by SnakePlissken

Linkin Park. George W getting two terms. Surprise diarrhea. Justin Bieber haircuts. That stuff that forms at the edge of your lips when you’re really thirsty. Getting rid of the bodies. The smell of cat shit. The lack of new Quantum Leap episodes. Bleeding from my urethra. Other people’s farts. Low sodium soy sauce. The current trend of replacing “s” with “z” in fucking everything. Douchebagz who intentionally leave stickerz on their hatz. That guy who fucked me over on that sack I fronted him in 2000. Paper cuts. Wacky morning DJ’s. People who frown upon bad fucking words. Turkey bacon. That big mole on my back that most likely is cancerous. White guys with cornrows. These are all things I hate with a goddamn passion. Not quite “back a truck into a Luby’s Cafeteria and shoot everybody with a deer rifle” caliber homicidal irritation, but pretty close. Only two things are worse to me; Clamato and Budweiser. And now they’ve put them together and called it Chelada.



First off you might ask “what the fuck is Clamato?” Simply put, it’s a delightful blend of tomato juice concentrate and clam juice. Yeah, I’m serious. People drink this shit and like it. They must anyway; it’s been in production since 1969. Somehow I blame hippies for this. As for the Budweiser – it’s shit too but people also like it. People are stupid. That explains the whole “Linkin Park” and “George W getting two terms” thing I guess. But nothing can explain Chelada. It’s just two nasty beverages combined to make something even nastier. It’s like gene-splicing Hitler and Jessica Simpson together; just a bad idea all-around.

Since you fuckers like to see me suffer I went ahead and brought some to a recent shindig so I could at least make MisterSatan drink some of this nasty shit with me. He was less than thrilled with the idea to say the least. I was less than thrilled with the notion of even purchasing this stuff. It was more embarrassing than the first time I bought porno. Thank god I can just buy that stuff online these days. Now only the nice people at US Bank know I’m a dirty pervert.



The Pour

It pours out like any other shit American lager does, producing a slight and instant head that fades to nothing within moments. Normally I like my beer to produce a nice head, but frankly for this one the notion of clammy foam in my mustache makes me want to hoarke. And the color. Oh god, the color. Making a crude joke about that is just too easy.

The Aroma

Aroma is reserved for delightful beers full of robust malt character and hop deliciousness. This stuff has no aroma. It has a stink. Hints of Worcestershire, tomato, corn, and a big ole’ whiff of clam. I’ve got to say it’s really proper that it only comes from a can because frankly it smells like ass.



[As MisterSatan put it: "it smelled like a clam's hangover puke."]

The Flavor

SnakePlissken: “If you spilled this stuff accidentally I could easily see a janitor toddling in from out of no-where, sprinkling sawdust on it, and sweeping it up. It’s that terrible.”

MisterSatan: “It was like having an angry tomato piss right into your mouth.”

SnakePlissken: “It tastes like I went to an undersea kegger that vurped while going down on the little mermaid afterwards.”

MisterSatan: “I’m convinced ‘Chelada’ is Español for ‘projectile vomit’, or possibly even ‘unholy slurry’.”

The Verdict

A confirmed drain dumper, I deported this quickly to the PDX waste treatment center. I don’t throw away alcohol, but this one was gone in a second. This stuff is best reserved for bets or buying for underage kids when they give you a twenty and say “whatever.” That’s how you discourage youth drinking leaders of America. Chelada.

1/10

SnakePlissken can’t get the taste out of his mouth.

For further information on MisterSatan go to ShitRandyHates.com/ or consult your local library.