Normally here at The Greasy Skillet, we keep Mr. Crankypants away from the keyboard because we like to keep things positive. Lately though Mr. Crankypants has been rattling his cage and has been a bit unbearable. It all started this summer when he tried to purchase a new battery for his cordless. drill. He returned with a new drill and upset because purchasing a new one was cheaper than a new battery. He's grumbled all summer about our disposable society, landfills, the economy, the environment, and how the man's always backing him into a corner.
Consequently the we've agreed to give him his own regular post, something that would allow him to vent and curb his grumblings. We'll see how this goes.
The corporate boys at Coors are probably somewhere in Golden, Colorado, at this moment giving each other congratulatory back slaps for their recent stroke of ingenuity, a beer bottle label that turns blue when the beer reaches a suitable drinking temperature. I know the man at Coors is trying to persuade me to spend my hard-earned money on his product, but he’s only succeeding in pissing me off by insulting my intelligence. Here in Kansas we to ice our beer down well before we plan on drinking it. In addition to common sense, God blessed me with the sense of touch, so that I’m capable of grabbing a beer and gauging whether or not it’s a suitable drinking temperature. Just as I don't need a warning label telling me to not operate a backhoe after consuming a six pack, I don't need this label.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the demographic Coors is targeting is the same group who purchases this:
It’s also the same blindfolded demographic that eats processed Pizza Hut pasta in their own homes and who think they’re eating fine, handmade pasta in a fancy schmantzy restaurant. Don’t get me started on this idiocy; such gimmicks are for schmucks.
Today I'm driving to Colorado, and I'm contemplating driving to the the Coors headquarters, so I can kick the collective assess of all involved in this asinine plot to snare my hard-earned beer money. However, when push comes to shove, I probably won’t waste my time. Instead, I’ll just roll down the window when I drive by and unleash a flurry of profanity that will flutter away in the rarefied mountain air. Even though no one will hear those words, I’ll feel a hell of a lot better.
Stick it to the man,
PS . . . I'll stick to local beer.