The Man Without Beer

The first beer I ever had was at a frat party in college. It came out of a cheap keg, and it tasted the way I imagined pig urine would taste. I had two sips and quickly put my red plastic cup down on a bookshelf and went looking for something else to cleanse my mouth of the foul taste. I then told people I did not like beer. “Oh no,” they told me, “you just had some really cheap disgusting beer. Real beer is much better.”

The second beer I ever had was given to me by my friend Josh on my 21st birthday. He felt very strongly that I should at least have one drink on that particular day, even though I was generally not interested in drinking. I don’t remember the brand, but it was your standard beer that one might see advertised during the Superbowl and, presumably, a step up from frat party piss beer. I had two sips, and then poured the rest out. It didn’t taste like piss persay, more like general yuck. I decided that I, in fact, did not like beer, but was again told by friends that I had not truly tasted top of the line beer, and surely I would change mind in the future.

The third, and final, beer that I ever had was in Germany at Oktoberfest. I had just finished singing a concert in Vienna, and my flight didn’t leave until late the next evening. I had an extra day really, so some friends and I took a train to Munich and we quickly found the festivities. They were shocked and horrified that I was at Oktoberfest in Munich and was not going to have a beer. So I gave in. I said to myself, “This is some of the best beer in the world. If I don’t like THIS beer, then I really don’t like beer.”

If I ever have a fourth beer, I’ll let you know.

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