Our country has witnessed its fair share of trials and tribulations lately. We have endured wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. We have lived under the near-constant threat of terrorist attack at home. Many young Americans have heard the call to serve and, stirred by love of country and a deep sense of patriotic duty, they have responded. Some have served in the Army, others in the Marines. As for myself, I have served Coors Light.
I am proud to serve my country beer.
Our nation nobly faces any challenge with chins out and backs straight. We don’t back down, no matter how daunting the task before us. For this reason alone, I serve pitcher after pitcher of beer at P.J.’s Pub, cooling the throats and fevered minds of a nation bearing the heavy burden of adversity.
My family has a long tradition of service to this country. At the height of the Great Depression, my great-grandfather served bathtub gin in a Chicago speakeasy. During WWII, my grandfather served beer at a Coney Island snack bar. During Vietnam, my father pretended he was gay so he could stay in the States and serve beer to a nation torn in two by an unpopular war. And now it’s my turn. When history called, I did not turn a deaf ear. I enlisted at my local tavern and began the task of serving beer to my fellow Americans.
It’s not easy. Sometimes, your back aches from hauling kegs up from the basement cooler. Other times, you have to deal with people who are drunk, surly, or violent. Then there are the times when you’re ready to throw in the bar rag because of that jackass at the corner table who comes in every night and never tips you. It’s times like these that I look at the red, white, and blue of the Pabst Blue Ribbon can, and a feeling of patriotism wells up in my breast. I know that duty calls, and I must soldier on.
We live in troubled times. People are confused and anxious—and understandably so. These are the days that, for better or worse, will define our generation. Will we be remembered as cowards who tucked our tails between our legs and ran home sober? Or will we enter the pantheon of heroes, making our way to the local tavern so we can show our enemies that we will not be denied in our thirst for victory and beer? For me, the answer is obvious. I will extend my hands to one and all, each fist grasping a tall, frosty mug of ice-cold beer.
If you want a beer, stand up and be heard over the din of loud conversations and noisy jukeboxes. I, for one, will step to the front of the line and proudly serve all those who ask, provided they have ID. Rich or poor, black or white, hearty lager drinkers or lite-beer tipplers, they are all Americans, and they all want beer. Some may shy away from the call to serve, but this proud citizen will never dodge the Miller Genuine Draft.
