Foster’s Premium Ale

AFFORDABILITY: It is like $2 and some odd change for a big oil can of the Foster’s Premium, so the price is right. Even those of us on food stamps can justify such an expense as a little mind-softening treat after a long week of idleness. 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: I will be honest with you, because I have no reason to lie... Foster's Premium tastes like an ass in a fat can. I know there is sentimental value to drinking an "oil can" of beer, but man, I could not drink this fast enough to be drunk. Although I did drink it fast, mostly to be done with it. I do not know what separates Premium quality Foster's from regular quality Foster's, but I imagine the same logic is used as Mr. Haffenreffer did when he decided his fine malt liquor should be a Private Stock, not originally intended for public consumption. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: The oil can of Mr. Foster's upper-end swill is actually one of the nicest, most aesthetically pleasing double-sized cans out there, going for the stubby look instead of the extended height look of most cheaper beers designed with the small penis demographic in mind. The pop top is a red color on a golden top, which is a pimp ass touch, especially since there is minimal red on the can design, most of that in the trademark F for Foster's (or fucked-up or really you can make up whatever f-word you want for it to stand for, I trust you). I am not sure why, but there is a big O on the can as well that the red F hides in the middle of, and with the green background, I can imagine Foster's Premium being really popular at the University of Oregon, as it reminiscent of their football uniforms, at least the basic version. That team has like 97 different combinations of uniform they can wear, and most people think they're really ugly, but I like it. Except for that weird metal toolbox dimple pattern they have on their sleeves - that shit's pretty bunk and takes away from the acid nightmare aspect of their, relatively speaking, normal color combos. Foster's Premium fat cans sport that same garish yet unmistakeable quality, and being I am a garish yet unmistakeable type of individual, I fully endorse such a thing. 5 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Fucking awesome. I am getting my “sitting in my four-cornered room staring at candles, dreaming of the bodies I dismantled” We Can’t Be Stopped Geto Boys inspirational vibe tonight, lights out, baby monitor humming it’s white noise because we got some cheap ass baby monitors, and tea candles burning on top of a couple old empty cans of beer I dug out the recycling bins off the side porch, one of which is the Foster’s Premium. I had to turn the can around, holding it up, and hot wax dripped down my hand and onto my laptop, and going all the way around the can, I get to the last part that says who and what makes this beer. I will quote, “Brewed and packaged under the supervision of Foster’s Australia Ltd, Melbourne, Australia by Oil Can Industries, Albany GA and Fort Worth TX.” The fucking company is called Oil Can Industries. 37 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: There is a man I know who lives nearby, in a dilapidated house with no running water and exposed framing. He has frying pans hanging from the trees outside his back door, and a back porch made of soapstone slabs he hauled himself from a creekbed dump an eighth of a mile from his house. I have known this man all my life. When my mother was pregnant with me, this man, my father, and two other similarly behaved men held the four door handles of my dad’s hot rod Plymouth stationwagon as my mom drove, sliding their feet on the icy roads they were drunkely driving across. My father and one of those other guys - R.I.P. Tuna R.I.P. Tank - are both dead and gone. The other other guy, Wolfie, and this man I know and live near, don’t get along like they used to. But that’s side drama. This man I know is a good man, albeit a long-winded one you cannot escape. But there are times when my current life is too orderly, too structured, too surrounded by the liberal white sterility of Charlottesville, Virginia, and I have to seek this man out, to sit in his house with him, and hear of the post office conspiracies to keep him from getting his mail, to hear of the rural drug dealers who killed all his guineas, to hear it all, because it cleanses me and makes me feel my soul again. His driveway gate is always locked, and the driveway is rutted enough that my Nissan Frontier bottoms out going up, in first gear of course, because anything more would stall out. He helps me when I need it and I help him when I can. I have left empty yogurt containers of chick feed at his gate and he has taken about three minutes to fell a dead oak on my property that I sliced and sawed at with a chainsaw for two hours and never got nowhere near putting it down. One time, with his gate locked as usual, I hiked up the hill to his door and banged on the door, knowing him and his paranoias full well, and yelled, “HEY! IT’S ME! RAVEN!” Still, the door busted open frantically and I had the terminal end of a .357 Magnum being the third eye to a pair of bugged out worried eyeballs behind the barrel, and then it dropped, he turned his head shaking it and said, “Goddammit boy, you coulda got yourself killed.” And in fact, this may seem crazy to most people, but yeah, I understand that responsibility was mine. That’s why I yelled like I did; but I didn’t yell loud enough. Or maybe he was sleeping on the couch. Anyways, one morning after they opened the Food Lion in Scottsville, and not too long after this man had convinced me to get food stamps because it was there and it helped, I was getting a jug of water and a 64 ounce Gatorade and a banana for my workday about to start, it being like 7:30, and he was in there, getting two oil cans of Foster’s Premium Ale. We both chatted up the most definitely down with whatever, his aged country lady who works there, and it was a scene, a good scene. I will forever associate the Foster’s with that moment, even if that’s the only two of it this man I know ever drank, although judging by the cans in his yard piled up by the metal pile for the junkman, I know that’s not true. In fact, that same country lady at the store is always friendly with us, knows my kids, and loves our baby. Every time we go in, the baby has to have an apple, which she calls “bapple”, and I get two, one for her and one for the cart so they can ring it up double because I am an honest man for the most part, and this lady never charges us the one the baby is eating already. And she knows I take the kids to feed the chickens, which comes not from our conversations but from the younger guy that works in the produce department, who I straight up asked about getting old veggies for chickens. He always waves and talks now too, and they have a third dumpster and he makes sure to put the cantaloupes and heads of iceberg lettuce on the far side, easily accessible, because he knows what’s up. This is my life, and I am comfortable in it, and the fact it is not acceptable or appropriate amongst many circles bothers me, because it makes perfect sense to me. Of course, it was me incubating in that driving woman’s belly while four crazies held onto door handles, sliding through the southside Virginia slush like maniacs. I have no choice but to remember these things, live this way, and respect a fat can of Foster’s green label beer. 14 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 12 & 1/5 STARS!