Colin Joliat
If you haven’t had a Mickey’s 40 in awhile, it might be time to revisit the green-bottled gutbuster.
Back in the day, which according to Dane Cook, who may or may not still be alive, was a Wednesday, I celebrated every Friday with a forty or four. Granted I drank at least six days a week because it was college and that’s what you did in college, but something about alliteration makes booze better. Tiki Tuesday. Boxed Wine Wednesday. Forty Friday. See what I mean? Well, it’s time to bring back the tradition, one forty at a time.
My quest to reinvigorate the great forty friday pastime was met with some initial resistance. It turns out that I live in the Communist Russia portion of Chicago because there were no forties to be found. 7-Eleven. Walgreens. CVS. Jewel. Nowhere. I even checked a place that looked like a sketchy liquor store on the bad side of the street only to find they don’t sell booze at all. What the hell has happened to this once great country?
Fortunately there’s a 7-Eleven every other block, and the 2nd one I tried happened to have three different 40s from which to choose. That’s a huge disappointment considering this is going to be a weekly feature, but at least the green-bottled greatness was there to greet me. Hello Mickey’s my old friend…
Great news, folks! For those of you prone to dropping things when you’re drunk, Mickey’s 40s now come in plastic bottles. This is the greatest invention since the Popov’s plastic half-gallon. Never again will you suffer the indignity of not only wasting beer from a broken bottle, but then also having to sweep up those delicious beer-tear covered glass shards. It’s like Miller Brewing Company knew you couldn’t be trusted. If you had a decent pair of hands you’d be drinking High Life.
As a wise man once said, “There are some things in this world, Captain Niobe, that will never change.” That man was obviously talking about the experience of opening a Mickey’s. I was immediately transported back to my frat house days of yesteryear the instant the seal was broken. The smell is unmistakeable. Regret.
Why did I buy this thing? What good could possibly come from malt liquor? Why does my drink smell like a beer-soaked floor that hasn’t been cleaned by anyone but pledges in the last 3 years? The reason, my friends, is 5.6% happiness.
Back when Mickey’s was the apex predator of the beer world, stalking from dorm to dorm leaving pools of vomitous destruction in its wake, no one drank craft beer. You didn’t pull a Goose Island Bourbon County Brand Stout out of your cellar when you wanted to get drunk off beer. No. You grabbed a 40 of malt liquor. That’s because the light beer you drank the other 5+ nights per week was an embarrassing 4.3% ABV. You could drink Beast Light all day and not get half as drunk as you would from two Mickey’s 40s, and Fridays weren’t a day for half-assing things.
Fortunately Mickey’s, with it’s barely-an-upgrade 5.6% ABV, doesn’t taste as bad as it smells. The predominant flavor is insolence, but I also detected subtle hints of despair and a whisper of sadness. The fight or flight response hits during the mid-palate along with cloves. The finish is long and hard, unlike yourself after drinking two of them. The burning contempt lingers in your throat seemingly forever.
At the end of the day, I’d give Mickey’s 4 out of 4 40s. It’s a stellar example of why I miss college and forty friday, and a good reminder that I’d die within 72 hours if I ever went back again.
*This is in no way an ode
