It’s the end of the day and I’m craving a brewskie. IPA? More like I.P.-NO WAY. Brooklyn Lager? Throw it in the garbage bag-ger. That’s right, baby. Mama wants to live the High Life.

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There are a lot of negative things that you can say about the champagne of beers, all of them equally wrong. “It tastes like piss,” you might say and sure, I’d agree with you... if we’re talking about the delicious piss of the gods.

That’s right. I am the bold, brave hero who is willing to come out and say it: Cheap beer is better than “good” beer, and Miller High Life is the best beer of all.

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Imagine this. It’s a blazing hot day. The sun is beating down. You’ve sweated through your clothes. Steam rises off the blacktop and it feels like your body is on fire. Suddenly, the silhouette of a person—an angel? Your brain is too fried to tell—blocks the sun.

“You look thirsty,” they say.

You nod, desperate.

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“Here. Take this”—they hold out a bottle —“German style schwarzbier.

It was a trick. That wasn’t an angel, but a demon. It’s trying to poison you with a heavy beer on a hot day. You die on the sidewalk, alone and with an awful taste in your mouth.

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Now imagine the alternative: “Here. Take this,” the being says. They hold out an ice cold bottle of golden liquid. Cold condensation beads on the outside of the glass. “It’s a Miller High Life.”

You drink it and feel invigorated.

“Here have another,” the angel says. Turns out, the High Life is magical. You immediately cool down and, as a bonus, the angel tells you the secret to immortality. You decide not to use it because, feeling the cold beer trickle down your throat, you finally understand that brevity is what makes life precious.

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“Excellent. You passed the test,” the angel says. It gives you a high five, then another beer. “Have the gift of flight and invisibility instead.”

You pass away at the age of 101, happy and adored by all.

Congratulations, you lived the High Life. And it’s all thanks to Miller’s easy-on-the-wallet, liquid gold. It’s the champagne of beers. The champagne of champagne. No, I’m not being paid extra to write this. It’s just one girl’s expert opinion.


Contact the author at madeleine@jezebel.com.