In our debt-induced destitution, even simple drinks like Pabst Blue Ribbon and Bud Light can seem to be wistful luxuries. Lucky for us, malt liquor – cheap and bottled by the 40 – offers a respite that won’t break the bank. And while you more snobby fuckers may give me shit for saying this, I find that there exists just as much complexity and taste in a bottle of malt liquor as in any glass of scotch or fine wine. And, hey, drunk is drunk. And I’ll drink to that.
A tall glass of flat uranic brine. Wafting its air into my nostrils I pick up a scent completely void of hops or barley or anything else that would register as beer. There is only the stale, tannic ammonia of $2.50-a-bottle malt liquor. There is almost no carbonation, its head of foam long fallen, not a trace of effervescence clung to the sides of the glass. Its only redeeming factor is its alcohol content. At eight percent ABV, this shit will get you drunk and it’ll get you drunk fast and it’ll get you drunk cheap. For pairing, I would recommend a dirty cheeseburger or a reheated carne asada burrito.
Much like the Hurricane, this beer doesn’t smell like beer. It’s only discernable scent is a light citrus – not bad, but not beer. However, this brew holds a proud head of foam like that of an ale or a dark stout. And while its taste isn’t anything to write home about; and while I would never order a tall glass of Cobra for my date, I have to say this is my favorite 40 on the list. The kind you buy two of: with a strong buzz after the first and a blackout after the second. Cobra is the malt liquor I wouldn’t mind poisoning myself with. Waking up every morning to the scent of dried vomit, to the familiar warmth of urine-soaked sweatpants; on the nightstand a suicide note half-written by a madman drunk on carbonated diesel. This is the 40 for me.
A great green bottle of piss. Mickey’s is a household name where I come from. The classic malt liquor. Flatter than a preteen and more grotesque than a burn victim. I’d rather bottle and drink the sweat from the taint of a fraternity brother than the putrescence that is Mickey’s “Fine Malt Liquor.”
4.) Olde English 800
Forget everything I just said about Mickey’s and apply it to this malt liquor. Foul fucking vitriol. Its remarkably smooth intake soon followed by an afterburn of vinegar and copper – leaving my mouth feeling like I just licked the floor of a long-since-abandoned steel mill. I have never huffed dust-off, but I would almost suggest it as a healthier alternative to this alcohol-infused bog-piss. Slit your wrists to feel the euphoria that comes with blood-loss, imbibe bleach, mainline a gram of arsenic and talcum powder – seriously, do anything besides drink Olde English.
This article is brought to you by Olde English malt liquor. “It’s Not What You Drink, It’s What You Crave.”