Light beer

Rock's old friend Marion drove them toward a minimart in Sarasota, Fla. Rock was there for a visit and rode in the front passenger seat. Marion's twenty-five-year-old son Grady sat in the back.
They walked into the minimart and headed directly for the beer cooler. As Rock studied the vast selection of thirty-packs, Marion walked up with a large cardboard box that he placed beside a single-door cooler packed with forty-ounce bottles. He began to fill the box, and within a minute, he and Grady had packed away at least twenty bottles of Budweiser and Miller High Life.
"Man, could we get at least a couple of bottles of light?" Rock said.
Marion and Grady both laughed and began with a stereotypical condemnation of light beer and light-beer drinkers common among their ilk since the introduction of Miller Lite forty years back.
"I forgot to tell you that Rock's a big pussy," Marion said.
Rock had been exposed to the routine so long that he was immune to it.
"Fuck you guys," he said. "Just get some goddamn light."