Root of the Problem

There must be 60000 different beers in the world. Starting a brewery is this decade's dot com blizzard. Everyone wants to create their own beer.
I don't like beer, never did. It leaves me bloated and when you're a top male underwear model, that's a no no. But I am someone who spots a void and acts. Root beer, yes, root beer, and its lack of variety screamed opportunity. But I needed capital and investors.
I gathered my writer friends at my elegant male underwear model 6500 square foot condo and pitched my idea. Writers are adventurous sorts and my power point presentation left them touching themselves in fervor and anticipation. I raised $300000 toward realizing our own distillery, which was run by three guys I found on Craigslist.
I won't reveal our ingredients. I will say I included sarsaparilla. I wanted to call it Joe's Really Good Root Beer, but was outvoted. Our brand is Writers Root Beer. The day finally came when we gave it the taste test. My oh My! We knew we had a winner.
We hugged each other, knowing we'd soon be wealthy.
Except about an hour later something bad happened. We bloated, boy did we bloat. Most of us floated to the ceiling and just bobbed there. Archie floated right out the window and into the clouds.
Damn. He was supposed to proof read my next book.