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I drink Rolling Rock. Compulsively. It is my beer of choice, the beer I grew up on, I love it.

The rest of the world, apparently, takes issue with my preferred beer. Friends, relations, total strangers have tried to convince me that I am somehow less of a person for drinking Rolling Rock. This is almost massively ironic, given that the aforementioned groups partake of a severely narrow portion of the wide spectrum of domestic beers, a portion that could be most accurately described as "swill."

I have had slobbering, quasi-coherent jocks clutching BUD ICE cans stumble up to me, peer angrily at my Rolling Rock in its elegantly painted bottle, and say something to the effect of "I question your manliness and your right to be present at this social gathering." which usually comes out as "I don't drink wiv no fackin pusshies. Get the fack outa my housh."

Ah, the very picture of elegance, sophistication, and eloquence I have come to associate with Bud drinkers.

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