MMMMMMMMMM - beer

I'm from Wisconsin, where we're known for dairy products and beer. And sure, technically we are the main producer of neither cheese nor alcohol. But California can kiss my ass, because cheese is still ours. Let's see you ultra-hip San Franciscans wear foam cheese wedges. Maybe then we'll relinquish our smelly crown. Doesn't sit too well on your faux-hawk, now does it?

Whatever. At least we're still super fat.

But forget ice cream for a second. I'm here today to talk about beer. Glorious, wonderful beer.

I remember my first encounter with alcohol. Padre was hosting Bridge Night, because poker hadn't made its big splash on our naive Midwestern town yet. I wasn't more than 4, and came in to say goodnight to Padre and all his mustached friends. Next to his cards was a tiny glass of what I took to be chocolate milk. Padre drank chocolate milk for breakfast every day, and it made sense to me that he would also drink it at night, or at work with his lunch, or maybe from a sippy cup before he settled down for his nap.

But this was a new one on me: why would Padre be drinking such a tiny amount? And it was already warm! I asked Padre "can I have some of your chocolate milk before I go to bed?"

"N- uh, yeah, sure buddy. Just a sip, though, you don't want all that sugar to keep you up."

His friends grew quiet as they all watched me sip what I now know to be chocolate liqueur. "Ew, that chocolate milk isn't good anymore, Padre!"

Well that brought the house down. And I learned a valuable lesson: chocolate liqueur should never, ever be drunk. Ever. They were right to laugh at me. It's a silly, silly drink, good for little old retirees who have already killed many men, and so no one would dare laugh at their Nancy-boy cocktail.

So began a lifelong adoration of alcohol. I never really made it past beer, although Wife has matured to single-malt scotch. Now she sneers at people in bars who order blends, and ask for their 50$/shot Macallan on the rocks. "See that guy? With the ice? He shouldn't even be allowed to order. HEY PAL, WHY NOT LET ME PISS IN YOUR GLASS, IT'LL TASTE THE SAME." (Note: Wife may or may not actually have said that. But she's damn well thought it.)

Being from the great city of Milwaukee, when I saw this article I got immediately nostalgic. PBR is a legacy, one that used to reign over the Milwaukee skyline , like the Citgo sign in Boston


or some annoyingly huge building in New York.

And then I learn, after reading the whole thing, that PBR, Milwaukee's finest crappy beer, has moved to Chicago, of all places.

Well fuck you too, Pabst. I'm going to go drink Bud Light.

Ahhh who am I kidding, I hate the Belgians.