This is a Turkish beer, presently produced in over half a dozen European countries and widely consumed throughout the Eastern part of the continent.

It’s an extremely pale beer with light, rapidly dissipating foam. While not as complex as Kronenbourg, it has a similar peppery sharpness accompanied by an unexpected sour note. Though not as mediocre as the majority of Canadian swill-brew, thanks exclusively to the slightly more tasteful palate of the average European schmuck, it’s fairly obvious that this is cheaply mass-produced beer to be enjoyed by a crowd equivalent to that which might drink Heineken.

Efes is not particularly common in Canada, and as such it can be consumed in the company of attractive women to make you seem suavely European while excluding you from mundane stereotypes. A word of advice: Don’t expect this technique to work in Eastern Europe. If you act sophisticated while gingerly sipping Efes at the bar, people will think you’re some American shithead with delusions of grandeur. Only the predatory homosexuals are attracted to that shit.

Fun Fact: The Efes Beverage Group is the largest Turkish shareholder in Coca-Cola. Heil the corporate masses!

I haven't found a single picture featuring the bottles you get in Canada, but I got it in slim, slightly tapered green bottles with a label halfway down the widest part. It also comes in cans and a wide variety of other oddly shaped bottles.

Given the dubiously poor performance of similar citrus-injected beers from other companies, I avoided this beer for about a year and a half before buying a case to ‘share’ with a ‘date’, which is man-code for non-monetary prostitution.

Did you know it’s considered statutory rape to fuck a drunk girl? Bud Light Lime taught me this the hard way.

There isn’t really a lot to say about the beer, itself. It tastes like Bud Light, with – you guessed it – a hint of lime. Unlike some of the micro-brewed citrus beers I’ve had, it was a surprisingly present hint, though I feel the flavour is quite artificial.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but certain snobbish pricks would claim that naturally acquired flavours are ‘better’ than artificial ones – but if you knew anything about the technical differentiation between the two, you’d know it doesn’t even fucking matter and you’re just trying to look sophisticated in front of your asshole friends. Fuck you!

This is something I would buy to take to a barbecue if I wasn’t sure what most of the attendees were drinking, probably accompanied by red wine to keep the old ladies happy and blissfully ignorant of my pursuit of poon. It would also make excellent hot-day-at-the-river-or-beach beer. On the other hand, I hang out with people who have good taste, and Bud Light Lime would never grace a poker game, extortion racket or secretive meeting.

My only complaint about this one is that it’s a light beer. At 4% alcohol, it would take almost a whole extra bottle to compensate for the deficiency per half-dozen when compared to most non-light beer, and I’m sure if you’re still reading these reviews at this stage you would agree that being drunk is more important than… not being drunk.

I’ll be back after I’m finished vomiting.

Fresh, limey goodness. The second-best liquid panty remover, next to gin.

Nevermind. It’s time for me to pass out.

Pilsner is one of the big old beers, initially produced by Sick’s. In the late fifties, the formula was bought up by Molson – as with so many of Canada’s previously proud independent beers – and churned into the swill machine. In spite of this, Pilsner endures as my favourite “shitty beer”, and mentioning it to any male from Western Canada is guaranteed to induce eye-glazing, drool-covered reminiscence.

I’m not going to honour Pilsner with an examination of its “qualities”, and if you don’t know what a pilsner is, then I’m too elitist to give a shit about you. You don’t need this guide; just go out and order a fucking beer, ask the bartender what kind it is. If he doesn’t know, kick him in the testicles and find a better bar.

It’s like having sex – you’re worthless until you’ve overcome the confused, prematurely sticky fumbling of the first few times.

That being said, Molson Pilsner is like that first incredibly slutty girl you go out with: You fuck like five times a day and end up with a rash on your dick, she’s always bitchy in the morning, and in the end she dumps your ass for a hot 17-year-old who can still get it up. In an attempt to retain what’s left of your shattered dignity, you turn to faux-sophisticated beverages like Kronenbourg and everyone thinks you’re a tool. Your friends abandon you and your pathetic attempts to solicit women for sex consistently fail. In the end, you hang yourself from the rafters to end your dissatisfaction with the fat wreck you’ve become, instead of going outside and getting some fucking exercise.

And hey…

I’ll see you in Hell.

These bottles were so fucking cool. I wish everything still came in them.

This is the second of the Tree Brewing beers I’ve tried. The label immediately brought to mind the self-righteously consumerist ‘buy everything that looks local so we can have the complete experience’ tourists who frequent some of the nicer parts of British Columbia, very much like the Thirsty Beaver.

Personally, I have a preference for lagers, pilsners and bocks, so I tried not to let myself be biased for this one over the Tree Brewing ale. However, I still came to the conclusion that the pilsner is better all-round – it depends more on being typical of the the simplest and most common type of beer, whereas the ale weakly attempts to imitate more complex products with a more refined target demographic – of which I am not a part.

I did find the pilsner significantly more bitter than I expect such a light beer to be, which, in context with the flavour of the beer, was not a bad thing.

It depresses me that I no longer have either of these cans; when I get depressed, I want to drink heavily.

This ale is produced by Tree Brewing, which operates out of BC.

Now, most of BC’s independent beer is a few notches above the generic swill that permeates less cultured parts of Canada. I don’t know about American beer, but I’m not real keen on Miller Genuine either. I think, from what I’ve tried, Tree Brewing is closest to what I drank when I was 17, and had no money because I wasn’t peddling drugs or making a serious effort at finding work. Mooching off random people you barely know and mowing lawns for an exorbitant price doesn’t exactly net you a casket full of gold.

Anyway, it’s alright. A slight artificial-caramel flavour, with an unpleasant bitter aftertaste. Frankly, a lot of the ales I’ve had are bitter, and in most cases it doesn’t make me like the beer any less. Unfortunately, in this case, it was a vile, metallic bitterness than resulted in my assessment of this beer as an above-average novelty. As I said, it’s certainly drinkable, but it doesn’t rank with the better micro-brews.

You know, even though I know there are only, like, two or three of you, I want to abruptly conclude by thanking you for reading these reviews. I’m gonna go take a nap now.

Oh yeah. The can.

Wait, you can't see the label from here. Hang on.

Right, here it is. Apparently also comes in bottles.

As anyone with a functioning brain will attest, beer is simply the most wonderful thing ever created (other than boobies and doobies, and possibly other things that simply kick more ass than beer – this is merely a technicality, however.)  The Germans (and Dutch), known for their obsessive commitment to beer purity (so obsessive that at one point that shit was law), craft fine sweet-tasting light beers that make my cock tingle with excitement. Krombacher is one such beer. If I told you any more we’d have your cock (or cunt) tingling too, which would be SO gay, and so I will leave my review at this: in the broad spectrum of Germanic-type beers, this is one of them. And don’t touch my wiener.

Aww, beer and glass, together forever

Heineken is just ‘one of those beers’. Everyone has heard of it, and personally I’ve never met someone who hasn’t tried it.

To be fair, after the first whiff you don’t need a sip to imagine the horror and depression that will plague you for the rest of your life.

As you crack the cap, those in the room with weaker constitutions may vomit instantly. If you are not one of them, congratulations. You get to take the first sip.

Theoretically, Heineken is a lager. As far as I’m concerned, it’s more like a cat piss-er. Ha ha.

Seriously, the taste of cat piss permeates this beverage. Yet, it isn’t as bad as you might have expected. You may still have lunch inside of you by this point. This leads me to my next observation.

It’s obvious that the government puts chemicals in Heineken to make you want fifty more. Let me elaborate: I spent three hours plowing through two cases of this stuff, and with every sip I would scream expletives at the top of my lungs and crack another bottle as the tears began to roll down my face – and yet, when most of the beer was gone, I cried deeply as I’ve never cried before. Not even for her.

I wrote a letter to Jimmy Carter demanding that I be sent a dozen more cases, as drinking is my constitutional right, but his aide wrote me back to inform me that Carter had been an American president nearly thirty years ago, and that he wasn’t really authorized to fulfill my request. So that idea went out the window in a porcelain box. Kind of like the aide, after I found him and tore out his spleen.

Being pretty wasted by this point, I forgot what I was doing and opened about three more bottles without realizing I hadn’t finished several of them. Then I peed in them, drank them, peed in them again and threw them into the landlords’ yard. That chain of events brings us to the present.

… I just woke up and I think I’ve soiled myself. There’s an eviction notice under my door.

Eventually I decided to throw the glass away and just put my mouth over the tap.

In the beginning, there were the French.

Actually that’s a load of bullshit, but I do know this beer is allegedly French. My bottles claim to be from 1664, but I’m pretty sure they’re just yanking my dick.

Now, if you were expecting these to be sissy bitch reviews with shit like ‘mouthfeel’ and ‘head’ in them… then you, my friend, are two things:

Dead wrong, and

a complete fag for homoerotic terminology.

Kronenbourg is a pale lager, barely translucent dark gold in colour, which tastes slightly heavier than it looks. While the flavour has a complexity which is lacking in many other European lagers – at least those commonly found in Canada – it’s fairly muddled and indistinct, with a peppery sharpness that places this beer firmly in my ‘occasional’ category.

The glass was free with purchase! Also comes in half-litre cans.

In my opinion, this is not an ideal beer to get drunk on. Unlike most lighter beers, it causes me to wake up with an unpleasant taste in my excessively dry mouth, and a diminished sense of taste for the remainder of the day. However, it’s excellent for lame-ass fags who want to share a six-pack with their ‘buddies’.

Personally, I like to get sloshed, write a review about it and pass out halfway through, wake up covered in vomit and try to finish it off by making crude comments about the reader’s sexual orientation.

And by buddies I mean fuckbuddies.

Male fuckbuddies.

Because you’re a gay man, and a woman would never suffer the offensive nature of this website.

Periodically, my colleagues and I will get ragingly drunk. Given our usual proclivity, when under the influence, for behaviour attributable to a mentally handicapped chimpanzee, we decided it would be fortuitous to post slurred reviews of our chosen poison whenever possible.

I hope our drinking problem amuses you, dear reader. I know it amuses me.