In an attempt to continue the tried and true tradition here at 3hree Things in which I seek out (arguably) disgusting foodstuffs, ingest them, and write about my findings, I've decided to expand the breadth of my sampling and dive into the world of questionable beverages.
This week, I go to war with the Budweiser Chelada.
Disgusting. I would posit that nobody has ever uttered the words, "Man, this Bud Light is really tasty, but you know what it needs? CLAM CHOWDER.” But here we have the two, the most unlikely bedfellows, married in a can and mass produced for
nobody somebody to enjoy. And, thank god it only comes in 24 oz cans, because if there's anything you want a lot of, it's something awful.
The fart that slips out of the can when you pop the top is like getting yelled at by a drunken fisherman, and as you bring the can closer to your lips, it's like lowering your head into a bucket of chum. Deeeeeelicious.
Gah. Here we go.
SIP #1: People tend to shy away from beer in can, because the metallic taste is off-putting. This is like trying to pick up a handful of change off the floor of a bar…with your mouth.
SIP #2: I'd imagine this is the closest a person can get to performing cunnilingus on a dead mermaid.
SIP #3: Remember that time in high school when you had that house party at your friend's house and you guys ordered pizzas and got a keg and you had so much fun that you ate like half a pizza and totally forgot to stop drinking and then laughed so hard that you barfed on your friend's couch?
SIP #4: Fermented afterbirth.
SIP #5: So, this is what regret tastes like.
SIP #6: I've actually been vurping (vomit + burp) after every sip since #2, and it turns out that washing it down with something that tastes exactly like what's coming up tells me that this cycle ends badly.
SIP #7: My stomach has started making noises that sound like there's a mud run going on in there.
SIP #8: I realize that this is going to have to come out of me at some point.
SIP #9: Can't…go…on…
SIP#10: Chelada wins. I tap out. Half a can remains.
The Aftermath: I was burping up clam farts all night, and despite attempting to vigorously brush the taste of shame out of my mouth, my lady informed me this morning that sleeping next to me last night was so repugnant that she had to deflect my warm clogged-drain-at-a-Cabo-spring-break-bar exhales with a blanket barrier and a sheet pulled over her head.
I think it's safe to say that I've had my last Chelada.
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