Hey, beer man
09/28/2001
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Brace yourself. But I'm about to say the most heinous thing a man could say.
I hate beer.
There. I said it.
Well, now that we've gotten that out in the open…do you find me less of a man?
Are you planning on sending me e-mail titled "Dear Panty-Waist"?
If you shook my hand, would you give me the limp fish?
Y'know what, though? I don't care.
I just hate beer.
I don't like the way it smells. I don't like the way it tastes.
I don't like anything about it.
I don't even like root beer because it's got beer in the name.
If it was just called root, I'd drink it. But it's not, so I don't.
When I was at parties in high school, I used to wish that the beer in my hand would turn into a Coke so I could pound it and all the guys would say, "Man that guy really knows how to pound beers."
Because those are the kinds of things that are important to guys in high school.
That, and acting like they know what cunnilingus is.
Yes gentleman, sad but true. I hate beer.
And having said that, there's something else I'd like to say.
Now I really hate beer.
Well, technically, I don't really hate all beer.
I just really hate MGD, Miller Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, Amstel Light, Heineken, Bass and Samuel Adams.
You see, last Sunday, I had the distinct pleasure of volunteering at a concession stand at Cleveland Browns Stadium.
Not just any stand, mind you. A stand directly across from the world famous Dawg Pound.
For five hours last Sunday I had the distinct pleasure of twisting, turning, popping open and pouring hundreds of beers for some of America's finest, knowledgeable and most influential human beings.
Human beings who, for eight Sundays a year, have two very important missions in life:
Drinking. And then drinking more.
Y'know, this whole concept of getting drunk at football games has always confused me. I'm not usually one to tell others what to do with their money, but this is one idea I've never been able to grasp.
"Hey guys! Let's go spend $40 a ticket and pay $20 for parking, and then go watch this game that we're not going to watch because we're going to spend the whole game standing in line ordering beers so we can have beers to drink while we're watching the game we're not really watching. And even if we are watching there's not a chance in hell we'll remember any of it because we spent the whole game drinking.
"Who's with me? Let's goooooooo!"
Nevertheless, they show up. Week after week after week. Grown men painting their faces. Grown men coloring their sneakers bright orange to match the color of their hair. Grown men barking like dogs. And other grown men walking by them and barking right back.
Grown men who really love their MGD, Miller Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, Amstel Light, Heineken, Bass and Samuel Adams.
Grown men who spend more money on beer at a football game than it takes to feed a family of four in Africa. And Sally Struthers.
Please, please don't misunderstand me. I sincerely have nothing against the brethren of the Dawg Pound.
I think their spirit is remarkable. I think their energy is contagious. I think they're the only true fans in the stadium.
No no no no. I have nothing against the Dawg Pound.
It's just their beer that I hate.
The palm of my left hand is now permanently imbedded with an MGD logo. My middle finger and thumb no longer have fingerprints.
If I'm ever arrested for a crime that I swear to freakin' God I didn't do, my crime sheet will show nothing more than the grooves of a twist-off Miller Lite bottle top.
For five hours last Sunday, I was a beer whore.
I stood and let men and women of all ages abuse me. They weren't looking at me. They were looking through me. I was a piece of meat necessary to fulfill their most secret desires.
Drinking beer.
Well, I'm not sure they were secret desires. I guess it's not really a secret when you smell like a brewery while you're standing in line asking someone for a beer.
They stood. They patiently waited. And when it was their turn in line, they talked.
Boy, did they talk.
ME: Can I help you, sir?
GUY (TOTALLY DRUNK): How much for the Bud on tap?
ME: Six dollars a piece, sir.
GUY (TOTALLY DRUNK AND MAD): That's bullshit.
ME: I know, sir. How many would you like?
GUY (TOTALLY DRUNK): Gimme three.
***************
ME: Can I help you, sir?
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): Give me a Bud in a bottle.
ME: We're out.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): How about a Bud Light in a bottle?
ME: We're out, sir.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): How about an MGD?
ME: It's a new case, sir. They're warm.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): How about a Miller Lite?
ME: We're out, sir.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): How about a Heineken?
ME: We're out, sir.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): How about a Bass Ale?
ME: We're out, sir.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): Then whaddya got?
ME: All I've got is Bud on tap, sir.
GUY 2 (TOTALLY DRUNK): Perfect.
***************
ME: Can I help you, sir?
GUY 3 (TOTALLY DRUNK): Yeah, I'll have a Heineken.
ME: Yes sir.
GUY 3 (TOTALLY DRUNK AND MAD): Hey, what the hell are you doing, buddy? Why are you pouring it into that cup?
ME: I'm sorry, sir. But stadium regulations don't allow us to hand out a glass bottle. So I have to pour it for you back here.
GUY 3 (TOTALLY DRUNK AND MAD): That pisses me off.
ME: I'm sorry, sir. But those are the rules. Do you still want the beer?
GUY 3 (TOTALLY DRUNK): Yeah. And gimme another one, too, will ya? And a hotdog.
ME: Yes, sir.
You'll probably be surprised to learn that exactly zero people walked away empty-handed when I told them I didn't have the beer they wanted in the first place. Which leads me to believe that while everybody (except me) has their favorite brand of beer, when push comes to shove, their favorite brand of beer…is beer.
I hate it. I hate beer.
The truth is, the only saving grace of the entire day was that it was 76 degrees and sunny.
Great weather for football, huh? Perfect playing conditions, huh?
Football? Who the hell cares about football?
Shorts and t-shirts were everywhere. And I'm not talking about the guys.
In no particular order, I'd like to thank the following women for doing their part to help me get through a long, beer-filled Sunday afternoon in downtown Cleveland:
*The girl with the dirty blonde cutoff jean shorts that crawled up her really tight ass.
Thank you.
*The young lady with the bike shorts who tied her t-shirt in a knot directly under her ample breasts.
Thank you.
*The perfectly tanned woman in the frayed short jean skirt with the ridiculously tight black top.
*The two really cute blondes with the white sports bras and khaki shorts who I gave extra cheese to for the soft pretzels hoping that I'd get a nice thank you, if you know what I mean.
I didn't. But I've thought about it a lot.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, one and all.
I have reason to believe that the next time I volunteer at a game in December, my sweethearts won't be at the stadium. Rather, they'll be nestled on their sofas, reading Danielle Steele and sipping chablis, wondering what ever happened to that guy serving beer they walked by three months earlier that they pretended to ignore.
In the meantime, I'll be standing there, winter coat, gloves, hat and long underwear, hawking beer, twisting caps, and checking out the fat chicks wearing the blue parkas from Sears.
ME: Can I help you, sir?
GUY (TOTALLY DRUNK): What kind of beer you got?
ME: MGD, Miller Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, Amstel Light, Heineken, Bass and Samuel Adams.
GUY: Good.
ME: What kind would you like, sir?
GUY: Yes. BURP.
I hate beer. I really hate beer.
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