mesh shirts, Rafael Nadal capris, circa year 2003 faux-hawks, and aviator sunglasses worn indoors, were in fact the straight men of the town. Great Caesar’s Ghost!

No matter, the women in the town were sah-moking hot and when Gary, Dan, and I–three strapping young Americans–entered the bar, the ladies got whiplash they spun so quickly in their seats to ogle us. Despite the fact that we are of average build and dress in the States, to these women we must have looked like some UFC fighters passing through the area.

In this pub slash discotheque slash pool parlor, as the men unironically danced to such 1980s hits as Canada’s own Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night” (while as previously mentioned wearing their sunglasses at night), we were free to slug cheap beers we purchased with loonies and twonies while making plays on the gorgeous ladies. That was fun and successful, but not as fun as trying to figure out why French Canadian men dress like late-1990s American sitcom interpretations of what flaming homosexuals dress and act like. Alas, we never came to a definitive answer. But we laughed a lot. Especially at all the biker “gangs” that likewise inhabit the region and bar scene. Let’s just say, the motorcyclist in The Village People would even call these straight men “fruits.”

Oh yeah, Blue Light kinda sucks too. Labatt regular is a solid enough, above-average macro, but the Light tastes as if they’ve treated the regular like a concentrate and added 2/3rds water to each bottle to make it less potent. I guess Franco-Canadian men are in fact so sissy that they need to feel some false machismo by claiming they can polish off thirty beers in a night. Well fuck, an old lady hooked up to a dialysis machine could drink Labatt Blue Light all night and I’m not even sure her doctor would mind.

D

Humorous postscript: I saw several “men” at the bar drinking some oddly labeled bottle called 0.5. As in 0.5% ABV. Labatt’s Low-low alcohol beer. Sheesh. What a province of pussies.

Trader José Premium Lager

ABV unlisted and unknown but I would guess that it lies somewhere slightly higher than Poland Springs and slightly lower than Dasani

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery but when you’re imitating (read: rippin’ off) the worst beer on planet earth then you’re just acting fucking stupid and your company’s shareholders should question whether you are intentionally trying to tank share prices. I kinda hate Trader Joe’s so I typically avoid it but I had been intrigued upon recently learning that they had their own line of “premium” beers. I was especially excited when my friend told me he had picked up a sixer of Trader José, Trader Joe’s is-it-racistly-named-or-not Mexican beer. (Have you had their Trader Joseph Goldberg Passover table wine? Delish!)

I needed some more F’s on my blog so I asked my buddy to save me a bottle. I had to see if Trader José was truly as offensive as Corona. I mean, surely it couldn’t be. Even if they tried to nail the recipe exactly, surely Trader Joe’s would fuck up ever so slightly and inadvertently create a better beer. I popped the bottle in a standard manner, with a wrist snap at waist level which put the bottle opening some two-and-a-half feet or so from my nose. Nevertheless, the second I took the cap off my face was hit with such a explosion of skunky and repellent stench that my neck snapped back like I was in a head-on collision. Oh, don’t worry, I have one of those foamy neckbraces on now and I’ve got a great personal injury lawyer filing a whiplash claim on my behalf.

I should probably hire another lawyer to file a claim that this swill is less safely potable than Tijuana tap water. The taste is despicable. The taste is actually more offensive than the beer’s name. Only marginally better than Corona because I can actually detect a flavor or two within this mess of a beer. I had to brush my teeth after finishing this one. Never again.

F

Foster’s Lager

5% ABV from an oil can (25.4 fluid ounces)

I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan for around the last 4 years. My previous location was on 47th and 9th and though it wasn’t a nice building by any means, it was filled with quiet yuppie professionals. That I never saw. And I truly mean never saw. In fact, on moving-out day I finally met my next door neighbor for the first time after living ten feet from her for two years. Too bad, she was cute. Now I live some five blocks north and one avenue west. Still Hell’s Kitchen, but my building is completely different. Not aesthetically by any means, it’s still the same kinda craphole walk-up that would be a projects in any other American city but which is a several-thousand-dollars-a-month-apartment in Manhattan. No, what’s different is the freak show populus of my building. You see, I now run into my neighbors all the fucking time, and, bluntly put, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m the building’s only college grad and its only resident that earns money in a way that is neither a government handout nor an illegal black market payout.

I see these people so fucking much that I can quickly recite from memory who lives in my building.

Next to me on the fifth floor lives a man that appears to be 125 years old (estimated). He’s looks like Juan Marichal and wears a priest’s collar at all times along with a tiny American flag on a stick jutting from his lapel hole as if he has just attended a parade. He always sits on the stoop eating massive styrofoam containers of cheap pork-fried rice. A few weeks ago I saw some EMTs gurney him from the building. Two days later there was an NYPD sticker sealing his front door shut and I haven’t heard from him since. Hmmm. I wonder if he’s on vacation?

4A is the Jamaican drug dealer. How do I know he’s a Jamaican drug dealer? Because as I was moving into the building he said in a thick Jamaican accent, “Me name is Sean. Knock on me door if ya wanna buy any weed.” Every night around midnight I see various fatassed white girls arrive at the building lugging McDonald’s take-out, ready to service him. I suspect Sean stole my weight set when I moved in. I didn’t watch it for a few minutes and next thing I know it was filched. His biceps have been looking bigger since then, come to think of it.

4B is an enormous Dominican family that somehow crams themselves into a two-bedroom. They have two smoking hot daughters that are always prancing around the building in decolletage-revealing tanks. I’m afraid they’re like 12 though so I always avert my eyes when I have to do-si-do pass them on the tight stairwell.

4C seems to be Eastern European. The hulk of a man wears cheap and shiny suits, shades indoors, and looks like he probably deals arms. I always hold the door open for him when we pass, no need to get on his bad side.

3B are two old Puerto Rican women that live together and seem to be of some relation. They wear nightgowns at all times, have wispy mustaches, are constantly returning from the store with big pushcarts full of groceries, and always offer me lemonade and homemade empanadas in their mumbly, highly accented voices. Somehow, I can always decipher what they are saying, unfortunately I’ve never accepted their offers. Maybe I should. I always smell terrific cooking odors wafting from their pad and I do love me some fried meat patties. Nice broads.

2B is a fabulous homosexual couple whose entire life seemingly revolves around walking their gay little Italian greyhounds. They always stare at me with a disdainful “bitch, you ain’t all that” look when we pass each other.

2C is the building’s super Chester. An absolute ogre of a man with a hunchback that Quasimodo would be jealous of. He always looks like he’s about to snap and probably hates me because I don’t separate my garbage, simply tossing it all onto the pile. I’m a jerk, what can I say. I think Chester would be a lot happier if someone took him out of his misery and put a bullet in his head. In my building, the odds of that spontaneously happening have got to be pretty decent.

And, in the big apartment on the first floor lives Cecil, the “mayor” of the building, a guy who knows everyone. He spends most of his time in the foyer working on his bicycle. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who looks like he’s from the order rodentia with his tiny little features, his gnawing incisors, and the thin wisps of air on his typically hatted head which are tightly pulled into a pathetic greasy ponytail. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man with a body and a clothing style best befitting Keith Richards: thin but surprisingly sinewy and veiny heroin arms fully revealed by a gross sleeveless T. His lower body covered by dirty black denims and cheap Avia sneakers. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who is constantly working on his upturned bicycle, meticulously cleaning its parts (though it is still always grimy), torquing things with a wrench, and oiling its various movable areas. And, every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who flagrantly smokes cheap cigarettes and poorly-rolled joints right out in the open of our building’s hallway, the smoke in one hand, an oil can of Foster’s in his other hand. More importantly, a huge paper sack of more oil cans at his feet near his toolbox.

Did I mention that Cecil must clearly suffer from some disorder as he talks nonstop, all day long, to…himself. When a person passes him, his self-contained rants somehow seemingly branch out into some sort of borderline conversation with the person near him, but his eyes remain vacant, as if he thinks you may just be an image in his head, some acid flashback.

Cecil is always nice to me, he somehow knows my name though I only told him once, and luckily I only get roped into a “stop-and-chat” (more like a “stop-and-listen”) with him once every month or so. And, though I’ve been passing him several times a day, every single day for nearly a year, yesterday for some reason he finally offered me a beer from his Foster’s sack (maybe he’s a VB reader and noticed I lacked a review!)

At first I was hesitant to accept the man’s cheap beer. Not because I was scared that this quasi-freak could somehow taint a sealed can (unless he had some sort of tiny syringe that could penetrate the aluminum surface–oh lord), but moreso because I had heard that Foster’s was an absolutely abominable beer. You see, I’ve never actually had one! However, I didn’t want to insult Cecil and, yes, I did need a review so, carpe diem, let’s drink some Foster’s!

The can is the circumference of a whale cock and quite hard to grasp. It took a bit of strength to pop the can’s top. Wow. A putrid first smell. Smacked me right in the face before I’d even brought my nose close to it (not that I wanted Cecil to see me sniffing my beer like some fruitcake that has a blog in which he snarkily reviews beer). Taking a picture of the can was no piece of cake either.

My first sip missed my mouth and went right down my chin onto my shirt. The oil can’s big mouth is so large that I couldn’t wrap my face around it. I needed a straw almost. Foster’s tastes like really bad malt liquor. Tastes like a BAD imitation of Budweiser in fact. Now that’s not something to be proud off.

I can taste the recyclable aluminum in this so-called lager. Very undrinkable. Usually macros are, at the least, so watered-down that you can drink them quickly and easily. Not so in this beer’s case. How do I know? Because I tried to chug the oil can in record time in order to get out of the uncomfortable situation I was in as I stood and drank with Cecil while he explained to me the problem with his bike’s gear shifts as well as detailing how Chester owes him some money that sonofabitch. Unfortunately, each big gulp of Foster’s pelted my uvula with stings of carbonation and bitter flavor. Eventually I got it all down, though it punished me for the rest of the night with some absolutely filthy belches.

I’m glad I waited 29 years to finally have this terrible beer. And, I can’t imagine having another one in the next 29 years. It’s really terrible.  Oh, don’t worry, I won’t do a trite mocking of their commercials

“Faw-stah’s. Awwwstraaaylyan for sheety bee-yah.”

OK, yes I will I guess.  Couldn’t help myself.

D-

Coors Light

4.2% ABV from a keg

Went to a housewarming party thrown by my friend and his wife at their sweet new house in the Boston suburbs. I was the only one of the 3 or 4 dozen guests that did not own at least one of the following: a house, a car, a spouse, a child, a pet, or dignity. Thus I got belligerently drunk and overcompeted in all the day’s “friendly” drinking games.

The libations for the affair were Coors Light from a keg and my friend’s freshly-squeezed watermelon martinis. Don’t knock ’em, they were potent and flavorful. Alas, I only drank one, spending the rest of the fifteen hours of marathon tippling throwing down foamy CL Smooths from a plastic cup. Certainly not a great beer, in fact, a pretty bad one. And if you even just barely overpumped the keg you were given a cup full of something that looked more akin to Cool Whip than an adult beverage. Nevertheless, it is damn easy to drink the Silver Bullet and it lubricated me nicely for a day of competition.

I have a love/hate relationship with drinking games. On one hand, I hate the idea of needing a reason to drink and get drunk. I especially detest games where you only get to drink when you “lose.” That’s silly. It’s why I abhor games like Asshole. A better drinking game would be one in which a person doesn’t get to touch alcohol until they actually accomplish something.

On the love side of the equation, I’m a fierce and maniacally insane competitor and thus I adore any drinking game that actually takes some skill, that actually determines who is better at something, that actually allows for bragging rights. Oh, and I will brag–remember, I don’t got things like a house, a car, a wife, a child, a pet, or dignity to live for. So obviously I love an awesome game like beer pong. Unfortunately, that was not going to be on the day’s agenda.

First up was Wiffleball. Of course, not traditionally a “drinking” game per se, but if you’re drinking and competing you can figure out how to make anything into a drinking game. We set up a two-on-two home run derby-esque event in which pitchers were allowed to throw the fastest, nastiest, craziest junk balls they possibly could. You ever seen those famous experiments where a spider is given booze and drugs and then spins these absolutely fucked-up webs? Well, the more Coors I drank the more “wiffly-er” my pitches got as I began throwing some absolute 12-to-6 hooks. Pitches that arched behind the batter’s head yet still inexplicably dropped into the strike zone (a lawn chair). Another good thing about playing Wiffle Ball while drinking is that the alcohol numbs your arm, turning it as rubbery as David Wells’s and making it easy to have a 1200 throw pitch count for the afternoon.

My partner Bryan and I won the first game 23-21 on a walk-off double and instantly the trashtalking began. I’m the Gary Payton of shittalking during drinking games. Other folks are just trying to enjoy a beer and have fun and I’m taunting them and brashly reveling in my own accomplishments. Maybe that’s why no one likes me. It would be considered hubris, but then again, as Caesar said, “It’s only hubris if I fail.”

And though I may have been failing at attracting members of the opposite sex or being known as the “nice” guy at the party, I didn’t do a lot of failing in the drinking game spectrum. By early afternoon I lacked the motor skills to swing a yellow bat at knuckling plastic balls and the agility to run around the yard avoiding babies and dog shit in order to shag pop-ups, so I needed a more sedentary event.

Thus, next up was a game called Baggo (also known as Cornhole in some places). I suppose I should be embarrassed that in my 29 years I had never seen, heard, or certainly played Baggo, but then again I’m from Manhattan where space is limited.  I’m also an urbane Jew, not some hick from French Lick. Having watched some people play the game before me I thought it looked pretty dumb. For those that haven’t played, you essentially try to throw beanbags into a hole in a slightly slanted wood board some 20 feet away, netting 3 points for ones that go in the hole and 1 point for beanbags that are still resting on the board surface once the round is complete. First team to 21 points wins. Kinda like a mix between beer pong, bocce, and curling. Sounds dumb and easy, right? Well, it is kinda easy for a superior marksman like myself, but it was certainly not dumb. I fell in love with it quickly. Heck, I’d like to be playing it now. I think it may have even surpassed beer pong as my favorite drinking game.

Now is as good a time as any to discuss that this was the first drinking party of my life in which people actually brought their fucking children. Being a vulgarian, I was concerned at first, especially since I’m the kinda guy that loudly yells things (ala John McEnroe) like “Fuck!” or “Jesus Christ!” or “Jesus fucking Christ!!!” when I fail at some sort of sporting attempt. And, the last thing I need is some parent lecturing me on appropriate behavior whilst young’uns are around. Amazingly though, all the parents in attendance were cool, throwing back beers, and letting their children goof around and even mingle with a scumbag like me. Ever the leader of men, I quickly taught these children important things. Stuff such as how to hold my beer when I am batting during Wiffleball, how to pull me a nice brew with only a half-inch of head when my drink needs freshening up, and how to exalt me in my victories. Pretty soon, I had a little army of four-foot-tall hype men cheering my every triumph and deriding, mocking, and aping my opponents and their miscues. Those children will never be the same.

Though I didn’t exactly understand the rules or strategies of Baggo until halfway through our first game, Bryan and I won that one and then proceeded to make mincemeat of the rest of the day’s opponents (most of whom had been playing the game for years) and finished up with a sterling 8-0 record.

From there, it was time for a quick bite which lead into Flip Cup. Flip Cup is definitely a game I have mixed feelings about. On one hand, I’m not sure if it’s truly a game of skill assuming you have an arm, a hand at the end of it, and don’t suffer from delirium tremens. On the other hand, it is definitely a game that can take a party to a whole new level as it forces typically serene drinkers to chug beer and frequently leads to buttoned-up women becoming more…friendly. Quickly. The party was divided into a team of Ivy League grads versus Team “Everyone Else.” Our “everyone else” team featured alums from places such as Clemson and NC State and of course my great university Syracuse. We soon developed a nice esprit de corps, happy that we spent our years of college getting loaded and honing our drinking skills as opposed to reading books, organizing rallies, and not rooting for major sports programs. There was no way we could lose to the Ivy nerds in a best-of-seven series.

After six games it was knotted at 3-3. The tiebreaker game 7 was determined on the spot to be a relay race. Each competitor had to sprint from one end of the backyard to the other, grab a full beer already waiting for them, chug it, show to a “line judge” their open and empty mouth, and then sprint back for the tag up. With superior athleticism and prodigious chugging abilities, I was tapped to anchor my team like an alcoholic Carl Lewis. Alas, it didn’t matter. Midway through the race, one of my teammates false-started on his return after the chug and thus we lost ground we were never able to regain. A defeat by the Ivy League, how demoralizing.

From there, it was time for Slip ‘n Slide races. Though the box made it seem as if the slide was dozens of yards long in length, upon unfurling the feeble thing we were amused to see it was about as long as a California King Size bed with the explicit warning “Not For Adults” boldly written at the start of the slide. Well, a lot of things a Vice Blogger does aren’t exactly for “adults.” And, by now, fresh on the heels of the Flip Cup series, most of the other partygoers were equally too plastered to care. We began headfirst throwing our bodies down the Slip ‘n Slide as if we were Pete Rose in his hey-day, bashing our aging and fat bodies into each other as we zipped down the cheap wet plastic, hurtling past the “collection” pool at the slide’s end and tumbling into the mulchy and bumpy grass.

Eventually we added a flag to capture to the bottom of the slide which turned the end of the race into a battle that looked more like a rugby scrum than anything Wham-O intended the toy to be used for. Suffice to say, very few women participated in this contest. We men emerged from our Slip ‘n Battles with nicks and cuts and grass slathering our backs and riding up deep into our asscracks like enemas. But we felt alive!

Next, with absolute darkness surrounding us, it was time for the final game of the day: an absolutely retarded event called Stump. Essentially, this involves a dozen or so wasted people standing around a tree stump that has a corresponding nail for each participant, then taking turns throwing a hammer in the air, catching the tool in one motion and trying to throw it down and drive one of their opponent’s nails through the stump. Don’t believe me that people would actually play something so dumb? Well it actually has a wikipedia page. Definitely a game for future Darwin Award winners. Suffice to say, I did not find this game entertaining at all. I’m not sure if more than a person or two did. And, I find it hard to believe that anyone is skilled at this “sport,” as it took like two hours for the game to finish despite all the “expert” veterans in attendance.

After that snoozefest, as the clock reached 2 AM, it was time for Aaron to play one final game. A game called “Trying to score with available women but actually ending up falling asleep on my guest room cot covered in grass and filth.” I miserably failed at the first part, wildly succeeded at the second.

The next day I awoke feeling as if I’d taken part in football two-a-days as opposed to just marathon drinking games. My right pitching arm hung from my side as worthless as Bob Dole’s. My left pec palpitated like I’d been shot with a bullet there, surely a result of the fifteen hours of repetitive arm movement as I took beer cup from waist level to mouth and down again, every thirty seconds or so. I must have done some 25,000 beer curls during the day as I drank some 40 or so cups of pisswater Coors Light. Meanwhile, my entire body from head to toe was covered with bruises, scrapes, and even minor gashes from all the Slip ‘n Slide diving, especially my knees, elbows, and hamstrings which throbbed, my ulnas feeling like they were about to poke out of my forearms. Oh, and I was sunburned, badly.

Tail tucked between my legs, ass authoritatively kicked, I nonetheless returned to Manhattan happy after an incredibly fun Saturday. Coors Light is a shitty beer no doubt, but I’m starting to think that the quality of beer you drink during marathon drinking events is inversely proportional to the fun you’ll have. If I drank Old Guardian all day…well, there wouldn’t be an all day, I’d be passed out by 1 PM. But Coors Light keeps the tank running as long as you can let it. And that’s about the only good thing I have to say about it.

D

Bud Light

4.2% ABV from a can

“Brewed with the finest ingredients for a refreshingly smooth taste.”

That’s what is says verbatim on the side of a Bud Light can.

The “finest” ingredients? A “refreshingly smooth taste”?! Really?!

Why do all macro beer manufacturers lie so fucking blatantly? These places should be sued. No truly good beer promotes itself this hard. It’s only the shitty ones. It’s like the dude that walks around the bar talking about his great job, his awesome penthouse apartment in Soho (with a balcony, yo), and his big dick, while conspicuously swirling around his Porsche key chain, and telling any girl that will listen how awesome he is.

Fact of the matter is, that guy stocks Chiclet vending machines for a living, crashes at home with his moms, has a tiny dick and comes too early on the rare opportunities he gets a chance, and doesn’t truly have the car, just the $3 Porsche key chain. Oh, and could he get your phone number reeeeeal quick because the last train leaves Penn Station at 12:45 AM and he needs to get back to Clifton, NJ.

Something truly outstanding doesn’t blatantly say it is outstanding, it just IS outstanding. And, thus you notice this and remark, “Wow, this is outstanding.”

Bud Light on the other hand is decidedly not outstanding. No matter how much its cans believes this to be true. Unfortunately, I drink too much of the swill, as recounted in this entry. That has to stop.

I suppose Bud Light is mildly refreshing on a hot ass day, but that’s just because it’s usually ice cold and its pretty much water. I hardly taste flavors in it. Maybe a little corn, perhaps a little low-grade rice, some metallic sensations that have worn off from the side of the cheap can. No bite, no hops, no malt. Pretty much just piss water. Actually, tastes a little like soggy white Wonder Bread. Terrible finish. It almost instantaneously gives one beer breath and you start smelling like the old drunk guy at the pub that’s always leaning over into you, putting his arm around you, and trying to give you life advice, despite the fact that he has no teeth and is wearing a scuzzy 1988 Cincinnati Bengals AFC Champs t-shirt.

Best thing you can say about this brew is that at least it ain’t Corona.

D

Budweiser

5% ABV from many, many, many ice-cold tall boy cans

The Flushing Meadows public course is like a bar that you just so happen to be able to golf at. On Saturday I accompanied my friends Plerchee and Ian to this par 3 “pitch ‘n’ putt” nestled under the shadow of Shea and amidst the ruins of The World’s Fair from back in an era when we still had world’s fairs. Little did I know it would be one of the strangest–and most pleasurable–golfing experiences of my life.

Arriving at the 7 train stop in Queens, you get off and take a short boardwalk headed toward Corona Park. It is at this point in which you feel you have entered another country. As I hoofed it the 10 minutes or so to the course, I’m not sure if I saw another white American. Most of the crowd were Latinos kicking around futbols, but there was also a large contingent of Asians headed to play tennis at the USTA Tennis Center. I did not hear English even spoken once. Where the fuck was I?

Plerchee told me ONLY to bring a wedge and a putter and, though I doubted him at first, I’d rather be short a club or two than have to lug my entire bag to another borough, so I listened to his advice. He was totally right. In fact, a sign on the “pro shop”–really just a tiny concession stand that you might see at a Little League ballpark–advised, if not ordered one, to only carry two clubs (humorously noting that “One club must be a putter.”) I looked out over the course. It was puny, one of the worst looking courses I’ve ever seen. But I still kept my hopes up. Golfing on a shit course is still better than spending the day at home watching a “Tila Tequila” marathon. Mark Twain was wrong.

While I waited for my friends to arrive I decided to have a little hair of the dog to stave off my dipsomania. And, as luck would have it, the “clubhouse”–really just a second “drive-thru” window next to the “pro shop”–had a special on Shock Top drafts. Only 2 bucks. My day was already starting off nicely. I typically don’t drink when I play golf. Correction: I typically don’t drink early in the round when I golf. Though I am a crummy golfer, my incredible confidence, if not delusional nature, makes me think that every time I tee it up I’m gonna card a 69 and thus I better keep my wits about me. However, by the time the turn comes and I’m already shooting a 52, it’s time for the cigars to be lit up and the beers to be shotgunned. I decided to begin my round drinking at this course because I was still quite hungover from Friday night’s activities.

My friends arrived and the golfing began. Some highlights of the course and our Saturday round:

*No tee boxes. Just mats like at the driving range. Cool by me, I hate lugging tees around. Having a pocketful of wood spears is not what I call comfort.

*You can play rounds as late as 1 AM. The last tee time go off at 11 PM. Seriously. The course actually has stadium lights. Though if I was playing this course at night I’d probably carry a sidearm with me in addition to my two clubs.

*The scorecard notes the course’s ground rules. A most amusing list culminating with the policy “High heel shoes and coolers are not allowed on course.”

We assume that rule was put in place to eliminate prostitutes from walking the grounds.

*Most holes are so short you could spit from the rubber-matted tee box all the way to the greens. Surprisingly, the greens weren’t half bad, and fairly challenging. The “fairways” were another story though. One fairway had a man hole cover in the middle of it, while another had what looked like a bottomless trench that if one fell in it would cause the person to drop all the way to the center of the earth. Luckily, this most hazardous of course hazards was surrounded by six bright orange traffic cones. The few bunkers on the course were not white sand traps, but more like quicksand marshes. Thankfully, I didn’t once find myself in them.

*The twosome in front of us was a guy dressed like a overly serious golfer playing with a girl lugging a purse around and wearing a flowing sun dress that scraped the ground. Yeah, she wasn’t exactly Babe Didrikson Zaharias.

*The group in front of them was an unwieldy fivesome featuring five fat fuck friends that though in their mid-thirties probably all still live with their mothers. These folks would come into play later during the absolute highlight of the afternoon.

*I saw another group on the course, a large Mexican family. The only person playing was the father though. However, the mother, two small children, and a baby in a fucking stroller joined the man on his round, following him like a 1800s circus caravan. Yes, though you aren’t allowed to sport stilettos you are apparently allowed to push a stroller around the course with an infant in it.

*We also spied what seemed to be some sort of Asian mystic. She looked like a 90-year-old Yoko Ono and just absentmindedly wandered the course in her bizarre dress, interacting with no one. I’m not sure if she was a bum, crazy, or simply a mirage on the horizon. Perhaps she was all three. Maybe when people talk about the “golfing gods” they’re referring to this chick. And, I gotta admit, I was snaking in long putts all day long. This loon was clearly on my side.

*The highlight of the day occurred as we were about to tee off on 6. A bum lugging around an enormous Glad bag full of aluminum “empties” walked past us and headed toward the adjacent 8th green. There, he cavalierly picked up a ball that was resting some five feet from the hole for a makeable birdie putt. The hitter of the ball was the fattest of the fivesome mentioned previously and when he saw the bum grab his ball he began sprinting down the fairway wielding his club like a mad man. Me and my buddies watched with baited breath. This had the potential to be the most exciting thing to happen on a golf course since my friend lost his virginity in a sand trap at the local country club at 3 in the morning after the prom. Can you imagine some fat Long Island guido hitting a bum over the head with his wedge? All of the sudden our day was about to become “Grand Theft Auto: Municipal Golf Course.”

Unfortunately, the fat fuck was too much of a fat fuck to run the 80 or so yards that were the length of the hole and halfway there he was winded. He had to stop to put his hands on his knees and, panting like an asthmatic, he shouted out at the bum to leave his ball lest he get a beat down. The bum feigned ignorance of the situation but ultimately left the guy’s ball. I’m not sure that there’s a deposit refund for golf balls so he probably figured he best just go retrieve more cans.

Oh, and there were plenty of empty cans to retrieve! There was an elderly black gentleman driving the course who was seemingly on a mission to keep all the golfers well lubricated. I’ve never had such prompt service, even at five star restaurants! And, at $3 a tallboy Bud, we were going to get quite schnockered as we were averaging a fresh can every 2 holes or so.

Budweiser, The “King” of Beers. How fucking arrogant to call yourself that, especially when you produce such an inferior product. I tell you though, sometimes an ice cold Bud can really hit the spot. It’s not like I’d be drinking La Fin Du Monde on the course were it available.

So, what to say about Bud? It’s actually one of the more flavorful macros which is indeed faint praise. Compared to it’s Light counterpart there’s no contest. A really superior beer in comparison. Actually has a little taste and bite and doesn’t just taste like dirty water. Hints of corn and rice if any flavors can be distinguished. Goes down easy and that’s why college kids and people that don’t truly like beer drink it. A little too carbonated for my liking too, but I guess that’s what AB has to do to mask the mediocrity. And it’s very bloating, I feel like an over-inflated whoopee cushion after polishing off a few of these. Nothing special, it is what it is and we were all shit-canned by the 18th hole.

C-

As for pitch ‘n’ putt: It eliminates all I hate about golf–prohibitively expensive greens fees, six hour rounds, carrying a heavy bag, losing balls, using woods and long irons, spending most of the day lost in the trees and weeds, wearing spikes, lugging around tees, and exhibiting decorum–while maintaining everything I love about the game. Plus, it’s a great confidence booster. Even wasted, I was able to shoot an even par round on the back 9 (7 pars, 1 bird, 1 boge) and an overall round of 62. Nice! I may have to become a “member” at Flushing Meadows CC. Pitch ‘n’ putt gets an A+.

Labatt Blue

(Beer not pictured since I’m rarely sober enough to operate my camera when drinking this one)

5% ABV in six-pack bottled form

I don’t know much about the Muslim culture. Not cause I’m a bigot, but simply because you don’t usually stumble upon the Islam entry on wikipedia when you’re starting on things like “Brian Bosworth” and working your way around hyperlink by hyperlink (Bosworth > Bo Jackson > Baseball > Asia > Islam, voila!). Having said that, I don’t think the Muslims that run the bodega next door to my Hell’s Kitchen hovel much like me. Not because I’m a jerk or anything, but rather because my lifestyle is most certainly antithetical to their Muslim beliefs. At 10:00 AM I’m paying for a roll of Mentos, “Oh, and I’ll take the twenty pack of Durex behind you.” On Sundays I’m strolling out of bed hungover and unshowered at two in the afternoon and asking them if breakfast sandwiches are still available. And, on many Friday and Saturday nights at 4 AM I’m returning from the bars to pick up some brews for a nightcap. You see, let’s just say that not a lot of high-brow beer purveyors are open at these late hours and thus I’m forced to patronize the Muslim bodega if I want to keep my buzz goin’. And pick up some Cheetos. It is at these times that I get leered at by the Muslim owners as if I’m a black in the Jim Crow south. (Note to self: Look up wikipedia entry, “Muslims and their beliefs on American alcoholic, promiscuous youths.)

And, it just so happens that Labatt is the best beer my bodega sells. Luckily, I love Labatt like any upstate boy should. It’s probably my favorite macro in fact. I wouldn’t insult it by calling it a “session” beer but goddamn I love to throw ’em back. So I guess it’s my favorite late-late-night session beer. Canadians make good macros like Labatt and Molson because at least they put some punch in their beer. 5% is a good number when you’re drinking piss water. Most American macros hover in the 4th percentile. Shameful. I won’t claim that Labatt tastes great, and on those rare times when I drink it sober I’m like, “God lord, did this beer go bad?!” However, Labatt is not nearly as watery as the America macros, has a bit of taste, and actually doesn’t hurt sliding down your throat like it’s peroxide. Bonus points for feeling like I should root for the Maple Leafs while drinking Labatt.

Labatt is like the kinda chubby girl you booty call only when you’re shitcanned. The girl who you finish your business with and then whose house you have left before your BAC is back into single digits. Both serve their purpose and so long as you don’t indulge in them while stone-cold sober than you won’t have any problems.

C-

Tecate

4.5% ABV from a can

My earlier lambasting of Corona resulted in me getting a flurry of angry e-mails, texts, and carrier pigeon missives. I always knew there was no way that Corona was the official beer of Mexico, but who know that swill was the official beer of American douchebags and pre-pubescents? (“d00d how can u hate on korona??!”)

Most people simply wanted to know if not Corona, what was my favorite Mexican beer? What would I order while grubbing on some fajitas or quesadillas? To that I answer…can I opt for a frozen margarita instead?

Well, Negra Modelo is the only good to great Mexican beer that I know of, but there are a several I enjoy. Pacifico is pretty good and at least doesn’t come in a clear bottle. Dos Esquis has several bottlings that ain’t bad and seem to at least be brewed with more ambitions than to simply make you piss a lot. And, of course, Corona is a terrific bottled water as you at least you know it’s been purified.

All things considered, though, my favorite would have to be Tecate. A beer that is prohibitively cheap, even in NYC where a sixer of cans will set you back like $3 (age 29 and I still enjoy ripping beer cans from the plastic ring) and a tallboy checks in at like a buck. It doesn’t taste that great I will admit, but there’s just something that makes me like drinking and getting drunk on Tecates. And, if it’s a beer that’s good enough for the hard-nosed bordertown rancher played by Tommy Lee Jones in “The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada” then it’s one that is good enough for me. Sometimes you just need to pound a few cans of Tecate to make you feel less like a cosmopolitan northeast urbanite and more like a gritty badass.

C+

Coors

5% ABV

I’m not sure I’ve ever had this one. Seriously. Sure, I’ve had literally thousands upon thousands of Coors Lights in every sort of drinking vessel possible—from a bottle, fo’ty, can, keg, pitcher, stripper’s crack—but I don’t think I’ve ever had just a plain ol’ Coors. Nowadays, people pretty much only drink light beers. It’s an odd phenomenon. You go to 99% of bars and all they have on tap are pretty much macros, but those macros they have are the light version from each line. You’ll rarely see Budweiser or Coors or Miller on tap, but their light counterparts flow freely. Why is that? Is this only an NYC phenomenon? As bad as macro beers are, their light versions are as if you took the already crappy beer and then cut it with 4 ounces of dirty tap water.

So how did I end up drinking this filth? The ladyfriend was forced to buy it to fill out an incomplete sixer at Duane Reade (again, her favorite beer emporium). She was too snobby to drink the Coors—wanting to drink her Bud Light Lime instead—so I decided to end my night with it. It ended up being more a nightcrap than a nightcap. Ba dum dum.

Best part of macros? Twist-top caps. The sensation of using nothing more than your bare hands to twist off a beer cap and then sling it across the room is vastly underrated. And it becomes quite a rarity as one gets more and more into craft beers. Slummin’ it I guess. Taste-wise, Coors actually ain’t that horrendous. Not that bad of flavor, actually no real discernible flavor, until you hit the aftertaste. Which kinda tastes like rotten sourdough bread.

Try not to burp after drinking this one. Or, if you have to burp, at least get some hilarity out of the situation by pulling off the vaunted “French Oven” move*.

Eh, what to say, it’s not a great beer but it’s better than Coors Light.

D+

*Akin to a Dutch Oven, with this move you stuff your bedmate’s head under the sheets and then burp a stinky Coors burp down there.