New England winters are no joke. Frigid temperatures, unending snowfall, and dark days torment us hard-nosed Yankees, isolating us from those and that which we love the most. This is why, during an especially-cold winter in 2019, five brave young men hatched a plan that would alter the course of history as we knew it. These strapping lotharios decided, as a way to fend off winter ennui, to emphasize fraternity and competition and good ol’ fashioned beer-drinking, they would throw a little tournament of sorts. Not just any tournament, though—don’t be silly now. These are great men. Smart men. Men with brawn and brains and bulging balls of brass. I’m one of those men, after all. Men with guts and chutzpah and the kind of zeal that would knock the socks off your grandma after they’re done knocking her boots (all of this after taking her out for a nice seafood dinner, of course—inquiring about her squandered dreams, what kind of milkshake flavor she once preferred at the long-gone local pharmacy, hearing how nothing delights her like a long walk on the beach after it rains). These men, after they finished (and she finished—heyo) romancing and delighting your grandmothers, would throw a Beer Olympics—a day dedicated to drinking that sweet, sweet golden elixir that’s enhanced the magnitude of so many already-great lives, and they wouldn’t just drink it. Don’t be foolish—that’s twice already you’ve acted like a jackass. Once more and we never take your grandma out again. Where was I?
No—you know what? You’re a real piece of work. Just for that I won’t be calling Gertrude tonight. Have fun consoling her, asshole. She likes a lavender tea when she’s ready for bed, and to have her feet rubbed with Vicks VapoRub. Whisper a few sweet nothings in her ear and she’ll be out like a light. Like I was saying, they wouldn’t just drink it. They would compete in drinking it. Putting their hearts, stomachs, sacks, and motor skills on the line, the boys designed a fool-proof five-game system, complete with a soothing pregame cordiality, a rulebook containing an extensive list of always-mutating house rules, and an invincible set of principles to guide them in their endeavor. In a way, they’re like Odysseus, out to sea in search of something greater than them. In another way, they’re like the 108 boisterous young men partying in Odysseus’s palace, trying to persuade Penelope for her hand in marriage. That’s right—those five brave young men have the strength of 108 boisterous young men. That’s 21.6 men inside of every one man (pause). Penelope, in this convoluted analogy, is the Games, and while they’ll never truly win her favor, Odysseus is never coming home, and the party will never stop. What’s it take Odysseus to get home—ten years? Well, seven years later, and here we are. He’s still out to sea, falling for the sirens like a fucking idiot – is it really that hard to not go towards them? – and we’re in his palace, drinking beer and hitting on his hot wife. We’re living the life—it’s not sad. You’re sad.
In our seventh year, we’ve decided to retrofit the games. I won’t lie to you – maybe to Gertrude, but not to you – the Games have been losing a little steam the last couple of years. Maybe it’s because we’re getting older. Maybe it’s because, in our older age, we’re becoming less eager to dedicate an innocuous Saturday to binge drinking (grow up, they say, get a job, they say, stop drinking so much PBR, they say, move out of your parents basement, they say, stop eating microwaved nachos on a paper plate for dinner, they say). Maybe it’s because the Games, at a certain point, became more about the egos of those running the show and less about the hearts of those participating. Regardless of the reasons, attendance has dipped. Well, no longer. Nay, I say. This is a whole new year, a whole new Games. This year we’re pumping the Games full of juice – injecting them with an adrenaline shot, right to the jugular – to up the ante and get the people excited.
The Seventh Annual Beer Olympics will be happening on Saturday, May 3—right on Cinco weekend, right at the start of the warm season, right when the weather starts to turn and everything seems possible again. So join us, wayward traveler, in celebrating love and life and the pursuit of happiness. We’ve created a forever-home for you. Don’t just stand there—come on in. There’s room here for all of us. Welcome home.