Let’s Drink Beer – Natural Ice (40 oz) by Anheuser-Busch
Colloquially known as “Natty Ice,” this beer is reviled for its rancid taste and putrid scent.
Let’s drink it!
But like, a 40 instead of a can. (Source)
First, I just want to say that I am a man who has made many mistakes in his life. Undoubtedly you already know this, as I am drinking a 40 oz. of Natty Ice. However, I have also had my share of other, possibly worse 40s. My point is this – I don’t want you to think that I am going into this with a closed mind. I have been surprised by beers before, even after hearing awful things about them. I will do my best to be fair.
At the same time, I have left the brown paper bag on the 40, because the sight of the label makes my body feel flushed with fever. I might have some deep-seated, intrinsic survival instinct that desperately wants me to not drink this Natty Ice. But I am not a body! I am a mind and a soul, and in the interests of the higher purpose of all mankind (which can be reduced to “Is this beer good or not?”), I will drink it.
So help me God, I will drink it.
I swear on the holy book of my people that I will drink this Natty Ice. (Source)
It’s 5.9% ABV.
When it is first poured out of the bottle, oozing out like so much sewage, it’s almost half head. It takes about thirty seconds for it to reduce down.
It is a dark yellow color. Holding the beer up to my computer screen, I can just barely read words through it.
I smells like skunk piss that’s been sitting out in the hot sun for days. I could make this smell only my mixing twenty beers that had already gone bad, adding a splash of rotten milk, and then throwing up in it. Things I put in my body shouldn’t smell like this.
A rare shot of Natty Ice being brewed. (Source)
Give me a minute or two to really knuckle down and gather my courage to drink this.
Well. That’s . . . that’s not the worst thing. It’s very watery. There’s little taste to speak of. It leaves a faint tingle on the center of the tongue. However! It’s pretty cold right now. I like my 40s almost ice cold. That way I can pretend to be Mr. Freeze and say things like “Ice to meet you!” (out loud but to myself, because who drinks 40s where other people can see you?).
I’m about half-way through the bottle. I’ll let the rest warm up and see how it goes. In the mean time I guess I’ll just chill out (ha ha!).
Bleaaahhggghh. I know what Satan’s asshole tastes like. I’ve looked into the dark abyss between stars, found the ancient garbage heap of dead space-faring civilizations, and licked it. I’ve had the ashes of ten thousand worlds in my mouth, and all of them were called Natural Ice.
There is no way that Natural Ice isn’t on a list somewhere, as a substance that is considered chemical warfare. There are men in prison somewhere, awaiting trial for crimes against humanity, just because they let prisoners at Guantanamo Bay have a sip of this foul poison.
Grover is haunted by the things he has seen as a guard at Gitmo. (Source)
How can I, a mere mortal, accurately describe how truly horrifying a warm Natty Ice tastes? You’ve tasted something gross in your life, I’m sure. Picture the face you made. I made that face, one billion times harder. I immediately grew four extra faces all over my body, all of them frozen in that rictus of terror. This witches’ brew has made me monstrous, and yet how I appear on the outside is nothing compared to the pangs of agony inflicted upon my soul.
I’m almost finished with the beer now. I took the paper bag off. I was compelled to look at the bottle. The more I drink, the more certain I am that there are hidden messages on the label.
It occurs to me that the dumb drinking game, ‘Bros Icing Bros,’ focused on Smirnoff Ice and not Natty Ice. Was it because Smirnoff Ice was considered a drink for women? No, no. Perhaps on the surface, yes. But at the heart of it is the simple fact that Natty Ice cannot be a part of any game, nor of anything so light-hearted as a joke between friends.
I peer at the label. The answer is here, I am sure. It tells me something, it speaks of a tragedy that humanity is not ready for, some vile secret that was left out of even the Bible, for fear that its’ madness would be infectious. Are those hieroglyphs, under the label? They seem to glow with a sickly light. It shines with the purple-brown of a serious bruise that surrounds a broken bone.
It churns in my stomach. Natty Ice has a life of its own. No mere alcohol have I ingested here – like Socrates, I have willingly drunk of death itself. It is a parasite, a lowly worm of limited intelligence. But powerful!
Yes, just like this. (Source)
I have returned from the Pit to warn you. Humanity must beware. Heed my words. I beg of you.
No. Focus. I must tell it in sequence.
I had just finished it – that hideous drink. It was done. I wished that I had possessed wisdom to eat garbage instead, or chew on broken glass. Either would have been a better experience.
As the last drops trickled into my mouth, direct from the bottle, the symbols behind the label flashed brightly. Disoriented, I reach out for support. I found none and stumble, almost fall. I was no longer in my room.
Wind blasted across this broken land, as hot as a raging volcano. Everywhere was shattered rock, weathered and rough. There was no sky, only more stone, jagged obsidian all about me.
Along one distant wall of the cavern, a line of ragged people shuffled hunch-backed towards what appeared to be a pool of water. But as I breathed in, I realized – Natty Ice. Everywhere. The reek of it fouled the air, even in the hot rushing wind. Boiling Natty Ice.
Bottle still in hand, I leaned to the side and vomited. I splatter the rocks with filth, and it seems an improvement. Anything but this wasted hell.
Something surged over the rocks towards me. A creeping, writhing thing, like a worm but imprinted all along its body with faces contorted in infernal pain. I recognized the agony on those faces – the same that anyone makes when drinking Natty Ice.
Only the haze of confusion that the Natty Ice had draped over my mind held madness at bay. I fled.
Close enough! Any more detail and you, too, would walk the edge of madness. (Source)
Like a coward, I forced myself to my feet and ran. Over the sharp stones, down narrow corridors, I made my ever upward, panicked at the thought of being stuck down in that rough prison.
I emerged in a ruined city at night. The stars frowned coldly on high as I raced through the streets. Rusting cars and bones, bones, bones everywhere. And still the foul scent of warm Natty Ice in the air. And it isn’t until I found her that I knew I saw the future.
I fell to my knees. I had made it to the ocean – such ocean as there was. Here the stink of Natty Ice was even stronger, and I saw by the foam of the waves that there was not water here, only more Natty Ice. All of it, from shore to the dark horizon; nothing but Natty. And, silhouetted in the distant starlight, there she was.
Her right arm was raised to hold up a torch. Her left hand held a tablet. She wore a crown, but it was all wrong. The spikes of the crown were made of Natty Ice bottles. And though she was half buried in the beach sand, a plaque was propped up against her. I could only make out some of the words – the top half was in shadows, but the bottom was illuminated – but they were enough.
“. . . your thirsty, your drunk,
Your foolish masses yearning to drink cheap,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the hopeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my bottle beside the infernal door!”
I wept. Unashamedly, I wept. “You maniacs!” I cried through the tears. “You drank it up. Oh, damn you! God damn you all to hell!” I beat the sand with my fist, not realizing I still had the Natty Ice bottle in it. The second time it hit the sand, it shattered.
Yeah, I still make Planet of the Apes jokes. Cutting edge here, folks. (Source)
Above the sound of the crashing Natty-waves, I heard a roar that would put the loudest shout of the Sun to shame. It shook me to my core, rattled my bones, quavered in my soul. The beach trembled. The waves shivered apart, and the ocean was a mass of thrashing foam.
The world was swirling before my eyes. I looked up, and the stars were vanishing. Some immense thing was coming between them and I, something with a long thin neck that widened down towards . . . oh, Lord, why have you forsaken me?
Natty Ice. It was a Natty Ice bottle. Larger than a continent, it loomed over me, descending faster than possible. I tried to pray for mercy but the words caught in my throat. I choked of the overpowering stench of Natty Ice. And above me, the presence loomed ever closer, all its alien rage narrowed down to me.
And then I was back in my room. The sordid joke was over.
I come to you now, reader, with an earnest plea in my heart. Don’t. Don’t ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever drink Natty Ice. More than just your health depends on it. The very future of the human race may rest on your decision – yours alone!
There is some other pattern hidden in Natty Ice, nested in the shadows of the ethanol inside it. A foreign intellect has coded instructions directly onto the molecules of this hideous liquid. Am I already lost? I, who has spiraled out into that one possible future and been reeled back in by luck or coincidence? Am I to be the lone prophet, a single warrior against the surging tides of insanity which even now wear down the shores of logic and righteousness? I have passed through Hell, but is Heaven barred to me? Am I tainted, simply by sampling the ambrosia of evil?
I have returned from that dark possibility. But always I feel the pressure on my mind. It could be, voices whisper in my mind. I remember the human-shapes slouching towards a lake of Natty Ice in that reeking underground Hell. I see crumbling towers, forgotten monuments perverted, and that vast vile ocean.
I beg of you. Follow the righteous path. Drink any other swill.
Never Natty Ice.
I give Natural Ice my lowest rating – eight stars out of ten.
This beer gave me the chills! Ha ha! (Source)