Red Stripe

Red Stripe is like a secret beer that I only allow myself to enjoy at home, for reasons I will get into later. But I bought a big stubby double deuce yesterday, to complement the cheap 12-pack to come. And I drank it, so I'll pretend someone cares and put my very important expert whiteboy thoughts into the intarnet machine.
AFFORDABILITY: I just got a fat check cashed, motherfucker, so it's mad affordable, at least the double deuces are. Usually, if I get on a good beer kick, I usually only buy the bigger bottles (pints, 22s, etc.) because I have a hard time buying good beer six-packs when I start breaking it all down cost per ounce and shit in my head, which I usually always do, being a child of the Dust Bowl migration. 3 out of 5 (in big bottles, but not in six-packs).

DESTROYABILITY: Though I often times wonder if it's not like Mexican beers in its laziness to alcoholify my bloodstream, I will admit, if you pound a few big boys of Red Stripe, it gets me feeling good. 4 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: The label looks like it should be, without the brand name, what a flag of some country would actually be. In fact, if it wasn't for the Jamaican bobsled team, if someone asked me what the flag of Jamaica was, I'd answer that stupid red, green, and yellow striped shit hippies use as curtains in their front room. And then when the person told me that wasn't the Jamaican flag, my second guess would be the Red Stripe logo without the words. 5 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Made my some colonial warlords named Desnoes & Geddes Limited, and imported by Guinness, and I bet all three of some dudes with those three last names go out African big-game hunting to get albino giraffes to stuff to put in their great room where they smoke really kush weed rolled up into blunts where the paper is the dried skin of old Japanese dudes with those crazy all-over fish tattoos. 2 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Here's why I don't drink Red Stripe publicly. I am a white guy with dreadlocks, so it took a lot of actual realization that I like Red Stripe to buy it in front of people. And every time I pick up a bottle or six-pack of it, I feel like Mr. Dumbass Cuntface Stupidfuckle, for being a white guy with dreadlocks buying Red Stripe. I know if I saw that shit happening, I would be expecting said dude to pay for his shit with a credit card, and then go out to his Subaru stationwagon with Phish stickers, which he'd fire up and the doodling sounds of Jerry dicking around while in heroin haze would come out the always-open window, and off would go said chump, visualizing whirled peas all the way to his rental home where his dogs Kaya and Marley are probably curled up by the door waiting for him, hoping to go to the river again for the ninth time this week. So because I imagine that bullshit, I know people see me and imagine that bullshit, and that makes me feel sad inside. Not really, but I don't want motherfuckers all bugging and shit, so usually I carry around a couple of cans of vienna sausages too, to really confuse the issue. 1 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 3 star!