Why does beer make you happy?

Because we don’t know what the fuck is going to happen next. We can’t control a damn thing, but beer lets us think we can. Oh, if you think we control the shit that happens, tell that to the bastard who jogged five miles a day for 20 years before his heart blew up like hand grenade while he was taking a god damn lavender-mango bubble bath. Tell that to the lassie who remembered to wear  her seat belt every day, and then a short-landing 727 smashed her car flatter than a damned frisbee. But beer lets us think we’re in control. We can buy beer that’s domestic, imported, cheap, expensive, really fucking expensive, dark, stout, low calorie, low alcohol, dense as a damned fudge brownie, and all around beer for getting blasted and going home with anything that has two legs and a hole. But none of that matters, because in reality one beer is no different from another when it really counts, just like a Rottweiler with a floppy ear is no different from a Rottweiler with an extra-floppy ear when they’re both clamped on to your damned groin. No matter what beer you’re drinking, this is what happens: buy beer, drink beer, feel good, drink more beer, do shit you wouldn’t normally do, drink more beer, act like a fucking idiot, drink more beer, puke so much that your friends would rather burn their house down than ever use that bathroom again. That’s not going to change, but you get to choose from a constellation of beers that make you think something different may happen this time, and that’s why beer makes us happy.

Happiness is a cold beer and a blind refusal to accept reality.