
By the Eloquent & Oft-Quoted Daniel Taylor
The thing about drinking low-grade Milwaukee beer like Schlitz, Pabst or High Life is that, at the time, you feel so smart, like “Let these suckers drink their expensive Microbrews, I’ll get my can of Schlitz, tip the bartender, and still come out ahead.” And besides, the watered down nature of shitty beer, allows the drinker to consume it at a much more rapid, and thus more exhilirating pace than it’s thicker, more stout peers. The more you drink, the smarter you feel about your choices.
You might even start to feel a bit of middle-class patriotism. Holding a can of Schlitz in your hand just feels so damn American. You start to feel like you just got off work at the factory and now you’re down at the docks, looking for a scuffle. And that guy next to you drinking the Heineken, he doesn’t know how it feels to put in a true day’s work. In fact, you might just have to wipe that smile off his goddamn lips. “I’ll show him, after a couple more,” you might start thinking. “I can lick any sonofabitch in this place.”
Then the next thing you know, you’ve been magically time warped directly to your bed, or your car, or someone’s front porch, and the sun is showing you that the only sonofabitch that got whipped last night was you. You start to realize that Schlitz is actually an onomonpaea, because that’s the exact sound it makes coming out your other end, along with whatever burritto or pita or other decidely Unamerican food you threw on top of it in your drunken, 2:00 AM street walking.
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