I recall a time at the Galleria ice rink in Houston when a fellow who obviously didn't belong on ice skates made a few attempts to cross the rink. He stumbled, he fell; staggered up again and zig-zaggedly coasted a few more feet, and fell again. It was tortuous watching him. He fell four times in all, and while he was in the middle of the rink, better skaters had to jag out of the way suddenly to avoid injury. Because others could not predict what he'd do next, an empty space grew gradually around this man, giving him all the space he needed while he jerked his way toward a railing. His skates gouged holes in the ice, though he made no real turns or intentional braking maneuvers.
Finally, a couple of people came over to help - he was held by both arms and guided to the edge of the ice. The helpers stayed with him a moment, and it looked to me that they were offering counsel to the man - I hoped it was "get off the ice before you hurt someone." Unfortunately, this was not the case.
I waited. A few minutes later, a young lady in a short pink skating outfit took to the ice. Her expertise was as obvious as the man's ineptitude; she flowed, curved, spun and pirouetted, seemingly without effort. I watched as she coasted by me, her leg lifted high behind her as she skated backward past the inept man. He watched sullenly over his shoulder.
I reflected on how much more I enjoyed watching the young lady, and realized that part of my enjoyment was due to the vicarious suffering I experienced earlier with the man. Her graceful movements were all the more beautiful when compared to the man's bumbling; she was smoother next to his roughness, surer next to his confusion. I realized I owed him a debt of sorts; I would not have enjoyed her as much had I not agonized through his attempts first.
Such is the debt we owe Bud Light. I doubt I could enjoy the bitterness of Guinness as I do, appreciate the smooth heat of a Celis Grand Cru, or the full body of a Shiner Bock had I not first poured gallons of this canal dredge down my throat during my foolish youth.
The beer itself was not made for me, but the advertising was: cases of the stuff, for almost nothing in terms of beer prices, were stacked high in every grocery store; babes with swimsuits the size of hospital ID bracelets draped their arms lovingly over a twelve pack and Clydesdales adorned Christmas cards, pulling sleds full of Bud Light across the virgin snow. This beer must be good, I thought, and I drank it without wondering what "good" was supposed to be - at least when it came to the taste of beer. The horses and the babes were pretty cool.
Let us visualize, then, the brewing process of Bud Light. Picture if you will a mash tun roughly the size of the first green at Pebble Beach. Inside is a sea of stuff that looks like bubbling oatmeal - you'd think they could squeeze some kind of body and substance out of all that wet grist. Oh, but I forget - this is a light beer; body and substance is a no-no. We have yet another proof that the number of calories is usually directly correlated with how good something tastes. Well, o.k. - forget that; how about a little hopping to twang the taste buds? Just dump a few barrels of those hops into that lake-sized vat of boiling wort and maybe we can disguise the lack of body. Goodness to Pete, hops aren't fattening, are they? Well, maybe not, but putting too many hops in there directly cuts into the swimsuit babe and Clydesdale budget, so forget that (that's the only excuse I can think of). O.K. - how about aging it a little, then - let those lil' ol' bottom-fermenting yeasties work their magic on the wort and give us a little heat? Oh, wait - no, no, no; alcohol just ain't allowed. It's a light beer. Can't risk spreading the ol' waistline just because we want it to taste like beer, right?
You see where we go from here. Babes and fat horses are needed at this point to guide this bumbling brew to the edge of the rink and to keep an empty space from growing around it. The brew has no body to speak of; the weak hopping cannot disguise this fact, and in spite of another reviewer's raving about how he loves to get "drunk on his butt" on Bud Light, the yeast was not really allowed to do its work. I taste a weakly-flavored, stumbling, falling-down attempt at beer.
But fear not. Guinness, Shiner, Celis and St. Arnold's wait in the wings with skates sharpened, and Bud Light, stumbling to the grocer's shelves, has set you up for a truly sublime experience.
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