Дэвид Нордли - How Beer Saved the World

Oh, the naysayers might claim that alcohol is the third leading cause of death worldwide—like we all don’t have it coming anyway—but a drink like this deserves respect. Beer is as old as civilization. In some ways, beer is civilization.

Back in those hazy ancient days, when older than dirt was still too young to drive, when the kings of Ur, Babylon, Eshnunna, Lagash and the rest suffered hardcore obelisk envy for Kemet’s bright limestone sophistication, you don’t think they grew barley just to make bread, do you? Well, they used barley for money too, but what better place than beer for money to go?

And it’s true sanitation was more loosely defined back then and weak beer was safer than drinking any water—due to the amoebas that would crawl up your nose and turn your brain meat into a bad case of the Mexican shits—but that makes beer depressingly practical. And who drinks watered-down beer if they can help it?

Anyway, beer is even older than that. Older than the gates of Babylon, older than Stonehenge, older than Gobekli Tepe. If you can ever figure out how to pronounce that last little gem I’ll buy you a pint. Any time you get about twenty people together—and twenty isn’t enough to crown a hobo king, let alone make a decent run at proper civilization—there will be conflicts. What else can grease the wheels of society so well, or at least take the edge off of being the losing side of a debate argued at spear point?

But beer saved the world before even that, even if it took humanity a few millenia to remember how to turn grass into liquid courage. Unfortunately, that was so long ago—right around the time memory was invented—that reliable eyewitnesses are few and far between. Fortunately, the most brilliant and best kept secret of all history, but especially mythic history, is that it’s history. No one remembers it, nobody really cares, and that means we’re free to make up what’s actually true.

You seem like an insightful, educated, appreciative drinker, so I’m going to tell you how it happened. Cheers.

*drinks*

Everything has to have a beginning. That’s just common sense. But when some smartass asks, “If you’re so smart, where did the beginning come from, genius?” you punch them because everyone knows the answers to that one: the gods. And not just any gods. The old gods.

Back before the world was made, they gathered in a not-yet-Irish not-quite-pub to plan the creation of existence, of pints of Guinness, and shepherd’s pie. Better yet, unlike city planners, who to this day can’t find a sewer line unless it’s hooked directly into their overworked sphincters, they had at least a dash of competence to them. It was a nice not-quite-pub, not very crowded because no one else existed and within stumbling distance of free parking. Let’s call it Mikey MacGuire’s. It’s not like it matters.

As you already know, the old gods, those booming apocryphal whispers from beyond Beyond that grab you by the hindbrain and shake, have never disappeared or truly been forgotten. Every culture names them different names. Every era clothes them in different clothes. Scholars and the intricately unhinged sink lifetimes into exploring the niceties of prehistoric idols, sacred geometry, human development and how the Ancient Aliens guy from the History Channel gets his hair to do that, but that’s complicated so fuck it. I’ll just call them what they are and if they have a problem with that… they don’t know where I am right now.

Their work was nearly finished—the majestic glaciers of Argentina, breathtaking Alpine vistas, the multicolored sands of frigid Thule, the intricate fjords of Norway and whatever the hell Australia is supposed to be—all of its bits and pieces arranged on the un-table before them. The most important of what was yet undone was the keystone, the linchpin that would bind the world complete.

“This shall be our greatest creation of them all,” Big Daddy Rainmaker pronounced. “Humanity.” If there had been a non-godly audience, the cheers would have been deafening. Even the other gods, properly awed by the magnitude of the task before them, nodded in sage agreement and understanding.

“And what shall these humans look like?” Big Daddy’s wife and sister, Oceania, asked reverently.

(Lay off. They’re gods, it was a different time back then and Arkansas had to come from somewhere.)

“Nothing but the grandest visage is worthy,” Big Daddy Rainmaker replied.

Thunderdome, excitable as usual, slammed his fist into the un-table. “Then it is agreed they shall look like us! What better reminder of the majesty and grandeur they will be heir to?”

“Look like you, you mean,” his sister, Sparkle Princess, replied. “Two heads, an extra nose and a shiny bald spot with what looks like fungus growing on it.” She could never pass up a chance to poke holes in his vanity.

Thunderdome sat straighter and fixed Sparkle Princess with his most regal, five-eyed glare. “My countenance will inspire epics and ballads for as long as this world exists! Descriptions of my magnificence will survive in literature forever!”

“And someone said inventing book burning was a bad idea,” beetle-headed Stinky Kid mumbled. Big Daddy Rainmaker shot him a warning glare filled with the promise of hurricanes, but he was otherwise ignored.

“Perhaps you have another idea to discuss, Sparkle Princess?” Oceania said.

Eminently pleased now that all attention was on her, Sparkle Princess primped and giggled. “Thank you, mother. They should be as radiant as the aurora, mighty as the tides and tender as the breeze which heralds spring in the east.”

Stinky Kid interrupted again. “We already have unicorns. Besides, we haven’t invented the aurora yet.”

She whirled on him with the disdain instinctive to older sisters everywhere. “I’m a goddess. I can see into the future.”

“That’s a bit hard when time also hasn’t been invented yet, don’t you think?”

They bickered as gods do, because despite near-infinite cosmic powers there wasn’t much else to do. It’s hard to be content when you’re too big to fit into the concept of being, and that’s why they decided to create creation in the first place. I don’t know. It made sense at the time.

The petty threats and insults caromed through the not-quite-room, gaining life of their own because they were, after all, divine proclamations. In a quiet booth a few tables away, Fate waited inscrutably.

*drinks*

Late, uninvited and just in the nick of time, Mr. Mojo Sex Machine crashed the party. At once the squabbling stopped. The gods turned to face their common nemesis.

“Why are you here?” Big Daddy Rainmaker demanded.

“Don’t you have something more important to do, like jam your head up your ass?” Sparkle Princess chimed in. More was said, but none were as eloquent as these two gems.

“Please, please.” Mr. Mojo raised his hands for silence. “I know my presence makes you all terribly insecure, but I was invited by our good friend Fate. This project needs me.”

As one, the assembled divinities swiveled to glare at Fate, who stared back over his pint of fine autumn lager. They weren’t pleased but said nothing. It’s hard to argue with someone who knows how and when you die, and does nothing but smirk when you ask if it will be embarrassing.

“Very well,” Big Daddy Rainmaker conceded. “You may stay.”

“All right!” Mr. Mojo Sex Machine pulled an almost-chair up to the un-table and rubbed his hands together in delight and anticipation. “Can we get some buffalo wings for brain food or did you already decide buffalo won’t get wings?”