Dyarr it be true? Well, blow me down! I thought it just be a dream, matey. I’ve already sailed the seven seas, but if there be such a thing as Milwaukee’s Best Dry, I’ll make another body of water and cleave it with my own hands, all for the taste of recycled Miller Lite.
I’m a sea captain, and I’m telling you, Milwaukee’s Best isn’t just for college freshmen anymore. It’s also for pirates.
I’ve drunk every variety of grog, whiskey and rum known to man. I’ve even had Hamm’s Ice, me hearties. But never have I quaffed a combination of seaweed and urine-soaked brine. That’s what I imagine Milwaukee’s Best Dry is like, and I can’t think of anything tastier.
My men tell me this cannot exist, but they can suck it. I know different. I’ve been to the lost city of Atlantis. I’ve sailed off the edge of the map and reappeared on the other side. I’ve seen with my one good eye that pirates and mermaids are sexually compatible. Oh, it exists.
Swash my buckle and shiver me timbers! For this sweet nectar I would saw my leg off below the knee and attach a wooden peg if I hadn’t done so already. To both legs. Yarrrr!
I would poke out my one good eye and live a life of blinded tomfoolery, as long as I had a cabin boy to pour Milwaukee’s Best Dry into my mouth. And if he lied by trying to pass off Heineken as my dream beer, I’d attach an anchor to his private parts and push him overboard. It’s a win either way.
You think wearing two eye patches will stop me? I have bigger things to worry about, like killer squids, ghost ships and an astonishing shortage of lackluster beer.
And you just know that ghost pirates only drink imported. I hate to stereotype, but when everything you drink passes through your ectoplasm only to splash on the floor, you become a snob. Well, I drink Keystone Light and I enjoy the taste—snobbery be impossible for me.
And if that don’t satisfy ye, you poxy landlubber, I’ll make out with my trusty parrot, One-Eyed Pete, all for the taste of—oh, right. I’ve done that, too.
Okay, I’d take my first mate and ravish him like a salty tart, but you already be suspecting as much, don’t ye? It’s how pirates roll. When you sail the open seas, the policy is simple: don’t be asking, don’t be telling, or it’s a scabbard in your soup.
Yarr! Yo-ho! My men and I have tilted many a glass of Milwaukee’s Best, and we relish its flavor like no other. It’s a delightful mixture of salt and urine that puckers the face and gives you the squirts. Perfect fare for a pirate.
When you’re sailing the raging seas, it takes the taste of death to make you feel alive. So if you’re telling me this same putrid taste exists in a dryer version, then avast the sails and hoist the mizzenmasts, because I’ve made it my life’s quest to find the foulest drink on the globe, and this beer be it.
Yes, ’tis just a fortnight since we last “unleashed the Beast.” We had just blown a hole the size of Calcutta in the side of the “Poxy Salt,” a vessel captained by “Orange Goatee” himself, when we stormed the ship, cutlasses in mouth, and carved those men into salami.
‘Twere a risky venture, but they had valuable cargo on board: buried treasure, gunpowder and treasure maps aplenty.
My men wanted to take this booty and head back to shore, but I told them—screw that, we’re taking this crate of Milwaukee’s Best and drinking it until we hallucinate.
For the next 10 days there was revelry, dancing monkeys and sea chanteys — 42 drunken seamen enjoying the company of their fellow men, telling tall tales and playing the accordion badly.
We enjoyed unleashing the Beast so much, we didn’t mind the next morning when the Beast unleashed itself back upon us. The seas turned brown those mornings, my friends.
I can’t think of a better way to get seasick than with Milwaukee’s Best. It surely be a pirategasm in a can.
And Milwaukee’s Best Dry is scarcer, ergo better. Don’t test my logic, matey. I play a fun drinking game called “Dare or Dare,” because I already know the truth.
In 37 years of pirateering, I’ve seen it all. I’ve witnessed scurvy turn hearty men into dehydrated Triscuits. I’ve looted and pillaged from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. I’ve made thousands walk the plank. Heck, I’ve even walked it a few times myself, just to shake things up.
But never have I tasted this particular flavor of cheap, mass-produced beer, the kind of stuff they soak up off the brewery floor and squeeze into cans, and I swear I will pursue this mythical creature until my dying day.
Yesterday my swab handed me a telescope, muttering something about the discovery of “The New World.” F that noise, I said—discover my beer, then we’ll talk.
So tell me the truth, landlubber: does Milwaukee’s Best Dry even exist? My men say no, but my heart says yes. Be honest with me. Don’t be yanking my leg, because I don’t have any real ones left.
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