Forty Bottles of Ringboree

I admit, I'm a beer snob. Surely you knew that before you started reading this. It's hard for me to even try something with the name Budweiser on it, let alone admit that it's not terrible.

It is with great difficulty, therefore, that I admit that the Budweiser American Ale is anything but skunk urine.

To be completely honest, when I tried it, I wanted to like it. I wanted to believe that, even Budweiser, if they put their mind to it, could make a good beer. Sure, they mass-produce swill, and mislabel it "beer", for the ignorant crotch-scratching football-watching hordes to guzzle on their quest for oblivion. I can't really fault them for that. It's a business, and every business sometimes has to make what the customer wants, even if they know it's not the best that they could do. But after a century or so of making that, have they forgotten how to make the real thing? I wanted to believe that they hadn't.

So we got a sixpack of the American Ale. It wasn't colored like a Bud. It didn't reek like a Bud. There was hope.

And, lo and behold, it wasn't terrible. In fact, it was quite tolerable. Even, dare I say it, something I might, in a pinch, order at a restaurant, if it was the only thing on the menu with some color. I'd put it in the same class as Sam Adams or Killians. Admittedly, at the lower end of that class. Not something that I'd order at The Pub, but something I'd order at Applebee's, or in a restaurant in the airport between flights.

So, congratulations, Budweiser. You have demonstrated that you haven't, in fact, forgotten what real beer is. Granted, this makes that other swill you pump out pretty inexcusable, but I suppose that if there's a market for it, someone has to fill it.