For years, these half-and-half hybrids have been my summer secret, my summer shame. I’ve surreptitiously sipped radlers on rooftops, privately pounded potsdamers in parks, and quietly lager-topped my way to many afternoons of leisure. I’ve drank all manner of shandy in my summers on this Earth, and I’ve done it in the shadows.
But no longer! I stand before you, loveless reader, prepared to be flagellated for my feminine infatuation with refreshment. I reject the toxic masculinity of beer’s elite. I am a real man, dammit, and I drink shandy. I’ll be silenced not one second more by those hateful shandy-shamers. Here are all the reasons my love for shandy is pure, real, and manly.