With that being said, if anyone can find out the beer most consumed on Super Bowl Sunday, that would be a fun and interesting fact to learn, but until then, let’s talk about beer.  Fizzy, yellow beer that comes in a can and is only tasty when chugged at ice cold temperatures.

Since I grew up in Pennsylvania, in a considerably rural area, I did the majority of my partying in cabins, woods, and  open fields.  I drank in cars, tents, and crude wooden structures built mainly for hunting.  More specifically, when I was sixteen, I attended parties with a handful of skateboarders and social misfits in the family owned and built hunting cabin of my friend Dave.  His father and grandfather designed the place around two activites: hunting and drinking, and the place had a great deal of charm suitable for such activities.  Dave undoubtedly inherited his sense of humor from his father’s side, indicative of the real live stuffed deer ass hanging on the wall, and the collection of obscure novelty beer cans dating all the way back to the sixties, which lined a shelf built around the inner perimeter of the cabin.  Many of these beer cans were collector’s editions of the annually released Old Frothingslosh, the self-proclaimed “original stale pale ale,” featuring Old Frothingslosh’s famous 300 pound pin-up model Fatima Yechburgh.

I don’t recall if I ever actually drank ye Old Frothingslosh, but a moderate amount of internet digging has revealed that it was a joke version of holiday beer put out once a year by Iron City Beer.  Ah, good ol’ Iron City.  Otherwise known as I.C. or I.C. Light.  And probably the first beer I ever drank.  My friend Jenny’s dad had a kegerator in his basement with a single tap sticking out, which dispensed nothing other than I.C. Light at all times.  Our dads would send us marching down to the stairs, empty mugs in hand, to refill their delicious frothy beverages, which we did willingly, because it allowed us ample opportunity to kneel down, cram our heads under the tap, and chug foaming beer straight from the tap.  It was on one of these occasions when I remember developing a taste for beer for the very first time.  It was summer, and all I remember is thinking: I would love nothing more than to drink a cold beer right now.  I should have known my future wasn’t so bright.

But back to the cabin, where the beer of choice was usually one or a combination of the following: Miluakee’s Best (Light or Iced), otherwise known as “The Beast;” National Bohemian, or “Natty Bo;”  Natural Ice, or “Natty Ice;” or Red Dog.  These were usually consumed with a combination of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Southern Comfort, Peach Schnapps, any flavor of MD 20/20, (affectionately and more commonly known as “Mad Dog”), or Cisco chugged straight from the bottle.  Now, it’s not like we didn’t know this beer was shitty.  In fact, that was kind of the point.  But it is quite amusing to think back to that time, when if we would’ve been slugging Rolling Rock, we would have felt like high rollers.

That brings me to the college days.  For some reason, it was Schaefer’s that became the staple keg party pounder, and to tell you the truth, I’m not even sure if Yuengling made it onto the campus scene, but I will say, as far as cheap, blue collar beer goes, I used to give Yuengling mad props.  But one must also understand that Yuengling tastes completely different when imbibed up north, than it does when brewed in Tampa, with Florida’s delectable sulphur-y swamp water.

As of right now, I’ll admit that if I’m sweating away at an August BBQ, I’m happy to pop open a Miller Light, or a High Life even better, because I’m of the persuasian that Miller Light at least has some amount of flavor, albeit, not much.  But it fares much more impressive to my palate than Bud Light or Rolling Rock.  And I must say, when Schlitz came back on the scene in 2007, I was thrilled to snap open a can of this nostalgic libation, complete with that appealing seventies labeling, but then the cans suddenly disappeared and Schlitz started only coming in bottles.  I don’t know about you, but something about getting rid of that can just killed the nostalgia for me, putting Schlitz too closely on par with its big American counterparts.  (What are you trying to be, Schlitz?  Just be the crappy beer in a can you’re so good at being!  Quit trying to fancy it up with a glass shell–we know what’s really in there.)

Of course, no blue collar beer article would be complete without mentioning PBR. I get it, I get it.  Scenesters, punk rockers, and construction workers alike can unite under this classic favorite of  cheap, crappy suds.  But I won’t touch the stuff.  Three days at a music festival serving nothing other than PBR would do this to you too.  By the end of the trip, it was all headache and no buzz, and I found myself running full speed to the nearest liquor bar for a shot of anything strong to rid my mouth of PBR’s metallic, pissy aftertaste.  Fie on you, PBR. Take your skinny jeans, tattoos, and ironic facial hair, get back on your fixed gear, and pedal your wimp ass outta here.

Last but not least, I must pay tribute to Busch. NOT Busch light, mind you.  Just good ol’ Busch. Our fridge is bursting with Busch cans whenever my boyfriend’s dad comes to visit, and I’ve been guilty of grabbing one for lack of a better beverage.  Much to my surprise, I found the beer quite enjoyable, not that bad at all.  Busch? I thought to myself.  Not bad. Not GOOD.  Oh no, no.  Don’t get me wrong.  But not totally undrinkable.  And claiming all natural ingredients as well.  I will still take it over Budweiser anyday.  Sorry, Budweiser.  It’s a principle thing.

So that about covers my tribute to blue collar beer.  I would love to hear what you guys grew up drinking in high school and college, and how your perception of “good beer” has changed.  If anyone has one of those great photos of dad, grandpa, or hell, even grandma holding an incriminatingly bad beer indicative of an unrefined palate and a thin wallet, you should post them on here and share them with the rest of us! Don’t be shy. We all have our guilty pleasures.