Let’s get one thing straight.
Beer can chicken is not barbecue.
It’s culinary hazing with aluminum props.

Every time I see a chicken squatting over a Coors, I can hear my ancestors sigh.
You are not infusing beer into the bird.
You are steaming sadness inside of poultry.

Here’s the truth. The beer never gets hot enough to vaporize properly.
The can blocks airflow through the cavity, which means the skin never crisps right.
And if that can has paint, glue, or plastic liner? Congratulations, you just invented Toxic Smoke à la Mode.

I tried it once, back before I knew better.
Had friends over, music playing, six-pack open.
We all laughed when the chicken stood there like it was waiting for tax season to end.
It looked funny. It tasted like regret.

No bark, no crunch, just pale skin and warm beer tears dripping into the drip pan.
I pulled it off the grill and tried to look proud.
Someone asked if it was supposed to look “that moist.”
I said, “Yeah, sure,” and died a little inside.

Here’s the thing. The bird deserves respect.
It’s not a gag. It’s a meal.
If you want to roast it upright, use a proper stand.
If you want flavor, marinate, brine, inject.
If you want beer, drink it like an adult.