In some circles, what I'm about to say would be considered a most dire act of blasphemy. Those who know me and my predilections might suspect that I have a guest columnist writing for me or, at the very least, that aliens have made off with the one true Pakeha and grown a semi-sentient fungus as a stand-in. Some might even posit that there wouldn't be much difference between the one true Pakeha and even a non-sentient fungus. Nevertheless, despite the imperfect logic of fungus postulators and the rambling nature of this Cant, I've finally reached my point.
Guinness in the United States is total and unmitigated crap.
I don't say this because Guinness is popular. Mass approval is not necessarily inversely proportional to actual value or quality in my estimation, notwithstanding the examples of Enrique Iglesias and Tom Green. I'm not one of those silly, knee-jerk, contrarian "alternative" folks who deludes themselves into thinking that they're asserting their individuality by carefully crafting a lifestyle that is exactly 180 degrees out of phase with what is popular. I'm also not one of those absurd beer-snob connoisseurs who insists that their beer be an exceedingly rare concoction brewed in suburban Enumclaw from barley malted in the dank rectums of ovulating circus elephants. Nope. If something is mass produced and I like it, then it's good stuff. My senses are the ultimate arbiter of my tastes.
And that's why Guinness is absolute crap.
I like beer, from clean industrial brews like Rainier, to the palest of pilsners, to the darkest ales, and I still say that Guinness is a waste of barley.
I've given Guinness multiple opportunities to get on my good side. Whether from a can or draught, it has always let me down.
The Guinness experience is an exercise in disappointment.
First, it promises beer-drinking Elysium with its dark color, creamy head, and its malty aroma.
All promise is broken with the first draught.
Instead of a mouth-filling, head-spinning caramel richness, what passes over my tongue is water. If it were just water, it would end at disappointment. Instead, Guinness pulls me down into disgust.
As the enormity of the horror unfolds, the nasty goo in my face inspires impressions of liquid drained from a peat bog, run over barley charcoal, poisoned with two parts Marmite, adulterated with three parts bitter hops resin, and then "carbonated" with dairy cow methane.
The sheep-brained contrarians have a field day with Guinness. Any beer that is dark is good, because light beer connotes tasteless domestic piss water. Anything that is not easy to take to, anything that can be considered an acquired taste, must therefore be of greater value. Guinness is dark and Guinness isn't Coca-Cola; therefore, Guinness is the nectar of the gods.
These poor bastards. If only they would forego their sexy black cans and their funky plastic nitrogen-spewing widgets, they might discover a beautiful, dark world of knock-your-socks-off brews that taste like something other than sludge from Dublin's waste treatment plant.
Pakeha