A group of redneck beer purists wishing to remain anonymous due to their drinking habits convened last weekend in a private gathering to commemorate the good old days when they could drink their beloved brew of choice without any regret or shame.
“The year was 1977. You could walk around drinking your Pabst Blue Ribbon with pride. Everyone knew who you were and what you stood for. Everyone also knew that you’d be crouching the next day in violent spasms of diarrhea. Coming across a trash can full of Pabst told you something special. It told you some cheap ass rednecks had been there… and had probably passed out nearby.”
But not anymore it don’t. Now, you figure it’s some hipster douchebag just sipping on one of them, reading their fancy Shakespeare or listening to their Oasis or Kaysha. Sporting a big fuzzy beard and wearing a winter hat in the summer. Playing their 8-tracks and records instead of cassette tapes. Drinking it not because it comes from God’s pitcher to our lips for the couple of bucks you got in your pocket. But to make fun of it all ironically, which I think means “because I’m a dickhead’.
But you know those types. Pretty soon they’ll be on to the next thing. Hopefully that awful Milwaukee’s Best. That’ll give you the squirts just the same, but with way less class. Until then, we’re gonna have to keep drinking our Pabst Blue Ribbon secretly with the fake Schaefer labels that we cover it up with. We don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about us.