This entry was written by guest contributor TCD, one of the brains behind the DC Food Blog.
Last Saturday, my friend Writergirl and her high school friends were generous enough to let us see the long lost episodes of their homemade sitcom, “Makin’ It thru the Day”. Imagine a group of smart midwestern daughters of college professors and their little brothers deciding to do a parody of every cheesy family sitcom, produced complete with bad puns, slutty neighbor girls and an “everyone hugs” ending. And since I am totally addicted to so-bad-it’s-good television, I forced Writergirl and her friends to show us their parodies of afterschool specials, including Choices: One Girl’s Story (she’s keeping her baby) and Three Cheers for Murder.
When watching such a smorgasbord of hilarity and bad camera work, alcohol must be present and in abundance. In honor of our high school years, Writergirl was kind enough to make homemade version of Matchbox’s Chinatown – which tastes like an upmarket, adult version of the wine coolers I used to drink in high school…and college. Ah, the halcyon days of Bartle’s and Jaymes.
From Writergirl, The “Chinatown” is (all numbers totally approximate):
3 oz Watermelon vodka
1 oz triple sec
splash of sprite
splash of sour mix
tiny splash of cranberry juice for color

I have no shortage experience with bad drinks. Genny Light, Everclear, mixed drinks made with a splash of all six nearly-empty liqueurs left at on the table at 3 a.m., old milk – I went to college and I know what I’m talking about.
But Tupper’s Hop Pocket Ale is a step above the rest in terms of nastiness and could put up a respectable fight for the title of Worst Beer Ever. Produced by Old Dominion Brewing Company, a producer of a wide line of awful beers that take up valuable tap slots across the region, Tuppers’ is touted as “a rich harvest ale, deep gold & extravagantly hopped.” What does that mean? It means that in lieu of the careful brewing required to produce a quality tasty beer with character, the brew is so severely hopped that it washes out any other vector of flavor.
Like Michael’s spicy cole slaw at a recent Fourth of July BBQ, you’re initially fooled by the texture into thinking it’s going to be just like the other beers (or cole slaws) you’ve had – the cold and refreshing part comes through first. Then Tuppers’ grabs a hold of your tongue and palate, mashing its extreme hoppiness into your powerless flesh. It’s like rubbing a wet cloth covered in topsoil and white vinegar and around your mouth.
The Tuppers’ on my desk that I’m fighting through now in the name of online culinary journalism is a leftover from a party in which only four beers out of a six-pack got opened, all of which were tasted by the opener and then passed over to some unsuspecting fool who in turn took a sip, grimaced and started looking for another victim. At the end of the night, all of the other beer was long gone, but three of the four open Tuppers’ sat on tables, half-finished and cursed by nearly every attendee.
Consider yourself warned.