Vomit

Let it be known again: I am not a beer snob. Or a food snob. Or a nitpicker when it comes to head-exploding bullets. I don't claim to be an expert on matters gastrointestinal or military; all I want is to be sated, whether it's relaxing on my sofa with a belly full of Budweiser and pig's feet or watching some poor fellow's gray matter erupt out of the back of his head like a geyser. I don't ask for much.

Yet here I sit, making love to the Internet like Jarobi on the phone, and for what reason? Truth. Always, always truth.

Yesterday Legs bought a six-pack of "Taiwan Beer," sold at Home Plus and, I imagine, Hades.

Hey, I drink Korean beer, which is pretty much the brewing equivalent of a third-grade vinegar-and-baking-soda science fair volcano. I'm pretty easy, like Sunday morning and shoplifting. Make it cold and make it foamy -- that's all I ask.

Enter: "Taiwan Beer." Now, I don't want to disparage the good people of Taiwan...but if that's what they're drinking, at least one good thing could arise from a Chinese invasion. I'm just saying.

Apparently, Monde Selection, some sort of international food-and-beverage quality institute, gave TAIWAN BEER their Grand Gold Medal, although the can doesn't specify which year. Shows you how discerning Monde Selection is. The runner-up that year was probably some pilsner brewed in a bathroom stall at Samgakji Station.

Sorry...I have to cut this short...I drank three of those fuckers, you see, and now I have to barf.

Like I said, I'm not a beer snob.