I want to acknowledge the bravery and sound news judgment of the people running this Web site, because this week's column will be controversial. This week's column is one The Man doesn't want you to see.

There may be repercussions. What I tell you may shake the very foundations of your understanding. But I have a journalistic duty to report the truth. And the truth is this: the Guinness in Ireland does not taste different than the Guinness in the U.S.

All my adult life, I had been led to believe that the beer synonymous with Ireland somehow changed oh-so-slightly in chemical composition as soon as it was transported even a few miles from the Emerald Isle's soggy green -- as if Guinness were the liquid equivalent of comic book hero Hawkman, stuck in a closet, his power fast ebbing for lack of the sun's rays.

The first four pints of beer I had in my life were Guinness. I enjoyed them all in quick succession at a pub in England, and then discovered upon leaving the pub that someone had turned my legs into Jell-O. I've been a regular Guinness drinker ever since. And seemingly every time I order a pint of the black stuff at a pub, someone will nudge me in the ribs and say in a tone of piety: "You know, it doesn't taste the same here as in Ireland. I've walked among them. I know their ways."

Needless to say, I was excited when my wife recently agreed to let me tag along on a trip to Dublin, where the famous beer is brewed. In the weeks leading up to my trip, I would sit and gleefully ponder what -- if not like the stuff I've been drinking all these years -- Guinness tasted like.

"It will be like candy," I thought. "And when I sip it, angels will sing."

I made sure I was sitting down at The Gingerman, a pub about 100 yards from Dublin's Merrion Square, when I raised my first Dublin pint. As the perfectly poured pint touched my lips, I tried to prepare myself for any metaphysical changes that might occur. But I was not ready for what actually happened.

"It tastes the same," I said aloud.

"That's good," said my wife, who does not drink and clearly had no idea what she was talking about.

I drank the rest of my pint in silence. I drank three more just to be sure. The next morning I had a headache, my mouth was dry, and I was exhausted -- clearly the shock of learning the truth of Guinness had taken a physical toll.

I wanted to believe that The Gingerman pub had been to blame. Perhaps the keg from which my Guinness had been served had accidentally been shipped to England and then shipped back. But at The Duke, O'Neill's, The Stag's Head, Neary's and even the Guinness Brewery, the stuff served in Dublin still tasted like the same stuff served at The Liffey in St. Paul, Minn., or at the Shakespeare in San Diego, or myriad pubs across the U.S.

I was heartbroken. It was like learning that the Easter Bunny doesn't exist. It was like thinking it's Friday, only to discover it's Wednesday. I'll still enjoy finding plastic eggs full of jelly beans and I'll enjoy Friday when it eventually comes, and, sure, I'll still drink plenty of Guinness, but an innocence has been lost.

"They always tell us that, too," my friend, Donal, told me.

Donal is a native Dubliner. It appears both sides of the Atlantic have been deceived. He was clearly heartbroken at the news.

"Maybe it's to keep us here," he said.

Whatever the reason, I think some people will be very unhappy now that I've broken the news. I can sense that at this moment, bearded pea-coat-wearing master's degree dropouts across the United States are breaking their fingers to send me angry e-mails, but I won't back down. The truth cries out to be heard.

Of course, this claim won't be taken lightly by the status quo. I'll need concrete evidence to defeat the Guinness Myth. So, I plan on making several trips to both my local pub and pubs in Ireland for, um, research.

I wonder, also, if Corona tastes any different when sitting on a Mexican beach than when standing knee-deep in Minnesota snow. The work of an investigative journalist is never done.