When he headed to Europe to run that summer, he did so with a pronounced beer gut that had meet promoters reticent to have him race.

There is no mythical antecedent to David smugly carrying his beer gut like a womb.

He’s a salt-of-the-earth fellow: goateed, burly with a bit of a beer gut, taciturn, with a baseball cap on his head.

That's the equivalent of asking someone with a beer gut for tips on how to get a defined six-pack.

She had described a man as having “a beer gut that belongs in the Smithsonian”; that was changed, she laments, to “protuberant abdomen.”