The Beer Refreshing

The problem was that he was thirsty. Not just any old thirst. Beer thirst.

As the young man walked into the fabled Avon Liquor Locker, he noticed all the ads and signs for expensive, imported beer. Fosters- good commercials, gimmicky cans, bad beer. Heineken-People call that crap premium imported beer? Are these the same people who voted for a professional wrestler as Governor? Guinness-if he wanted his beer to be as thick as paste he'd save money and pour some Busch Light in a bottle of paste.

The man felt a tinge of disgust move through his bowels as he slowly moved out of the imports and into the micro-brewed beers. He wondered why everyone was so gung-ho about these so-called micro brews that seemed to be the latest craze. If they're so micro, why does every liquor store, even this one in some backwoods bohick store such as this one, have them in stock? Sounded like a cheap marketing gimmick to him.

The thirsty man moved on, this time trying to catch the eye of some cardboard women mysteriously dancing in the corner holding their beers and posing half-naked. His thoughts wandered to the commercials he had recently seen featuring some of these cardboard women. Why anyone would buy a beer just because some girl posed half nude with it in her hand made no sense to him. He just wanted a beer that tasted good, a beer that would leave him refreshed and a little drunk. No naked women, no cool names, no imports, just good, straight beer.

He wandered into the sports beer isle. He wondered what ex-football players would do if they didn't have beer commercials and color commentators. Just because some beer shelled out 2 billion dollars to sponsor the arena football championship doesn't mean it's good beer. He is a man that merely wants to sit back and relax. He's a simple man who needs a simple beer.

Then his eyes alighted on what he had been searching his whole beer drinking life for: Hamm's beer. Gone were the days when the Hamm's bear roamed forever free, frolicking with his friends. Hamm's had once gone the commercial route of so many before it, but now it sold merely because of its taste and the dedication of its drinkers. There it sat, a simple 36 pack of beer with the simplest can imaginable. No fancy packaging, no naked ladies, no sports personalities, no gimmicky cardboard foldouts. Just the beer. Alone, unbowed, proud of its Minnesotan heritage and rich, frothy taste. The man bent over and hefted two 36 packs, carrying them back to the counter wondering why life couldn't be like a cold can of Hamms: simple, refeshing, utterly enjoyable.