2.18.2015 | Issue #11

Dear Budweiser, 


We’ll admit it, as far as commercials go, this one is pretty fucking slick. Yours usually are; there’s nothing like well-placed Clydesdales or puppies or frogs or rugged man-farmers in coveralls to make us wanna get down with the most Captain America of beers. The hot waitress, the strangely manicured chill bros, the pulsing house music, it’s great. Kudos. We're sure it cost many Hollywood-style duffel bags of cold hard cash to make. 

One question: which douchebag in the room decided the only way to come on like gangbusters to an audience of a gajillion people would be to equate liking good beer to being a mustachioed pussy? Or something. Wait. Don't real men have mustaches? And uh, give a shit about what they drink? Also, wymyn don't drink brewskies because the aggressive golden suds of 1876 are too much for their wee tums. 

Plenty of people, some very qualified and some less so, have already aired their grievances against your Superbowl showboating—everyone from Carla Jean Lauter over at The Beer Babe to Jim Vorel at Paste—and you’ve even managed to smoke out a few folks who were so put off by the resounding outrage that they came out on your side in spite of themselves. We could do the same, but we'd rather sit you down and have a look at what's really bothering that frantic little head of yours. You're like that co-worker currently firing off scans of your ass on the company letterhead at the holiday party. We don't really care what happens to you in the long run, really, but there's no need to embarrass yourself. 

Is it market share? Oh honey, you're losing market share because the old you is no longer a market fit! You know that, your therapist knows that, and everyone grabbing Sierra Nevada or Shiner or Goose Island as their new kegger go-to knows that. You've already made so much progress on that front: what about Rebecca Reid? You brought her on in 2013 to head up that little pilot brewery you started next door, in an effort to make what? Craft beer. Peppermint stout, gingerbread, raisin, and apple-pie ales: what you just deemed hipster swill, basically. You've got smart people working for you, and smart people you've already acquired in an effort to get with it. Why the vitriol? 

A rising tide lifts all boats, said JFK and probably some ancient philosopher who forgot to write it down. We've all seen the future: great beer is the norm. It's accessible, it's freakin' delicious, frat bros love it, and the barrier to entry you're trying so hard to rail against doesn't exist. Nobody understands what you're doing when you trumpet yourself as the shittier—but classic!—choice of ignorami everywhere. Continue to elevate what you offer; don't scour for bottom-feeders to have your back. 

Because if you don't believe you're worth savoring, what's left?