Drink what you are

Your life is in shambles. Frayed beyond recognition. Not unlike the boxer shorts you’re wearing – a threadbare pair of undergarments that were last functional at the height of the Iran-Contra affair. Ollie North has changed since then (his clothes, not his personality). What’s your excuse?

The depression in your couch has all the tell tales of a Paleozoic rock formation, with reminders of both past abuse and disuse. A deluge of guacamole ruined the cushion in ’96. But that didn’t send it to the curb. You flipped it instead. Good as new? Not quite. And your breaks – extended career detours - are measured in geologic time. If procrastination was a marketable skill, you’d be a success.

The crumbs on your shirt are reserved for a distant future when snacks are sure to be in short supply. Expiration dates are ignored. Your nose guides you through daily grazing.  

No one sees the inside of your home and no one should. The mailman and occasional delivery driver are the only people subjected to an interior decorated with what could be described as an apocalyptic aesthetic.

You’ve given up living as a functional member of society. It’s just not for you.

You need a beer. Not one that’s been brewed from the choicest hops or finest barley. You just need a beer, any beer. You need it to forget those crumbs, that cushion, or this civilization. You’re not a snob. But you are a low life.

Drink what you are. Low Life Beer.

*Low Life wasn’t the champagne of anything. There were no mountains on the can to turn blue. There was no celebrity endorser to pull a six-pack out of a rushing river. It wasn’t less filling and it didn’t taste great. It was beer for the common man, the everyman, the degenerate, the low life. Fun while it lasted. Which, given the questionable quality of the beer, was about 10 minutes after you took it out of the fridge.