What does a girl have to do to get a cold Fat Tire around here?

I found this when clearing out the CrapCam -- and I had completely forgotten about it.  One of the perks of my job is Beer Friday.  Every Friday at 3pm we all gather in the lunchroom for a beer, some popcorn, and gossip.  It's a great way to celebrate the anguished death of another work week, especially because whoever orders the beer knows what time it is and always makes sure there's a great selection of brews.  I usually reach for local favorite Fat Tire (if you're lucky, it's distributed to a liquor store near you -- if not, God does not love you).  Oftentimes, though, the Fat Tire is mysteriously less than cold.  I can't call it warm, as it's below room temperature, but it's never as cold as the Corona and Michelob Ultra that it shares a shelf with.  This makes for a gut-wrenching decision most Fridays -- do I sacrifice flavor and personal pride in favor of cold beer, or do I suck down warmer-than-optimal Fat Tire so I can still look like I have standards?  (Hint:  microbreweries are #23 on the list of Stuff White People Like) 
This was my ingenious solution on that particular day that I couldn't bear to part with my need to support a wind-powered, employee-owned Colorado microbrewery.  My coworkers all thought I was 1) a genius or 2) retarded.  You can tell which group contains fellow beer drinkers.