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The Slice: Hopefully, we can still be buds

I‘m tired of living a lie.

So I am just going to go ahead and admit it.

I like mass-market beer.

There, I’ve said it.

OK, I know I’m supposed to prefer exotic microbrews that look and taste like crank-case ooze and have names like Old Snuffy’s Private Reserve Beard Juice. But I don’t.

In fact, my favorite beer is a brand so common every person in America knows its name. Of course, the company that makes it has an advertising budget that exceeds the gross national product of most industrialized nations. This brewing behemoth seems to sponsor virtually every public event that involves sweating and shouting.

Still, I like the taste. Sue me.

It’s not as if I haven’t tried the kinds of beverages preferred by beer snobs. Believe me, I have.

When out with friends, I’ve been known to order the Double Bock Bite Me Bitter or Emerald City Solstice Sludge Hefeweizen.

I know. What a phony.

And for a long time, I had a habit of choosing one gag-reflex beer each weekend at a Spokane grocery store with a particularly impressive selection of nightmarish imports. One week I’d buy a bottle of Staggering Jacobite’s Wee Heavy Tar Extract. Then the next it would be Royal Dragoon’s Sweet Light Crude.

It all tasted like medicine. But it didn’t make me feel better.

I kept thinking one day I would take a swig and decide I liked it. Never happened.

This wouldn’t be an issue if the Northwest weren’t microbrew country. You’re supposed to love undrinkable beer here. (Pay no attention to those actual sales figures behind that curtain!)

To admit to enjoying the kind of beer I like is tantamount to wearing a sign that says “I am not a member of the cultural elite.”

I’ll live.

Now I’d like to go on record as stipulating that not all beer snobs are insufferable poser twits.

Not all who profess to savor the subtle chocolaty nuttiness of Liberal Arts Loser Ale do that thing where they take a sip and then get a far-away look, as if experiencing a transcendent revelation. For some, this must be as close to a sexual experience as they will ever get.

No, some fans of exotic beers simply have more sophisticated palates than yours truly. I can think of several acquaintances I would put in that category. I salute them.

From now on, though, I won’t be toasting them with Hades Sent Stout or Rabid Rottweiler Pilsner.

In my own defense, I would like to say that the mainstream brew I prefer should not be confused with cheap rotgut. Hey, even I realize some “swill” is unfit for human consumption.

Still, I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to rationalize my own prosaic tastes.

I know my beer is bland. I know it’s boring.

I just don’t think it defines me.

“Today’s Slice question (prompted by trying to imagine what it would be like to be a dermatologist at the beach): People in what occupation are least able to leave work behind?

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