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Archive for the ‘Style: Macro!’ Category

Ed Hardy Light Beer

December 18th, 2009 by Aaron Goldfarb | 2 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Cervecera Mexicana, Country: Mexico, Grade: C regular, Style: Macro!, Video Reviews

ABV unknown


Tasting notes:

*I currently have, by my count, 12 Beer Advocate Top 100 beers in my McMansion that I have yet to try, but I was far more excited to try this dreck.  I have a problem.

*I love that a beer created by America’s douchiest company is actually brewed in Mexico.  Say what?!

*The taste was very bready, fizzy, smooth, no hops at all, and drinkable.

*I would have to rate this as probably the second or third best macro lager I’ve ever had right behind PBR and perhaps Michelob original.

*I actually finished the entire bottle after I shot the video.  And kinda enjoyed it!

*There’s also, apparently, an Ed Hardy “Premium” Beer.  Do I dare?

And, as always, if you have any recommendations for future SHITTY beer video tastings I need to do, hit me up at theviceblog@gmail.com

Landshark Lager

November 19th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 27 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Margaritaville, Country: America, Grade: F regular, Style: Macro!

4.7% ABV from a urinal

“How’s that Landshark Lager?”


“T’is what I heard.  Get me a bottle.”

“Wait.  You want a bottle of it?”



I have that conversation a lot with bartenders.  As much as I love great beers, I also have a perverse fascination with trying the worst of the worst.  Kinda like one of those guys that likes to go whaling, likes to play a little “stick a pig” at the bars.  Thus, I was insanely jealous when my friend was clever enough to try this beer before me.  Despite the clear bottle, despite the terrible name, the ugly packaging, and the Jimmy Buffett pedigree (I mean, seriously?!), I’d never once thought to try it.

But on a recent trip to the bar I saw it on the menu and had to seize on it.  I was too embarrassed to have other bar patrons, other potential-one-night-stands-for-the-evening, seeing me drinking such a piece of shit beer so I went into the little boy’s room for a private tasting.  Locking myself in a filthy public bathroom stall was a fitting place to drink Landshark.  This beer is so bad that we are all the worse for its existence.  My blog will never be the same now that this garbage has sullied my system and my generally regard for the world.  I can’t imagine what kind of person drinks this beer.  Those that find Corona too aggressive?!  The kinda asshole who is old, fat, and wears a Hawaiian shirt literally ever day but still thinks he has a “License to Chill“?  I pondered all these questions as I struggled to get the bottle down.  I never walk out of a terrible movie and I never don’t finish an entire beer.  However, this one I could handle only about half of.  A startling indictment of its quality.

I left the bathroom, returned to the bar, and ordered a Old Grand-Dad triple to cleanse my palate.


Pabst Blue Ribbon

November 18th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 10 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Pabst, Country: America, Grade: B-, Style: Macro!

4.74% ABV canned

Yesterday’s post reminded of an even more interesting tale of Super Bowls past. May I present…

The Hooker Lottery

In Super Bowl XXXVII the Tampa Bay Buccaneers scored early and often on Bill Callahan’s pathetic Raiders’ defense and the game was rendered quite boring quite quickly. Likewise boring were the commercials, finger foods, and lite macro beers we consumed. Our beer of choice at the time was canned PBR, which I still think is the best macro on the market by an order of magnitude. It was just a bunch of slovenly guys, not a single member of the fairer sex in the tiny UES apartment where we watched the game. JT, despite being a major league deviant was also a helluva classy guy, even from an early age. Wanting to spice things up, with a thought he went to his kitchen, returning a few minutes later with a nice sterling silver serving tray heavy with a few decanters of booze: Scotch, bourbon, gin, vodka, maybe something else.

As we got loaded on liquor, we did as men are want to do and the conversation became ribald if not downright sleazy. Tales of conquests past beget tales of scandalous sex beget tales of downright sordidness. Eventually, the conversation turned to a discussion of prostitutes. It was not unknown that JT had had numerous in his life, but we quickly learned a few of the other fellas had as well. Even more guys had gone as far as semi-prostitution in visiting an Asian rub ‘n’ tug. About half the room, me included, had never paid to ejaculate.

Regardless of our level of hooker expertise, JT was the connoisseur and we pelted him with questions:

“Where do you find one?”

Village Voice. Back pages.

“Are they attractive?”

Sometimes. Sometimes not.

“Do they look like their pictures?”

Again, sometimes. Sometimes not.

“How long do you get?”

Depends. Usually an hour. Or til you come.


Believe me, they are just as interested in not getting a disease as you.

“And the cost?”

$200 on average.

Upon hearing that, every guy in the room had the same thought. We all looked around, silently counting the attendance in our heads. The tally ended up coming to twenty of us. $200, twenty guys, that’s ten bucks a head. Highly doable.

I’m not sure who came up with the stroke of obvious genius, but in the future we would all take credit for it, all co-creators of the idea: the hooker lottery.

Each man pulled a $10 bill from his pocket, a Sharpie was passed around for us to put our John Hancock on Alexander Hamilton, and then the bills were thrown into a hat.

First, though, we had to pick out the girl and come up with some stipulations. Jonathan sprinted down to the lobby to grab a Village Voice while the rest of us debated the logistics. Blond or brunette? Asian or Eastern Bloc? Lithe or voluptuous? Fake tits or real? And what would the nineteen losers get as a consolation prize for their efforts?

Ultimately, we decided on a fake-chested Ukraine beauty and the rule that the lottery winner would have to convince said escort to do ten (10) naked jumping jacks for the entire room before he fucked her.

Girl picked, rules set, we drew from the hat: Fred.

Looking around the room, you quickly could tell for what reason each man entered the lottery. Upon Fred’s name being drawn about 33% of the room gritted their teeth in anger, while the other two-thirds discreetly breathed a sigh of relief, they wouldn’t have to puss out, wouldn’t have to admit to their friends that they didn’t want to, that they were scared of having a hooker and were just paying $10 for the proxy thrill of saying they had entered a hooker lottery.

Fred had no such qualms though, turning his victory down briskly, and with no prejudice. The hat was shook again and JT’s brother Terrence won, gladly accepting his prize, dancing around the room like Warren Sapp.

Thirty minutes later, we buzzed in our hooker and Terrence answered the door. We couldn’t see the apartment’s entryway from the living room, but we could hear some negotiation, some haggling, going on in the foyer between Terrence and the prostitute.

After a few minutes, a pencil thin Asian hooker with a pageboy haircut came into the room and did a truncated set of ten naked jumping jacks. “You see me nekkid now, OK?” she said in a heavy accent as she sprinted back to the bedroom.

Giggling like children, we then listened for the next ten minutes as Terrence loudly railed the hooker, intentionally slamming the headboard into the adjacent wall so that we were forced to hear all the gory details.

As the wall reverberated like a metronome, I think all twenty of us realized that a new tradition had just begun…


Natural Light

November 3rd, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 5 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Anheuser-Busch, Country: America, Grade: F regular, Style: Macro!

4.2% ABV canned

“You know what today is the one-year anniversary of, right?”

Derek and I were shoe-horned into a packed bar on Second Avenue. It was 11:30 AM on Sunday. Outside, runners trotted by at mile 18 of the New York City Marathon. Inside, childish just-out-of-college Upper East Siders oozed into the empty space around us, stinking of B.O. and B-O-O-Z-E, most of them probably not having showered since Saturday night’s partying which may very well have ended just hours previous. We were quite possibly getting too old for this shit.

“Halloween? The Marathon? What?!” I had no idea what Derek was talking about.

“One year ago, Julie got hit by a car.”

I laughed heartily. Ah…yes. One of the craziest and ultimately most hilarious incidents I’ve ever been a part of. And Derek loved the story even more than me. He was there too.

That night one year ago had begun so innocuously. Two couples having a nice Saturday meal up at our beloved Dinosaur BBQ in Harlem. The men had drank beer, the women had gone for a bar specialty cocktail amusingly called the Donkey Punch. An ostensibly “girly” concoction made with three different types of rum, including 151, it packed quite a wallop but went down like a slutty Shirley Temple. After her second pint glass, I had warned Julie that she probably shouldn’t have another. But I’m no one’s mother so I didn’t bat an eyelash when she ordered a third. It wouldn’t be my hangover to deal with.

After dinner and drinks, the time nearing midnight, we headed back to 125th Street to snag a cab to get us back down the Upper West Side for some more partying. Derek, Shannon, and I walked west looking for a yellow ride, when a drunk-on-Donkey-Punches Julie called out that she thought she spotted one across the street. I paid no mind as she apparently darted across the four lanes of two-way traffic trying to make a tricky hail when…


I turned seconds too late, my mind having to process an incredible amount of information all at once. The girl I loved lay in the middle of the street, not moving. Shit strewn on the pavement around her, like a pinata had just been exploded by a fat Mexican kid with a broom handle. Up the block some hundred feet, the car that had seemingly hit her screeched to a halt. And mere yards from running over my beloved girlfriend was the MTA’s M101 bus. I rushed into the middle of the street, wondering if I was about to retrieve a corpse, stopping the bus from progressing.

I got to Julie and she seemed fine.  Shook up but fine. I was stunned.  It made no sense.  I lifted her and Derek moved Julie to the sidewalk as I cleaned up the mess, grabbing her purse, the all-important Dinosaur doggy bags, and something else. I am a studied stoic and I rarely lose control of my mind and my senses despite adversity. No matter the pressure, I am usually able to think clearly. But for a minute or so my mind had betrayed me and my body was running on autopilot.

Finally, as I returned to Julie, Derek, and Shannon on the sidewalk, Julie crying, her nice coat tattered, but seemingly alright, I realized what the foreign object was in my hand–it was the sideview mirror of the car that had hit Julie. The mirror being fortunately the only part of the car that had grazed her.

And now, up the street, that car was gunning it backward in reverse. I saw bad things happening in our immediate future so I tried to usher us all out of there. I put my arm around Julie to support her, to console her, and more importantly lead us away from the scene and the still-reversing car.

The vehicle finally got parallel to us and as we continued to walk forward he reversed at the same pace. The driver was an early-60s African American male, his passenger, a slightly younger white woman, seemingly his wife. We refused to acknowledge them and soon she burst from the car.

“What the fuck were you thinking?!” she immediately started yelling at Julie, who was a rag doll in my arms, still too dazed to even look up and process things.

We didn’t acknowledge the woman and kept walking.

“You just ran into the middle of the lane!” she harumphed. “You could have killed both of us!”

I knew Julie was technically in the wrong, but she had indeed nearly been killed, and she was indeed completely shook up. Now was not the time to be yelled at. And after a moment, the woman realized her yelling was futile. She finally softened. “Well, is your girlfriend at least OK?”

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. Have a good night.” I handed her the mirror which I still held in my hands, having forgotten to discard it.

The women returned to her car. I thought this odd episode was finally over. Nope. Upon his wife returning with no good news and a dislodged sideview, the black driver of the vehicle fat waddled his way to us.

“You will pay me!”

“For what?!” I started ushering us faster toward the busier Twelfth Avenue to hopefully a cab and our escape.

“My mirror!!! I just got it repaired this week. It cost me $300! That’s the third time this month it’s been broken off!”

I truly felt bad for the guy, but let’s be honest, even if it was Julie’s fault, we weren’t going to cut him a check or give him some cash right then and there. He refused to leave us alone as we kept walking, trying to ignore him. He was yelling at us, pushing us, trying to stop us, demanding that we pay him.

Picture the scene: a middle class, distinguished-looking black gentleman in the heart of Harlem yelling at four white twenty-somethings as the witching hour approached and the freaks were about to come out. Things were definitely in his favor, an escape was becoming more and more difficult. I knew I had no choice but to completely flip the tables on him, something I am a master of.

I turned to the man. “Sir, you got a lot of nerve. Drunk-driving. Nearly killing my girlfriend when you swerved onto the sidewalk. And now you have the gall to come and ask us to pay for your criminal idiocy?! That’s insane!”

I pulled my cell phone out.

“I am calling my lawyer. After that I am calling the police. I’ll have you arrested, put in jail.”

As we kept walking, Derek trying his damnedest to find us a taxi, I put the phone to my ear and feigned a phone call to my “lawyer.” “Scott, it’s Aaron. Yeah, sorry if I woke you. I got this drunk fool up in Harlem who nearly plowed over Julie. Yeah. Yeah. Right.  Sure.  OK, you’ll have your buddy in the 25th head over? Great. Sounds good.”

I hung up and gave the man a cocky look like “Now what?” He totally bought my phony phone call and I saw a slight fear in his eyes, despite the fact that he had almost certainly not been drinking that evening. He now knew he had to up the ante himself.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE! Just pay me! I am a sick man! I have a pacemaker! I can’t handle the stress! Just pay MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!”

He put his hands to his heart, hammily acting out a case of angina headed toward a heart attack. He wailed.

“Just pay me the $300! If I die because of this it will be on you! My blood is on your hands!!!”

We finally reached the intersection of 125th and Twelfth, shrouded by the above-ground 1 train, where stood a small gaggle of cute college-aged black girls shooting the shit, enjoying the warm evening. They stopped their gabbing, taking in the current scene. Four white twentysomethings seemingly trying to flee from a older black man grabbing his heart and crying out. We just looked guilty of…something.

I turned toward the black girls to explain myself, using my smoothest politician rhetoric.

“That man is drunk and he just hit my girlfriend with his car!”

They looked at the man spasming around like a maniac, they looked at kind-faced me, they looked at the sobbing and disheveled Julie.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!!!” they all screamed at the black man. “I’m calling the police,” another one of the girls said. “I’m sick of misbehaving black folks!” yet another one lamented. They looked furious like they wanted to rip the old man to shreds. I assured them that it was alright, no harm, no foul.

Just then Derek luckily hailed a cab and we piled in. As we pulled away, the black man was forced to accelerate things to his coup de grace. He fell to the sidewalk, supine, grabbing his chest and rolling around as if he was having a heart attack, one of the most histrionic acting jobs I’d ever seen in my life. The young black girls gathered in a circle around him, continuing to castigate him for his “drunk” driving, for nearly killing a beautiful young girl. A few feet away, still parked in the intersection, the black man’s wife read the newspaper, not even paying attention to the scene. I had a feeling her husband pulled this shit all the time and it was nothing new to her.

Back in the bar, in the present, Derek and I laughed at the story, one of our favorites, one that we had literally begun retelling and laughing at the second we were in the cab that fateful night, and one that Derek assured me we would be recounting to each other for the rest of our lives. Neither of us still spoke to our dates that evening, but they’d always live on in the memories of the event. Julie had ultimately been completely fine, a bruise or two on her thigh and ass, her jacket just in need of a professional re-stitching. Quite frankly, the worst thing that happened was that the violent jostling of the doggy bag had gotten barbecue sauce everywhere, ruining some great leftovers.

As we laughed, and back-slapped, a fat college kid wearing a terrycloth headband put his arm around me. He told us that he was celebrating the marathon by doing his own marathon of drinking that afternoon: twenty-six bars and twenty-six drinks. I told him I admired his youth and ambition. But he was only at bar three and was already wobbling and slobbering. Kids today.  He bought me a can of Natty Light to go with his group’s order. I thanked him and tried to enjoy a brew I probably hadn’t drank since I was his age. It was horrendous. The taste of over-carbonated metallic pickle juice. Briny and watery.  Absolutely disgusting. I couldn’t even finish half of the tallboy. We were indeed too old for this shit. We left and headed toward Third Avenue and a quiet, classier place befitting our raconteurial skills, to have a Manhattan or ten and regale each other with further stories of funny times past.


Michelob Golden Draft Light

September 15th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 7 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Anheuser-Busch, Country: America, Grade: F regular, Style: Macro!

4.1% ABV bottled

Friend of the Vice Blog and Minnesotan The Captain’s Chair sent me a nice package of local beer last week, wanting me try some of the finest brews his state has to offer. He sent me great stuff from Surly, Schell, and other Land of 10,000 Lakes breweries. Any Minnesota beer review you see in the next few weeks will be courtesy of him. But The Captain humorously also wanted to send me the worst his state has to offer, some pure “nastiness” as he calls it, telling me he’d like me to sample it “if (I’m) brave enough.”

It’s a “special” release that Anheuser-Busch apparently only inflicts on the great states of Minnesota and Wisconsin. The Captain described it thusly:

“It’s basically horse piss, but all the mullets around here drink it like it’s their job. I wouldn’t touch it with someone else’s lips. Might make for a funny review though.”

Sign me up. As much as I love great beer, I also love seeing if I’m man enough to drink liquid garbage. It’s a sickness I have.  And I should note that I was dumb enough to drink this stone-cold sober.

The clear bottle Golden Light comes in is an obvious sign of a piece of shit brew. It’s like they want the beer to be skunked to as high of level as possible before you drink it.  The label reads “…the exceptionally smooth taste you expect from Michelob.” Riiiiiiiight. Why are macrobreweries bigger stretchers of the truth than politicians? I actually expect nothing but pain, misery, and agony from Michelob.  And I would soon learn that I should sue Michelob for blatantly false advertising.  The Vice Blogger v. Michelob, the Vice Blogger contending that Golden Light is about as unsmooth as possible.  That would be the trial of the century.  But more on this in a sec.

I popped the top and I was hit with a pungent aroma. Terrible. A stench like flatulence. I had to clamp a clothespin on my nostrils like I was some cartoon character. The taste is even worse. Like a poisoned Sprite Remix. The beer injures my tongue. It was like pouring hydrogen peroxide on it. I’m not sure if Golden Light heals open cuts though. It singes and bubbles as it goes down your throat. Atrocious.  If Anheuser-Busch considers this “smooth,” good Lord!

Abominationally bad. The Captain was right. One of the worst beers I’ve ever had. It’s like the wretched Corona but far more painful going down. My mouth and gullet felt like a bum raped my pie hole.

This one should be advertised as beer for bulimics because it made me want to throw up. It’s like (marginally) alcoholic ipecac. “Beer for Bulimics.” Kinda catchy actually. Could be used in some trendy new modern-day vomitoriums.

Luckily, I only had to drink one of these and afterward I cleansed my palate with the Cuban from the UWS’s Cafe Con Leche, maybe the best sandwich in all of Manhattan island.

Never again.


Bleue Legere Light

August 27th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 1 Comment | Filed in Brewer: Labatt, Country: Canada, Grade: D regular, Style: Macro!

4% ABV from bottles, cans, taps, and anything and everything else

In French Canada the Labatt Blue Light flows like water and the men make David Beckham look like John fuckin’ Wayne. I think I drank about seventy-five “Blue Lights”–as they’re known in the region–in slightly over two days while not seeing a Mapleleaf male with a waist larger than 26 inches the whole time.

On Saturday night we drove into the big city of Lakefield, Quebec looking for a place to wet our whistles and possibly our nether-regions. Driving around a town that is striving to one day be two-bit, we surprisingly found numerous watering holes, but not a single one of them a straight bar. How queer! Why were there so many gay bars and so many homosexuals in this town? It was like the Christopher Street of the Great White North. Eventually, we realized these pixieish little men, with their sleeveless mesh shirts, Rafael Nadal capris, circa year 2003 faux-hawks, and aviator sunglasses worn indoors, were in fact the straight men of the town. Great Caesar’s Ghost!

No matter, the women in the town were sah-moking hot and when Gary, Dan, and I–three strapping young Americans–entered the bar, the ladies got whiplash they spun so quickly in their seats to ogle us. Despite the fact that we are of average build and dress in the States, to these women we must have looked like some UFC fighters passing through the area.

In this pub slash discotheque slash pool parlor, as the men unironically danced to such 1980s hits as Canada’s own Corey Hart’s “I Wear My Sunglasses At Night” (while as previously mentioned wearing their sunglasses at night), we were free to slug cheap beers we purchased with loonies and twonies while making plays on the gorgeous ladies. That was fun and successful, but not as fun as trying to figure out why French Canadian men dress like late-1990s American sitcom interpretations of what flaming homosexuals dress and act like. Alas, we never came to a definitive answer. But we laughed a lot. Especially at all the biker “gangs” that likewise inhabit the region and bar scene. Let’s just say, the motorcyclist in The Village People would even call these straight men “fruits.”

Oh yeah, Blue Light kinda sucks too. Labatt regular is a solid enough, above-average macro, but the Light tastes as if they’ve treated the regular like a concentrate and added 2/3rds water to each bottle to make it less potent. I guess Franco-Canadian men are in fact so sissy that they need to feel some false machismo by claiming they can polish off thirty beers in a night. Well fuck, an old lady hooked up to a dialysis machine could drink Labatt Blue Light all night and I’m not even sure her doctor would mind.


Humorous postscript: I saw several “men” at the bar drinking some oddly labeled bottle called 0.5. As in 0.5% ABV. Labatt’s Low-low alcohol beer. Sheesh. What a province of pussies.

Trader José Premium Lager

July 22nd, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 1 Comment | Filed in Brewer: Trader Joe's, Country: America, Grade: F regular, Style: Macro!

ABV unlisted and unknown but I would guess that it lies somewhere slightly higher than Poland Springs and slightly lower than Dasani

They say imitation is the highest form of flattery but when you’re imitating (read: rippin’ off) the worst beer on planet earth then you’re just acting fucking stupid and your company’s shareholders should question whether you are intentionally trying to tank share prices. I kinda hate Trader Joe’s so I typically avoid it but I had been intrigued upon recently learning that they had their own line of “premium” beers. I was especially excited when my friend told me he had picked up a sixer of Trader José, Trader Joe’s is-it-racistly-named-or-not Mexican beer. (Have you had their Trader Joseph Goldberg Passover table wine? Delish!)

I needed some more F’s on my blog so I asked my buddy to save me a bottle. I had to see if Trader José was truly as offensive as Corona. I mean, surely it couldn’t be. Even if they tried to nail the recipe exactly, surely Trader Joe’s would fuck up ever so slightly and inadvertently create a better beer. I popped the bottle in a standard manner, with a wrist snap at waist level which put the bottle opening some two-and-a-half feet or so from my nose. Nevertheless, the second I took the cap off my face was hit with such a explosion of skunky and repellent stench that my neck snapped back like I was in a head-on collision. Oh, don’t worry, I have one of those foamy neckbraces on now and I’ve got a great personal injury lawyer filing a whiplash claim on my behalf.

I should probably hire another lawyer to file a claim that this swill is less safely potable than Tijuana tap water. The taste is despicable. The taste is actually more offensive than the beer’s name. Only marginally better than Corona because I can actually detect a flavor or two within this mess of a beer. I had to brush my teeth after finishing this one. Never again.


Foster’s Lager

July 16th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | No Comments | Filed in Brewer: Foster's, Country: Australia, Grade: D-, Style: Macro!

5% ABV from an oil can (25.4 fluid ounces)

I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan for around the last 4 years. My previous location was on 47th and 9th and though it wasn’t a nice building by any means, it was filled with quiet yuppie professionals. That I never saw. And I truly mean never saw. In fact, on moving-out day I finally met my next door neighbor for the first time after living ten feet from her for two years. Too bad, she was cute. Now I live some five blocks north and one avenue west. Still Hell’s Kitchen, but my building is completely different. Not aesthetically by any means, it’s still the same kinda craphole walk-up that would be a projects in any other American city but which is a several-thousand-dollars-a-month-apartment in Manhattan. No, what’s different is the freak show populus of my building. You see, I now run into my neighbors all the fucking time, and, bluntly put, I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m the building’s only college grad and its only resident that earns money in a way that is neither a government handout nor an illegal black market payout.

I see these people so fucking much that I can quickly recite from memory who lives in my building.

Next to me on the fifth floor lives a man that appears to be 125 years old (estimated). He’s looks like Juan Marichal and wears a priest’s collar at all times along with a tiny American flag on a stick jutting from his lapel hole as if he has just attended a parade. He always sits on the stoop eating massive styrofoam containers of cheap pork-fried rice. A few weeks ago I saw some EMTs gurney him from the building. Two days later there was an NYPD sticker sealing his front door shut and I haven’t heard from him since. Hmmm. I wonder if he’s on vacation?

4A is the Jamaican drug dealer. How do I know he’s a Jamaican drug dealer? Because as I was moving into the building he said in a thick Jamaican accent, “Me name is Sean. Knock on me door if ya wanna buy any weed.” Every night around midnight I see various fatassed white girls arrive at the building lugging McDonald’s take-out, ready to service him. I suspect Sean stole my weight set when I moved in. I didn’t watch it for a few minutes and next thing I know it was filched. His biceps have been looking bigger since then, come to think of it.

4B is an enormous Dominican family that somehow crams themselves into a two-bedroom. They have two smoking hot daughters that are always prancing around the building in decolletage-revealing tanks. I’m afraid they’re like 12 though so I always avert my eyes when I have to do-si-do pass them on the tight stairwell.

4C seems to be Eastern European. The hulk of a man wears cheap and shiny suits, shades indoors, and looks like he probably deals arms. I always hold the door open for him when we pass, no need to get on his bad side.

3B are two old Puerto Rican women that live together and seem to be of some relation. They wear nightgowns at all times, have wispy mustaches, are constantly returning from the store with big pushcarts full of groceries, and always offer me lemonade and homemade empanadas in their mumbly, highly accented voices. Somehow, I can always decipher what they are saying, unfortunately I’ve never accepted their offers. Maybe I should. I always smell terrific cooking odors wafting from their pad and I do love me some fried meat patties. Nice broads.

2B is a fabulous homosexual couple whose entire life seemingly revolves around walking their gay little Italian greyhounds. They always stare at me with a disdainful “bitch, you ain’t all that” look when we pass each other.

2C is the building’s super Chester. An absolute ogre of a man with a hunchback that Quasimodo would be jealous of. He always looks like he’s about to snap and probably hates me because I don’t separate my garbage, simply tossing it all onto the pile. I’m a jerk, what can I say. I think Chester would be a lot happier if someone took him out of his misery and put a bullet in his head. In my building, the odds of that spontaneously happening have got to be pretty decent.

And, in the big apartment on the first floor lives Cecil, the “mayor” of the building, a guy who knows everyone. He spends most of his time in the foyer working on his bicycle. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who looks like he’s from the order rodentia with his tiny little features, his gnawing incisors, and the thin wisps of air on his typically hatted head which are tightly pulled into a pathetic greasy ponytail. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man with a body and a clothing style best befitting Keith Richards: thin but surprisingly sinewy and veiny heroin arms fully revealed by a gross sleeveless T. His lower body covered by dirty black denims and cheap Avia sneakers. Every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who is constantly working on his upturned bicycle, meticulously cleaning its parts (though it is still always grimy), torquing things with a wrench, and oiling its various movable areas. And, every time I return or leave my apartment I must pass this man who flagrantly smokes cheap cigarettes and poorly-rolled joints right out in the open of our building’s hallway, the smoke in one hand, an oil can of Foster’s in his other hand. More importantly, a huge paper sack of more oil cans at his feet near his toolbox.

Did I mention that Cecil must clearly suffer from some disorder as he talks nonstop, all day long, to…himself. When a person passes him, his self-contained rants somehow seemingly branch out into some sort of borderline conversation with the person near him, but his eyes remain vacant, as if he thinks you may just be an image in his head, some acid flashback.

Cecil is always nice to me, he somehow knows my name though I only told him once, and luckily I only get roped into a “stop-and-chat” (more like a “stop-and-listen”) with him once every month or so. And, though I’ve been passing him several times a day, every single day for nearly a year, yesterday for some reason he finally offered me a beer from his Foster’s sack (maybe he’s a VB reader and noticed I lacked a review!)

At first I was hesitant to accept the man’s cheap beer. Not because I was scared that this quasi-freak could somehow taint a sealed can (unless he had some sort of tiny syringe that could penetrate the aluminum surface–oh lord), but moreso because I had heard that Foster’s was an absolutely abominable beer. You see, I’ve never actually had one! However, I didn’t want to insult Cecil and, yes, I did need a review so, carpe diem, let’s drink some Foster’s!

The can is the circumference of a whale cock and quite hard to grasp. It took a bit of strength to pop the can’s top. Wow. A putrid first smell. Smacked me right in the face before I’d even brought my nose close to it (not that I wanted Cecil to see me sniffing my beer like some fruitcake that has a blog in which he snarkily reviews beer). Taking a picture of the can was no piece of cake either.

My first sip missed my mouth and went right down my chin onto my shirt. The oil can’s big mouth is so large that I couldn’t wrap my face around it. I needed a straw almost. Foster’s tastes like really bad malt liquor. Tastes like a BAD imitation of Budweiser in fact. Now that’s not something to be proud off.

I can taste the recyclable aluminum in this so-called lager. Very undrinkable. Usually macros are, at the least, so watered-down that you can drink them quickly and easily. Not so in this beer’s case. How do I know? Because I tried to chug the oil can in record time in order to get out of the uncomfortable situation I was in as I stood and drank with Cecil while he explained to me the problem with his bike’s gear shifts as well as detailing how Chester owes him some money that sonofabitch. Unfortunately, each big gulp of Foster’s pelted my uvula with stings of carbonation and bitter flavor. Eventually I got it all down, though it punished me for the rest of the night with some absolutely filthy belches.

I’m glad I waited 29 years to finally have this terrible beer. And, I can’t imagine having another one in the next 29 years. It’s really terrible.  Oh, don’t worry, I won’t do a trite mocking of their commercials

“Faw-stah’s. Awwwstraaaylyan for sheety bee-yah.”

OK, yes I will I guess.  Couldn’t help myself.


Coors Light

July 15th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | 2 Comments | Filed in Brewer: Coors, Country: America, Grade: D regular, Style: Macro!

4.2% ABV from a keg

Went to a housewarming party thrown by my friend and his wife at their sweet new house in the Boston suburbs. I was the only one of the 3 or 4 dozen guests that did not own at least one of the following: a house, a car, a spouse, a child, a pet, or dignity. Thus I got belligerently drunk and overcompeted in all the day’s “friendly” drinking games.

The libations for the affair were Coors Light from a keg and my friend’s freshly-squeezed watermelon martinis. Don’t knock ‘em, they were potent and flavorful. Alas, I only drank one, spending the rest of the fifteen hours of marathon tippling throwing down foamy CL Smooths from a plastic cup. Certainly not a great beer, in fact, a pretty bad one. And if you even just barely overpumped the keg you were given a cup full of something that looked more akin to Cool Whip than an adult beverage. Nevertheless, it is damn easy to drink the Silver Bullet and it lubricated me nicely for a day of competition.

I have a love/hate relationship with drinking games. On one hand, I hate the idea of needing a reason to drink and get drunk. I especially detest games where you only get to drink when you “lose.” That’s silly. It’s why I abhor games like Asshole. A better drinking game would be one in which a person doesn’t get to touch alcohol until they actually accomplish something.

On the love side of the equation, I’m a fierce and maniacally insane competitor and thus I adore any drinking game that actually takes some skill, that actually determines who is better at something, that actually allows for bragging rights. Oh, and I will brag–remember, I don’t got things like a house, a car, a wife, a child, a pet, or dignity to live for. So obviously I love an awesome game like beer pong. Unfortunately, that was not going to be on the day’s agenda.

First up was Wiffleball. Of course, not traditionally a “drinking” game per se, but if you’re drinking and competing you can figure out how to make anything into a drinking game. We set up a two-on-two home run derby-esque event in which pitchers were allowed to throw the fastest, nastiest, craziest junk balls they possibly could. You ever seen those famous experiments where a spider is given booze and drugs and then spins these absolutely fucked-up webs? Well, the more Coors I drank the more “wiffly-er” my pitches got as I began throwing some absolute 12-to-6 hooks. Pitches that arched behind the batter’s head yet still inexplicably dropped into the strike zone (a lawn chair). Another good thing about playing Wiffle Ball while drinking is that the alcohol numbs your arm, turning it as rubbery as David Wells’s and making it easy to have a 1200 throw pitch count for the afternoon.

My partner Bryan and I won the first game 23-21 on a walk-off double and instantly the trashtalking began. I’m the Gary Payton of shittalking during drinking games. Other folks are just trying to enjoy a beer and have fun and I’m taunting them and brashly reveling in my own accomplishments. Maybe that’s why no one likes me. It would be considered hubris, but then again, as Caesar said, “It’s only hubris if I fail.”

And though I may have been failing at attracting members of the opposite sex or being known as the “nice” guy at the party, I didn’t do a lot of failing in the drinking game spectrum. By early afternoon I lacked the motor skills to swing a yellow bat at knuckling plastic balls and the agility to run around the yard avoiding babies and dog shit in order to shag pop-ups, so I needed a more sedentary event.

Thus, next up was a game called Baggo (also known as Cornhole in some places). I suppose I should be embarrassed that in my 29 years I had never seen, heard, or certainly played Baggo, but then again I’m from Manhattan where space is limited.  I’m also an urbane Jew, not some hick from French Lick. Having watched some people play the game before me I thought it looked pretty dumb. For those that haven’t played, you essentially try to throw beanbags into a hole in a slightly slanted wood board some 20 feet away, netting 3 points for ones that go in the hole and 1 point for beanbags that are still resting on the board surface once the round is complete. First team to 21 points wins. Kinda like a mix between beer pong, bocce, and curling. Sounds dumb and easy, right? Well, it is kinda easy for a superior marksman like myself, but it was certainly not dumb. I fell in love with it quickly. Heck, I’d like to be playing it now. I think it may have even surpassed beer pong as my favorite drinking game.

Now is as good a time as any to discuss that this was the first drinking party of my life in which people actually brought their fucking children. Being a vulgarian, I was concerned at first, especially since I’m the kinda guy that loudly yells things (ala John McEnroe) like “Fuck!” or “Jesus Christ!” or “Jesus fucking Christ!!!” when I fail at some sort of sporting attempt. And, the last thing I need is some parent lecturing me on appropriate behavior whilst young’uns are around. Amazingly though, all the parents in attendance were cool, throwing back beers, and letting their children goof around and even mingle with a scumbag like me. Ever the leader of men, I quickly taught these children important things. Stuff such as how to hold my beer when I am batting during Wiffleball, how to pull me a nice brew with only a half-inch of head when my drink needs freshening up, and how to exalt me in my victories. Pretty soon, I had a little army of four-foot-tall hype men cheering my every triumph and deriding, mocking, and aping my opponents and their miscues. Those children will never be the same.

Though I didn’t exactly understand the rules or strategies of Baggo until halfway through our first game, Bryan and I won that one and then proceeded to make mincemeat of the rest of the day’s opponents (most of whom had been playing the game for years) and finished up with a sterling 8-0 record.

From there, it was time for a quick bite which lead into Flip Cup. Flip Cup is definitely a game I have mixed feelings about. On one hand, I’m not sure if it’s truly a game of skill assuming you have an arm, a hand at the end of it, and don’t suffer from delirium tremens. On the other hand, it is definitely a game that can take a party to a whole new level as it forces typically serene drinkers to chug beer and frequently leads to buttoned-up women becoming more…friendly. Quickly. The party was divided into a team of Ivy League grads versus Team “Everyone Else.” Our “everyone else” team featured alums from places such as Clemson and NC State and of course my great university Syracuse. We soon developed a nice esprit de corps, happy that we spent our years of college getting loaded and honing our drinking skills as opposed to reading books, organizing rallies, and not rooting for major sports programs. There was no way we could lose to the Ivy nerds in a best-of-seven series.

After six games it was knotted at 3-3. The tiebreaker game 7 was determined on the spot to be a relay race. Each competitor had to sprint from one end of the backyard to the other, grab a full beer already waiting for them, chug it, show to a “line judge” their open and empty mouth, and then sprint back for the tag up. With superior athleticism and prodigious chugging abilities, I was tapped to anchor my team like an alcoholic Carl Lewis. Alas, it didn’t matter. Midway through the race, one of my teammates false-started on his return after the chug and thus we lost ground we were never able to regain. A defeat by the Ivy League, how demoralizing.

From there, it was time for Slip ‘n Slide races. Though the box made it seem as if the slide was dozens of yards long in length, upon unfurling the feeble thing we were amused to see it was about as long as a California King Size bed with the explicit warning “Not For Adults” boldly written at the start of the slide. Well, a lot of things a Vice Blogger does aren’t exactly for “adults.” And, by now, fresh on the heels of the Flip Cup series, most of the other partygoers were equally too plastered to care. We began headfirst throwing our bodies down the Slip ‘n Slide as if we were Pete Rose in his hey-day, bashing our aging and fat bodies into each other as we zipped down the cheap wet plastic, hurtling past the “collection” pool at the slide’s end and tumbling into the mulchy and bumpy grass.

Eventually we added a flag to capture to the bottom of the slide which turned the end of the race into a battle that looked more like a rugby scrum than anything Wham-O intended the toy to be used for. Suffice to say, very few women participated in this contest. We men emerged from our Slip ‘n Battles with nicks and cuts and grass slathering our backs and riding up deep into our asscracks like enemas. But we felt alive!

Next, with absolute darkness surrounding us, it was time for the final game of the day: an absolutely retarded event called Stump. Essentially, this involves a dozen or so wasted people standing around a tree stump that has a corresponding nail for each participant, then taking turns throwing a hammer in the air, catching the tool in one motion and trying to throw it down and drive one of their opponent’s nails through the stump. Don’t believe me that people would actually play something so dumb? Well it actually has a wikipedia page. Definitely a game for future Darwin Award winners. Suffice to say, I did not find this game entertaining at all. I’m not sure if more than a person or two did. And, I find it hard to believe that anyone is skilled at this “sport,” as it took like two hours for the game to finish despite all the “expert” veterans in attendance.

After that snoozefest, as the clock reached 2 AM, it was time for Aaron to play one final game. A game called “Trying to score with available women but actually ending up falling asleep on my guest room cot covered in grass and filth.” I miserably failed at the first part, wildly succeeded at the second.

The next day I awoke feeling as if I’d taken part in football two-a-days as opposed to just marathon drinking games. My right pitching arm hung from my side as worthless as Bob Dole’s. My left pec palpitated like I’d been shot with a bullet there, surely a result of the fifteen hours of repetitive arm movement as I took beer cup from waist level to mouth and down again, every thirty seconds or so. I must have done some 25,000 beer curls during the day as I drank some 40 or so cups of pisswater Coors Light. Meanwhile, my entire body from head to toe was covered with bruises, scrapes, and even minor gashes from all the Slip ‘n Slide diving, especially my knees, elbows, and hamstrings which throbbed, my ulnas feeling like they were about to poke out of my forearms. Oh, and I was sunburned, badly.

Tail tucked between my legs, ass authoritatively kicked, I nonetheless returned to Manhattan happy after an incredibly fun Saturday. Coors Light is a shitty beer no doubt, but I’m starting to think that the quality of beer you drink during marathon drinking events is inversely proportional to the fun you’ll have. If I drank Old Guardian all day…well, there wouldn’t be an all day, I’d be passed out by 1 PM. But Coors Light keeps the tank running as long as you can let it. And that’s about the only good thing I have to say about it.


Bud Light

June 26th, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | No Comments | Filed in Brewer: Anheuser-Busch, Country: America, Grade: D regular, Style: Macro!

4.2% ABV from a can

“Brewed with the finest ingredients for a refreshingly smooth taste.”

That’s what is says verbatim on the side of a Bud Light can.

The “finest” ingredients? A “refreshingly smooth taste”?! Really?!

Why do all macro beer manufacturers lie so fucking blatantly? These places should be sued. No truly good beer promotes itself this hard. It’s only the shitty ones. It’s like the dude that walks around the bar talking about his great job, his awesome penthouse apartment in Soho (with a balcony, yo), and his big dick, while conspicuously swirling around his Porsche key chain, and telling any girl that will listen how awesome he is.

Fact of the matter is, that guy stocks Chiclet vending machines for a living, crashes at home with his moms, has a tiny dick and comes too early on the rare opportunities he gets a chance, and doesn’t truly have the car, just the $3 Porsche key chain. Oh, and could he get your phone number reeeeeal quick because the last train leaves Penn Station at 12:45 AM and he needs to get back to Clifton, NJ.

Something truly outstanding doesn’t blatantly say it is outstanding, it just IS outstanding. And, thus you notice this and remark, “Wow, this is outstanding.”

Bud Light on the other hand is decidedly not outstanding. No matter how much its cans believes this to be true. Unfortunately, I drink too much of the swill, as recounted in this entry. That has to stop.

I suppose Bud Light is mildly refreshing on a hot ass day, but that’s just because it’s usually ice cold and its pretty much water. I hardly taste flavors in it. Maybe a little corn, perhaps a little low-grade rice, some metallic sensations that have worn off from the side of the cheap can. No bite, no hops, no malt. Pretty much just piss water. Actually, tastes a little like soggy white Wonder Bread. Terrible finish. It almost instantaneously gives one beer breath and you start smelling like the old drunk guy at the pub that’s always leaning over into you, putting his arm around you, and trying to give you life advice, despite the fact that he has no teeth and is wearing a scuzzy 1988 Cincinnati Bengals AFC Champs t-shirt.

Best thing you can say about this brew is that at least it ain’t Corona.