It is my understanding that many of you are on the forefront of the craft beer revolution in this country. In fact, you pretty much ARE the revolution. You have seen the future and it is hoppy. You are the anti-InBev, small-batch or bust, "Eww, you’re drinking that?" (Beer Snob anyone?) chosen few. And I love you for it.
I too admire the dark richness of premium porters, the creaminess of stouts, even the bitter hoppiness of IPAs. I root for the underdogs at small breweries and distilleries across our fair nation, and rejoice at every hard-won shelf-space victory they claim.
But I’m writing today as a means of confession. I have a secret shame that I carry heavily on my soul, deep in the recesses of my very being. Oh, I’ve tried to outrun it and deny my innermost longings, but the time has come to be true to myself and damn whatever consequences that decision entails. Indeed, the time has come to admit:
I quite like Bud Light Lime.
I half-expected my keyboard to shock me for even writing those words, and I more than half-expect to be mercilessly, relentlessly made fun of for this. Here are some suggestions to get you started:
"What color skirt do you wear when you drink Bud Light Lime?"
"You’re ugly. And you drink stupid beer."
I will bear your slings and arrows (although that "ugly" crack seems like a low blow you guys) and I will do so gladly. Because I know that on a hot summer day, with the relentless sun making a walk to the mailbox a sweaty exercise in inner-thigh chafing, I want nothing so much as ice-cold, effervescent refreshment, and Bud Light Lime was engineered by drink scientists that apparently have access to my diary to provide exactly that. It’s limey, it’s bubbly, it’s awesome.
Sure, there’s a time for heavy beers. That time is not in the immediate aftermath of athletic achievement or lawn-cutting mastery. And certainly, there are a multitude of finely crafted, intense tasting lighter beers out there in the craft beer universe. I know this. But I also know that I can slam a Bud Light Lime down my gullet without worrying that I’m missing out on a religious experience. It’s cold, I’m hot, let’s party. Sometimes, that’s good enough for me. Plus, I don’t want to get scurvy.
So, what’s the verdict? Am I a total outcast? Or can I get a few of you to cop to having a similar guilty pleasure? Hit us up in the comments section, and please try not to make me cry myself to sleep.