The old saw proclaims "There’s no such thing as bad Scots whiskey; some are just better than others."

Nobody ever says such things about beer. The sad, sorry truth of the matter is that beer can get pretty awful. And to be perfectly honest, there really are bad Scots whiskeys too – it’s just too expensive to pour down the laundry sink. So, Scotch drinkers have learned to compromise by keeping bottles of the lousy stuff around for decades, hidden way in the back of their cupboards, awaiting the arrival of some guest who does not know the difference.

There are several reasons, mentioned throughout this treatise, why it is better to be able to enjoy awful beer than be a victim of it’s disgrace, but the basic idea is this: the more we can enjoy in the world, the happier and more fulfilled we will feel. Luckily, the task of enjoying awful beer is made easier by several fortuitous truths. There is much more to be considered about a beer besides its taste, smell, and mouthfeel. Every beer has a history, has traveled a journey, and is a product of a region and its people. Also, beer has physical and mental effects on the body, and thus provides sensual stimulation beyond those already modifying our perceptions and sensibilities.

The techniques outlined below are designed to assist one in the process of enjoying any beer – no matter how awful it is. While they specifically address awful beer in order to suit this forum, the techniques are easily adapted to any beverage or food, and even to art (though they don’t quite make their way up to awful people, alas…).

We begin by examining the enemy. Awful beer is declared as such for three primary reasons: it may have severe technical flaws, resulting from problems during brewing or transportation; it may be a style which, though well-prepared, is not to our taste; or it may be a "dishwater lager" or other such insipid commercial style.

Among the most important reasons for why it is good to be able to enjoy even the most vile, offensive swill of a beer is that it may have been made by someone whose feelings we do not wish to offend. Imagine the following scenario. Someone you care about, who doesn’t know much about beer, has decided that, as an act of bonding with you buys a home-brewing kit, and brews a batch of stout. They name it, say, "Stout to the Honor of my Very Best Friend in the World," and include a picture of you on the label.

And, of course, it tastes like hot-buttered bubble gum, boiled with a cardboard box in a rusty can. In an etiquette book somewhere, you read that you’re supposed to say things like, "Great first attempt!" and "How unusual!" and "You must tell me how you did it!" And, by God, you’d better say them! Alas, however, at the end of your stream of half-truths, you find yourself still stuck with a pint to get through, and if you immediately pour it down the laundry sink, your host may suspect that something is up.

At times like this, real strategy is needed.

A problem for experienced beer tasters is their custom of always hunting for off flavors. In the above situation, such flaws are easily found. Why not turn the tables, and hunt for hints of malt or hops instead? Keep hunting until you find them – they are almost certainly there, somewhere. The monomaniacal quest for off-flavors has undermined the potential enjoyment of many a half-decent pint, and several "pretty good" ones besides. By refraining from such critiques except during formal judgings, we might enjoy gallons more beer, in our lifetimes. After the first few sips of any beer, most of the information we can get out of it will already be apparent (unless changing temperatures are revealing additional flavors). The proper parts of our tongues will have already tingled, and our lips will already be ready with the appropriate foofy chemical buzz-words. Why not spend the remainder of the glass trying simply to enjoy what’s good about it instead? It would be at least the equal workout for sharpening one’s palette, particularly if the good traits are unusually evasive.

So, this first technique is that we can focus on what’s good about a beer, rather than what’s bad about it. I suggest caution with this practice, however: carefully read all labels. You may mistake a bottle of shoe polish for a bottle of beer, and if you drink more than a pint or two, your friends will never let you live it down.

An easier circumstance is that of being served a well-crafted beer of a style which we don’t like. Some people have trouble with very sour Belgian varieties, for example. Others despise Pilsner. The common argument in favor of such samples is to point out technically what is superb about them, and to try to inspire admiration of the craftsmanship of it. Indeed, this should be the first approach.

However, a different set of considerations might also be helpful in this circumstances – namely, that of the beer’s history.

If we meet some Martians at a party, whether or not we like them personally will be of secondary importance to the fact that they are from Mars. This same attitude can be used towards beer. When sipping, say, a lambic, so sour and with such a strong cherry taste that it makes your taste-buds shake their fists in anger, close your eyes and instead try to think about Belgium. Think about castles, and verdant countrysides, and chocolate, and air, all so many thousands of miles away. Think about the Flemish-speaking truck driver who took it from the brewery to the exporter’s warehouse. Did a Flemish speaking mouse scurry bast it in the bottling line? It is extraordinary that such visitations to this country are so common. Considering a beer’s history is a good distraction when trying to ignore how it tastes.

And when you do taste it, don’t think "Ugh, how awful!" Think instead, "So this is what Belgium is like." And what is beer, if not the embodiment of its native country’s soul? What we drink was once a vast, rustling field of grain. It was the lusty sexuality of a hop flower in full bloom, a colony of yeast more populous than most universities, all united by the world’ ultimate traveler: water.

The lives of water molecules are dramatic, indeed, filled with thunderstorms, oceans, clouds, and even people. Water gets recycled, regardless of where we get it or where we put it. The water in our beer could have been absolutely anywhere on the planet, and inside absolutely anyone. Why, we could be drinking beer that included the same molecules of water as on once quaffed by Beethoven or Emperor Constantine or Will Cuppy – or even all three! Granted, it may be best not to consider this last point in too much detail, but the possibilities are indeed endless.

The third set of techniques for enjoying awful beer is frequently helpful when drinking the nearly invisible, insipid "dishwater lager" varieties of beer-like carbonated beverage which we only drink in major emergencies, such as washing down an airplane dinner. Often, the brew choices in such circumstances are heart rendering, but we do what we must.

Such liquids have no history worth mentioning. They have no flavors – good or bad – for which to hunt, and any thoughts regarding ingredients could very well be entirely incorrect, as they are generally made with plastics and unpronounceable chemicals, rather than our four old friends.

There are only two positive things to be said about such liquids: they are generally made with sterile water, which is thirst quenching, and they are generally slightly alcoholic. If we think of them as an odd-colored, medicinal water, rather than beer, such liquids become somewhat more bearable. As we drink them, rather than concentrating on feelings in our mouth, I recommend that we "drink the alcohol with our brain," feeling the sensations of having our thirst quenched and of growing intoxicated in as deep sensual terms as possible.

If this doesn’t work, there is another game that one can play with beer -- that of pretending that the beer is something else entirely, such as friend chicken. Perhaps the beer’s head is really an enormous fluffy batter surrounding a juicy morsel of chicken (or mushroom if you are a vegetarian). Really push your imagination, and try to convince yourself that the texture of the beer is that of chicken. Hell, the color is nearly the same! And consider it particularly good form to look up from a beer that, before reading this essay, you might have had harsh words for, and instead proclaim, "Taste’s like chicken!" What could be a better a battle cry than this against the forces of evil beer?

One of Pope John Paul II’s advisors was asked recently if the pope would give up the papacy if his health declined further. The advisor’s answer was that the pope considers all suffering a reflection of Christ’s suffering, and John Paul would never let any such personal pain stand in the way of his service to God.

That’s the spirit!

When drinking awful beer, we would do well to keep such a philosophy in mind. Take the opportunity to reflect on the pain that humankind suffers. Consider how, by drinking the offending drink, you are cleansing the world of something potentially painful for someone else. And then, notice how you suddenly feel embraced by a warm, joyful glow.

It is probably just the alcohol, but one can never be sure.