Beer Is For Sissies

You know who drinks beer?

Sissies. Pansies. Wussies. Ne’er-do-wells.

I was a late bloomer to the whole imbibing of alcoholic beverages thing. I didn’t take a sip of booze until I was 22, unless you count the time when I was 5 when my grandfather thought it’d be hilarious to give me a sip of his dry red wine. I thought it was grape juice, just like it was at church, so I asked for a sip. Much spitting occurred soon afterward, as well as much cursing. Well, at least as well as a 5 year old could curse, which I believe was basically a lot of “MMMMMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!”

Anyway, it wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision to start drinking so late in life, it just kind of happened. I didn’t hang out with a drinking crowd and frankly didn’t much see the point of getting stupid drunk cause HEY MAN WASN’T THAT CRAZY WHAT WE DID?!?!? I suppose I still don’t, really.

I think another large part of my beer distaste was that most of my peers seemed to prefer to drink beer and, well, I didn’t much care for my beer-drinking peers at the time. I spent most of high school and college trying very hard to NOT be like them, so it seemed rather silly to begin drinking what they drank. Call it stupid, but peer pressure is an effective decision maker sometimes…

Also during my formative years, my father and uncles would gather informally a few times a year and have a beer sampling class. They explored the wide, wide world of import beers, trying beers from all over the world. Our basement was stocked at all times with obscure bottles of beer from Europe, microbreweries were discussed before microbreweries were cool, head size and color were debated at great length. When we got The Internet, much research was conducted. Michael Jackson wasn’t a pop superstar in my childhood house, he was a world-renowned beer reviewer. Despite being surrounded by such resources, I never had any interest. I’d sniff the occasional glass and come away thinking it smelled like feet…

So, when I did finally find myself in the company of a fine group of people who happened to prefer beer, I decided now was the time to give it a shot. What’d Dad always say was a good beer? Oh yeah! Pour me a glass of that Guinness Dry Stout, would ya?

Much like I had nearly 20 years earlier, I came up spitting and cursing, if only under my breath. I dare not let on I couldn’t stand the taste lest I be branded a heretic and made a pariah in my newfound beer-drinking social circle.

I had confirmed what I had long suspected. A horrible truth. It didn’t matter how gorgeous the head was, how deep and rich the color was, if it was served in the proper glass or not, if it was the end of a long and hard day or during a sporting event.

I can’t stand the taste of beer.

As I quickly discovered, this was unacceptable to most other males. If you go to an event where people offer you beer and you don’t drink beer, you’re quickly discovered, outed, and consequently mocked mercilessly. This is amusing for a time, but quickly loses its luster.

I needed to find an alternative. A solution. Something I could drink without raising suspicion. Blaine soon introduced me to such a miracle.

Single-malt scotch whisky.

Blaine had long been a single-malt drinker, a trait inherited from his father. He poured me my first glass, a particularly lovely 17 year of a brand I tragically don’t remember. The first sip burned, the second sip burned more, but then something magical happened on the third sip. Pure, distilled tasty goodness flowed through my mouth. All of the caramel, smokey flavors washed over my tongue.

I had tasted the sweet nectar of the gods. I had found my drink.

Ever since then, whenever possible, I drink single-malt. If a suitable one can’t be found, alternative brown liquors like a bourbon or rye are my drink’s of choice.

As I began to slowly roll out this newfound love of scotch, I discovered an unexpected side effect: beer drinkers seemed to hold scotch in even greater regard than their own beloved drink. I went from “You don’t like BEER?!?!” to “Holy crap, are you really drinking SCOTCH?!?”

It soon became clear that scotch was a gentleman’s drink. A drink savored and enjoyed slowly, not something to chug as fast as you could and get blitzed drunk. A fine, quiet way to unwind after a long hard day, an occasional ritual to be enjoyed instead of a nightly regime. A deliberate, researched purchase instead of “Hey, let’s grab a 6-pack.” (As a complete aside, anything that refers to the size or weight of said item in the name is by default horrible in some manner, i.e. a half-pound of fried cheese balls. Really, who the hell needs a half-pound of fried cheese balls?!?)

So, as payback for my years of being mocked, I say this: Beer drinkers, you’re all a bunch of sissies. Ditch that Budweiser goat piss, drink a real man’s drink.Go pour yourself a nice 17 year Aberlour A’bundah. You’ll thank me for it later.


I mean, really, don’t those look a million times more tasty than your Busch?

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