Bacardi Silver O3
Claims to have the natural flavors of Mandarin, Tangerine and Valencia Oranges, but after three sips all you'll be tasting is pussy, bro. Get a case of this crap, a 14-foot-long ice cream truck that plays "Gimme the Light" by Sean Paul real loud and drive around a high school parking lot. In no time, this sweet orange nectar will have half the parking lot in heat and you live the dream, bro. Live the dream.

Rating: Revenge.

Mike's Hard Lemonade
Wharp! You can actually hear your asshole close tight when you drink this. We're not saying this is too sour, but after we drank it, our prostates filed for drought relief from FEMA. A brush fire actually engulfed our hemorrhoids. Our penis turned brittle and developed four layers of crust. Smokey the Bear showed up and declared our taint an official danger zone. Mercifully, we lathered the inflicted area with asbestos and flushed it with a vat of aloe. Pucker up!

Rating: Sterilized.

Edison Light Beer
The label looks promising, but if Thomas Edison invented a light beer, I don't think it would be this beer, because this has all the electricity of a wind up car. It's just like dating a 23-year-old cokehead. Sure, it's all trendy looking, sitting there in front of ya, dwittering like mad, twattering off about politics, promising all this historically important premium level fucking -- but in the end it's just some hyped up dude with a limp dick in thrift store clothing.

Rating: Assy.

Smirnoff Ice
Oooh. This is smooth. Super smooth. If pudding could doodie, it wouldn't come out this smooth. I know any man who has to shave his face shouldn't enjoy Smirnoff Ice so much, but hey, I took one sip and my virility's still intact. In fact, I'm so confident in my masculinity right now that I'd probably let Vladmir Putin and Yakoff Smirnoff (no relation) paint my toenails fuschia and massage my inner thighs with Aloe Vera. So, cheers you hairy, fur-hatted Commies!

Rating: Drago.

St. Pauli Girl
Most people don't know this, but the St. Pauli Girl on the bottle is actually being licked by an Aryan gentleman named Thor, who is hiding just underneath the logo. Of course, she's German, so she gassed him afterwards. Fortunately, the nectar of cyanide that drips from her love produces the bittersweet aftertaste of St. Pauli Girl. It consistently hits the G-spot, though, in a rough, repetitive manner that leaves your tongue stale, jaw numb and everyone unhappy. But if this is the best you can do in a pinch -- it even smells like fish!

Rating: Lapping.

Del's Double Barrel Hard Lemonade
I don't know what the hell kind of natural flavors are out there in Wilkes Barre, Pa., but they taste suspiciously like Mr. Clean. Not only does this so-called beverage taste like ammonia, the little skins floating around in there make it kind of crunchy, kind of flaky, and generally off-putting. Then again, if you're a janitor with a scathing case of eczema who likes huffing paint and bathing in urine -- hey, this might be the shit.

Rating: Pine Sol with Lemon.

Summer Lightning
Ah, those wonderful summer thunderstorms. They break the humidity at just the right time -- a great departure from running through sprinklers, barbecues, and the menacing, unrelenting July heat. Time for indoor games. And while something called "Summer Lightning" seems perfect for such moments, it's about as satisfying as a vibrator made of hummus. Sure, the bottle's gi-nor-mous and it's got fucking lightning on it -- but this beer's bland, uninspired taste made me curl up with Emily Dickinson's poetry and toss in that Hayden record for kicks. Damn you Summer Lightning! I have lost my will to live. Forever.

Rating: Bud Dwyer.

Captain Morgan's Gold
In the 120-degree heat, Larry's giant-sized rum and coke sat sweltering in the driver's side cupholder, ice cubes slowly watering down the beverage until it was a mellow tan color. Next to the cup, in the passenger's side seat, lay the limp, bloated hulk of Shiela, Larry's recently deceased German Shepherd-Poodle mix. Won't Larry be surprised when he gets back from the mall! His rum and coke will taste exactly like Captain Morgan's Gold!

Rating: Poor Sheila.

Victory Whirlwind Witbier
V is for victory! V is for vagina! V is for "Victory Whirlwind Witbiershnauzerfuttenumlaut," or whatever they call this thing. Oh baby, I've taken 14 sips of this spicy, nutty, little fruit Nazi and feel completed revitalized. There's a spring in my step, a rise in my shorts, and there are no police around to arrest me for pleasuring myself in public. I shall flog, and flog hard. And after every masterful, delicate stroke, I shall sip this beer. Welcome to Graceland, Pricilla! Show me the throne!

Rating: One sock on.

Twisted Tea -- Hard Iced Tea
Remember when you'd go to the beach with your little plastic bucket and shovel? I used to look in the rocks for crabs and shit. Back before my balls dropped, I didn't like iced tea. Sure grandma sucked it down like Metamucil, but I thought it tasted like the water from my watercolor set. I was totally copacetic with my fucking my Kool-Aid. But times changed, I grew pubes, and actually started to like iced tea. Just not this crap. Suddenly I'm eight again and some woman who smells like moth balls won't give me my fucking Kool-Aid.

Rating: Inadequate.

Woody's Ice Hard Orange
Hi. My name's Woody. I'm an ice beer with a "hard orange" nickname. I'm what happens when Tropicana and Zima sport-fuck in Cancun for three days. And you know what? I taste pretty damn goooooood. Go ahead. Lift me up. Put your lips up to mine. Citrus, right? Refreshing, right? Just drink all of me, enjoy me, and don't ever mention my name again to anyone, including your friends. Everybody has a "camp" experience right? Well you just had yours.

Rating: Suppressed.

Sam Adams Summer Ale
My left testicle may be hanging out of my little white shorts, but why should I care? I have a $400,000 fiberglass boat and a Sam Adams Summer Ale in my hand. If my sister's husband doesn't want to see my hairy ball, he doesn't have to look at it. After all this is my goddamned boat, I fucking paid for it and if my fat ass slut of a sister doesn't like it, she can fucking swim back to shore. This is my damned boat. This is my damned beer.

Rating: It's MY Boat. Mine.

Stone IPA
This beer is from India and is classified as a "pale ale," but lemme tell you, ain't nothing pale about India. This "Stone IPA" -- which sounds like the name of low-level wrestling tag team -- is an Indian manifesto, complete with arranged marriage and appropriate dowry. She might get the cattle and the 20 acres, but in this situation, let's just call you Pakistan. You have the bombs, you have the unhinged citizenship, and, most important, you have international amnesty and good will to throw some shit down stealth-like. I got your flying rug right here, Apu! We've got nukes, fuckface. Sit on this! America rules!

Rating: Atomic.

Woodchuck Drift Cider
This beer was brewed in Vermont, and wouldn't you know it? It tastes like the flesh of a Phish phan who's still roaming around the woods because he just loves nature and, oh, uh, isn't really down with the nine-to-five thing. Rejoice! You want cider? This cider just penetrated your earlobe, and hey, you know what? It tastes like chicken. You still liking nature, you foliage fucker?

Rating: Organic

Warfteiner
"Premium verum." That's what this bottle of this East German beer says. Here's what that might mean:
1) White power.
2) Down with Jews.
3) If we fought again, you Western fucks, we'd win.
4) Boy, how funny is David Hasselhoff?
5) Dirk Nowitzki is God.
6) Your girlfriend would be much happier with me.
7) We know this is shitty beer, but when you're this busy Heiling, who has time to brew?

Rating: Germans!

Mike's Hard Iced Tea
Ahh. College. Plastic cups, stamped hands and roofies. This hard little beverage is for those guys who rocked out to the Doors and Eminem and the Beastie Boys a little too much. You can hear it coming from their porches all summer long.

Rating: NO FEAR.

Pete's Wicked Summer Brew
This beah is wicked pissah. It's almost as if the So-ax won the fuckin' World Series. It's what every beah would taste like if Derek Jeetah got hit by a cah. It's like a Nomah homah. It's like Fenway Pahk in the summahtime. Like a day game when the So-ax are wicked good and the homahs are flyin' outta the pahk like theah's no tomorrow, brothah. Honest to gawd. It's that wicked pissah. You bettah get some for your next cookout or it's gonna be fuckin' retahded.

Rating: Pissah.

Saison
Christ. Is this a fashion show? What's with the French stuff? I'm just trying to drink my beer, get my ol' drunk on, and then "SY-ZON "comes around. Is there anything more unappealing then a beer that comes off with this much pretension and then completely shits the bed? If you're going to get all haughty-taughty on me, then at least give me something with a flavor. I'd rather be Christopher Reeve's badminton partner than drink this silly poodle-combing excuse for an alcoholic beverage.

Rating: Pret a Porter

ZIMA
Like affirmative action, Regis Philbin, and other things that have been around for a surprisingly long time, the Zima still exists. Since this whole icey-fruity-Spritey-thingee sufaced three years ago, the big "Z" is not as unappealing as it used to be. Progress. It's summer time! Throw some burgers on the grill, suck me off, and have some fun.

Rating: Now, Regis! Now!