How Beer Saved the World

Proof the Gods Love Us ^{Chris Wong Sick Hong}

Take a seat. You beat the rush and I caught the bartender checking you out as soon as you walked in the door. Even if you don’t swing that way, it’s nice to be appreciated. The beer’s cold, the nuts fresh, and the bar clean. If you had anything better to do, you wouldn’t be here. Neither would I, and it just so happens that I have nothing on my schedule for the next long enough, so we might as well talk.

Isn’t it beautiful? No, not the microbrewery logo laser-engraved on the pilsner glass, but the dark amber ambrosia within. Fit for the gods themselves and gateway to the secrets of the universe. Not many people know that. Not many people know either that back when it was first invented, 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?”

Ignoring him, Big Daddy Rainmaker continued, “We were discussing what form humanity should take.”

“There is no better form than my—our own!” Thunderdome proclaimed, slamming his fist into the un-table once again, causing the cutlery to jump.

“You might want to be careful with that,” Mr. Mojo said. “You only have the one fist and it would be a shame to wear it out.”

“I am eternal, funny man,” Thunderdome replied. “As you should well—”

“Whereas I believe something more sophisticated and dignified is appropriate,” Sparkle Princess interrupted, trying to reclaim the center of attention.

Stinky Kid coughed into his crusty hand. “Unicorn whore.”

“Children,” Oceania warned, and the fighting started again.

*drinks*

Eventually, the argument calmed down enough for all assembled to remember their original purpose. Mr. Mojo Sex Machine took the opportunity to inject some wisdom into the discussion.

“It doesn’t matter what they look like,” he said.

“Impossible!” Big Daddy Rainmaker cried. “We are gods. Everything we do has meaning!”

Mr. Mojo farted, and thus new holy gospel was born.

Oceania wrinkled her nose in distaste. “This is our grandest creation ever,” she proclaimed, “for humans must see our glory in themselves and be moved to worship.”

“And possess such beauty they may glance at each other and never lose hope,” Sparkle Princess said.

“The strength to shape mountains and tame the skies!” Thunderdome added.

“And motivation to excel, driven by an irrational hatred of unicorns,” Stinky Kid mumbled.

Mr. Mojo Sex Machine pshawed that all away with a wave of his hand. “Just give them two sets of interlocking dangly bits and they’ll be too busy to worry about that other stuff.”

The gods paused. “…dangly bits?” they asked almost in unison, knowing full well they wouldn’t like the answer.

“You know, so they can make more of each other.”

“Why would they need to make more of each other when we will create the perfect amount?”

Mr. Mojo threw his hand up in despair and said a quick prayer to himself that their eyes might be opened to wisdom. Believing themselves eternal, the other gods could not conceive of creations that were not. They argued the point for eternities, and despite the opposition of every other god, Mr. Mojo would not surrender the point. Since the way of things before there were things required the opinion of everyone invited be taken into account, the universe stalled, almost tripping into oblivion before it had a chance to be.

Forgotten in his almost-booth, Fate watched and waited, ordered another drink. This was going to be a long night.

*drinks*

“Why don’t we move on then?” Big Daddy Rainmaker proposed, his voice dripping frustration, which he had just invented so everyone would know exactly how displeased he was with the lack of progress. Still, no headway appeared possible and everyone had tacitly turned politician, deciding the issue could wait until after they invented elections. “How shall humanity live?” he tried instead. “What will motivate them to the utmost heights of introspection and achievement? How shall they interact among themselves to bring glory to we gods?”

Again, Oceania was the first to answer, with passion that swelled like the tides. “They shall be wise in the ways of nature,” she proclaimed, “of wave and wind, storm and snow. They shall converse with animals and trees, be guided by the fertile earth, and all shall be better for it.”

“They shall accord each other firm dignity, be solemn when solemnity arises, and joyful when their hearts be free. All shall meet as equals under the unending sky!” Thunderdome added. He started to thump the not-table again, but an irritated look from Big Daddy Rainmaker stopped him in mid-exclamation.

“Though the world be beautiful, they shall shape it lovelier still and the forests and plains will ring with laughter and delight,” Sparkle Princess said.

“And every full moon they shall make burnt offerings of unicorn meat in the humble recognition that for all their glory, there are forces still more powerful than they.”

“Not if there is no moon.”

“Then how would anyone see unicorns at night?”

“Children!”

After that argument subsided, Mr. Mojo Sex Machine started another one.

“And what of those who cheat and steal, kill and maim? Who seek power not for progress, but for their own petty aims? What will be done with them?”

Again, the almost-room rang with offended incredulity. How could a creation of the gods be less than the gods themselves? It was inconceivable, an affront to the very dignity of space and time. Only a churl would speak such heresy.

In the shadows, Fate watched and said nothing. Time did not pass, because there was no time to pass.

*drinks*

Sighing, Big Daddy Rainmaker rubbed his temples. “Is everyone clear on what democracy is?” he asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to explain it again. He wasn’t sure he completely trusted democracy himself, but something had to be done or they’d never finish making the blasted world.

Stinky Kid was the first to answer. “It means that if enough of us don’t like unicorns, there won’t be unicorns.”

Big Daddy Rainmaker, not fully foreseeing how his invention of frustration would affect him, whirled on Stinky Kid. “What the hell is your problem with unicorns?” Lightning light-years wide flashed in his eyes. Everyone else backed away from the table a little, not that they’d admit if you asked them later.

“They’re not as cool as velociraptors,” was the sullen reply, “and you only let me make the bones for them.”

“We agreed they were too dangerous,” Sparkle Princess gloated.

“I didn’t.”

“Fine, fine, okay. We heard you,” Big Daddy said. “If we nix the unicorns, will you shut up and let us get to more important issues?”

“Husband…” Oceania remonstrated.

“Shouldn’t we vote on that first? You know, like in a democracy?”

“Daughter!”

“This is a ridiculous waste of time. It is clear that I, Thunderdome, should be in charge.” He slammed his fist again, this time punching all the way through the not-table. “I hereby cast as many votes so as I am able. Eighty-nine should suffice.”

“Son!”

“Unicorns would be so much cooler if they had horns everywhere, like armored spikes that shot acid-spitting crocodiles.”

“I think this is the first time I’ve ever agreed with Stinky Kid,” Mr. Mojo said.

“See? I’m not the only one after all.”

*drinks*

Fate, having long listened to the gods’ combined wishes for their finest creation, was ready to act. He slid his beer glass, still half full with autumn lager, to the side and unfolded like the first night engulfing an absolute horizon and left, seeping through the stitching that binds together dreams. Only Mr. Mojo Sex Machine noticed his exit—the others were still consumed by squabbling—and followed Fate to the yearning behind the stars.

There, he watched silently as the First Engineer faded into being.

“Oh. Is that all?” the First Engineer sniffed sarcastically after Fate told him the gods’ specifications. “Impossibly strong yet enduringly delicate. Wise and patient yet filled with innocent wonder and joy. Majestic to behold while looking like Thunderdome. It’s not just impossible, it’s insulting.”

“It has been proclaimed,” Fate said, though his voice was more a reverberation in the eddies of eternity than mere words.

The First Engineer shrugged eloquently. Their delusions weren’t his problem. “I do like the part about dangly bits, though. It makes them modular, redundant, and their genetic algorithms accept inputs from multiple vectors.”

Still thinking himself unseen, Mr. Mojo grinned. At least someone appreciated his brilliant idea.

“It should have already been done,” Fate not-quite-said, showing no sign that he considered impossibility a valid excuse.

“You’re serious?” When Fate nodded the First Engineer rolled his eyes. “Marketing. Always promising more than we can deliver. If I put all that in, all of creation would unravel. Explosively.”

No one says “So be it” quite like Fate, and while he had a half-earned reputation for causing more problems than he solved, Mr. Mojo was actually quite responsible at heart and couldn’t let the universe destroy itself without doing something.

He made his presence known. “I know how to make it work.”

The First Engineer eyed him, a non-engineer, skeptically but Fate nodded assent. “You have only bequeathed one gift,” Fate’s more-than-voice rumbled. “Another would not be remiss.”

Grinning impishly, Mr. Mojo Sex Machine saved the world.

*drinks*

As you might have guessed, that gift was beer. Unlike the other gods, Mr. Mojo knew that not even Fate was the force which turned the wheel of destiny. All of them, even mighty Thunderdome, were simply those who sat so close to the center they could not feel the motion. For all the gods’ grand ideas, light is balanced by darkness, a balance found in all things, even gods, and it is impossible to create something more perfect than yourself.

So when the pressure of living up to the godly, impossible ideals of dignity, productivity, accomplishment and sex appeal prove too much, there’s beer. When you know you need to do something but don’t know what, there’s beer. When you need to start a fire and the only sticks around are the ones up people’s asses, there’s beer.

The First Engineer did what he could, but you of all people should know the gods ask too much. When the world cracks under the weight of their demands, beer lubricates the slide from shining expectations to fuzzy reality. For every stuffed shirt there’s a string of people puking in the bathtub. Hubris dissolved in a warm, amber glow.

But that’s not why I gave you beer.

Light and darkness, darkness and light. I’ve walked many paths—including one which leads to a hermaphrodite named Raoulita absolutely owning it in the slums of Curacao, but that’s not important right now… or ever—and the darkness that isn’t seen devours. Better worlds than yours have blinked into oblivion, swallowed along with what they claimed as their wisdom. The darkness is hungry, remembers the infinite night before the dawn of all souls. More than that, it lurks in the shadows behind your eyes.

So. Humanity. The culminating pride of the gods’ creation. Drunken rage. Blackout sex. Loud, obnoxious not giving a shit. The million morning after embarrassments as what could have been is slowly pissed away in unisex bathrooms. What better tool than beer to lance the boils of self-delusion and numb the pain while the truth oozes free?

The gods made the world wrong and, as usual, I’m the one who has to clean up the mess. Know who you are, know what you are, and you and your dangly bits might yet survive. And if you happen to forget along the way, beer will always be there to remind you.

You’re welcome, and smile. The next drink’s on me.