Miller High Life is a beer with roots in the land of Laverne and Shirley, but many a Beer Nerd instinctively frowns upon this fine brew, the way nerds genetically hate jocks, popular music and wedgies.
Here’s the thing, though: There isn’t a Beer Nerd alive who wouldn’t bake a batch of cookies in his pants if a big-breasted bartender in a bikini jerked a High Life from a tub of ice, popped the cap off under her cleavage and slid it down the bar until it crashed into his giant basket of bbq ribs. This is how High Life is to be served.
And it is good.
It tastes like the air at a tailgate. There are subtle notes of those panties you stole from the drier that belong to the girl across the hall — and of bowling. The finish is as smooth as champagne. (That’s right. I said it.) Not everything should taste like it was toasted with hints of chocolate and honey and flowers and grapefruit. Sometimes, simple is best. There is no taste-bud riddle to solve, no way to impress your friends with your sudsy insight. This beer only complements what you forked off the grill, but it does so in a way that gets you wasted and makes you fall asleep on a folding lawn chair. There is nothing more pleasurable in life.
Miller High Life probably has a fantastic pour. I bet the head is crazytimes! But no beer expert in the world knows what the pour is like, and never will. Pouring this beer disqualifies you from expertdom. It is only to be quaffed from its ice-cold, classic bottle, which is an epic nod to the power of packaging. The tapered neck is as seductive as the woman riding sidesaddle on the label’s crescent moon. That’s right, take a good look. This beer-goggler is double-fisting in the stars, Beer Nerds. And she likes you. She likes you a whole lot. She’s just waiting for you to make a wish.
The a-holes at Beer Advocate give it a C, but fuck that — this beer isn’t for them, anyway.