Let's begin: Stella Artois. We all know what separates us from those who order (without thinking, mind you!) the mic-ultra at the long table: a complete and total superiority complex. That, along with the fact that we don't like the way animal feces taste will foster any sort of appreciation for real, live beer in anyone, no matter how hardcore the theta chi. Or Beta Phi. Or whatever. Listen, we're here to help, not hurt. At any rate, let's say you've always been on board with the theory that if you're going to take in over a hundred calories per bottle, or buy alcohol at a dollar per bottle, or have a large amount of glass per volume of trash your landlady (or, for argument's sake, your mom) will take to the dumpster per week, you might as well enjoy it--that's why we exist. And we wouldn't gain any ground with You, the consummate consumer, if we didn't at once and at last, review that yuppiest of yups beer, Stella Artois.We like it.
That's right, we like it. It's a golden ale that comes in a narrow, squarish green glassed bottle with a white label that boasts a beginning in 1366. It costs about fifteen (15) bucks a case, has a bit over 5.2% alc/vol, and it goes down quicker than you can say "abusive dependence." Even Murphy, the youngest of our judges, is going for it, which means it's Stella Artois, and we all like it, even you, you yuppie-wannabe indie-rocker George Wendt-wisher wallaby.
Even you.
