the effeminate beard vs. the macho perm

Malt liquor versus light beer. A 1960's fashionista versus a weathered, vitamin C-deprived sea captain with a pegged appendage (not pictured). That perm versus that facial afro. Needless to say I was a bit taken back with these sudsy advertisements and the respective demographics they each marketed to.

In today's society, enjoying a "malt liquor" usually precedes painfully ripping the hair off of ones hands after using ten feet of duct tape to adhere eighty ounces of Colt 45 to your left and your right. There is usually some malt on your shirt as a result. This is done while stretching your bladder to it's maximum volume. It is usually performed around friends. Unless it's consumed in drinking game fashion, in multiples of 80 oz., it is probably in a brown paper bag, getting sipped by a homeless man in drastic need of a shower and a shave. (Keep "in need of a shower and a shave"' in mind, it gets alluded to again very soon) This said homeless man could probably use some methadone.

Whereas a light beer is a casual drink. A night cap. A beach brew, for the man who loves his dog, is respected by his wife, and brings home a sufficient amount of bacon to put in the piggy bank. It is the only kind of beer you would ever consider offering a young child. For the health conscious drinker who, while sober, cares enough about his well being to cut back on the calories, yet needs to get drunk to feel truly comfortable with themselves. For the imbiber who has the self discipline whenst inhibitions are lowered to stick with the initial dieting plan, so that when he looks in the mirror the next morning, or catches his own reflection on a passing taxi whilst standing on a street corner on the walk back the following dawn, can feel proud reminiscing the past night's decisions. Or maybe the lawn was just mowed.

At the very least I found it interesting to see a grizzled sea vet cheerfully enjoying a light beer, reflecting on those thirty three days spent in a lifeboat, floating on a salt water abyss. Presumably he is in a bar, surrounded by a fleet of rowdy men and a few turned off women. Maybe this Schlitz is fortified with vitamin C, and prescribed to help fight scurvy. Maybe this seaman likes how the frothy foam sticks to his beard. Maybe it tastes like mermaid milk. Equally interesting is the a pampered housewife smashing a can of malt liquor into her cranium after a hectic morning of (presumably) watching soaps, vacuuming, and fulfilling that strenuous 1960's gender role. Most likely alone. Maybe with Tommy James and the Shondells playing in the background. Drink until your cheeks turn crimson and you fall over, wifey. However you choose to unwind is up to you.

That being said, beer, malt liquor, it's all relevant. And carbonation feels great on anyones tongue. So you, with the malt liquor-- enjoy that perm while it's still in style; just make sure you can still see straight when you fix up your old man's martini when he gets home in a few hours. And you, with the light beer, congrats on having the common sense to not be the noble captain who goes down with his ship. Any tale goes better with a rugged beard. Any secret feels better when your ear is being tickled by somebody's facial pubes. I suppose the same can be said for those tiny CO2 bubbles.

Now, raise your respective beer canisters. To life's baffling beer advertisements! Cheers, people.

Now, who likes bongo drum intros?

some sandwiches deserve their own centerfold

Manwiches are so timeless. Meat, cheese, lighter colored meat, sharper cheese. More meats. Oh look! Tomato slices. Another additional piece of meat. Enhanced with a lettuce leaf for that aesthetic appeal. Bookended by two bread slices extracted from an oblong loaf, generously smeared with condiment. Walah. A Thanksgiving meal for a malnourished family in Uzbeskistan. But for you and your sandwichscraper aficionados, it is lunch.

The manwich of yesteryear most likely equates to the foot-long hoagie offered by today's submarine sandwich corporations. commonly priced at one easy payment of five dollars. The five dollar bill, the piece of national currency that is gracefully adorned with the stoic profile of the late president Abraham Lincoln. Coincidentally, upon freeing all but one of the slaves in the United States, Honest Abe made the slave prepare him an "Emancipation Proclaimanwich."

It cannot be denied that there is something so hypermasculine about groping a manwich, then conveying it towards mouth. Dad enjoyed a manwich. Grandpa enjoyed a manwich. And grandma had damn well better have known how to assemble a manwich on a moment's notice, lest she be subjected to a firm slap on the derriere, then ordered to vacuum the entire house, then dust the liquor cabinet.

Kudos to Michelob, teaming up with Manwiches of the world, to create a powerful midday alliance. I reckon this advertisement was devised over lunch, on the day preceding a Groupon deal at the local deli. It is indeed a first class meal. Granted the small plate supporting this "leaning tower of meet and cheesa" certainly helps this particular sandwich image "pop", you would still need at least a miniature samurai sword to slice it properly, not to mention a small infantry of toothpicks. I for one would not be picky as to what beverage I knocked back as a means to washing down this mother effing manwich, yet it is comforting to know that Michelob has my back in my most robust of noonday pleasures.