Don’t pull the mask off the old lone ranger. Seriously.

OH WAIT 11/11/11 at 11:11, GIVE ME A KISS AND MAKE A WISH!

Hill Farmstead Jim, 7.5% Black IPA, aged in Merlot Barrels

A: Hey guys, guess what color this black IPA is? If you said fuschia, you are, absolutely wrong. It is a slick “baby stout” sort of blackness. It’s that sort of gentle blackness that Milton attempted to both embrace and ward away. The head is off white and has a nice contrast the evil darkness below just like JOHN MILTON OH SHIT DID YOU SEE WHAT JUST TOOK PLACE THERE?

S: This is an IPA, through and through. The pine and grass reach out like a bath and body works candle, the citrus notes grapple and strike me like those weird weeds in Ursula’s cave. You know, those weeds…

T: The taste is strange, is isn’t quite herbal, it swiftly moves and changes several times while you taste it. It gets a bit of oakiness, then almost a grape or a cinnamon, then returns to its normal pinecone roots and finishes sweet. I have no idea how to approach this changeling. It goes tobacco, carnival, woods, carnival. Which I guess each of those makes sense together. Oh 5th grade.

M: The wine notes at the outset make this a blustering, confusing beer. You get a big wine note that turns into herbs, into a sweetness. The entire experience washes clean, but your conscience remains besmirched. It’s like your old uncle, whom you remember so fondly but now he’s back from the military and gives extra long hugs and is more serious. I don’t know whether to embrace the gravity of this project or to ask for my old friend back.

D: This is like a Japanese game show in that it is intense, varied, and makes no sense. I don’t know how long you can watch that kinds of craziness but this is just too busy for my taste buds. If they sold this in 6 packs I would see it as a sort of Sartorial punch line rather than a beverage purchase. I don’t know what to make of myself after having tasted this. Maybe I could have been an optometrist, after Jim, who knows.

Narrative: “And you FINAL WISHHHH?” the genie hissed at Clarence Hyrbo amiably. “Well, I mean, I already got this swell wheatgrass farm for my grandfather” he surveyed the verdant pastures and the genie nodded approvingly. “And shucks, I already have this swell Merlot vinery for my grammy,” he ejaculated as the wine fields arose in front of him with sticky sweet grapes, ripe for harvest. The genie rubbed his ethereal palms and hovered entreatingly, “well?” he importuned. Clarence looked left and looked right, and only saw two wasted paradigms of wishes spoiled on human greed. He felt ashamed. His cell phone rang a sweet Creed ringtone and he wondered how to set this all right. “Genie?” Clarence softly uttered, “yes Clarence?” the genie responded gently. “Well, I see now that, every time someone gets a wish, it usually just ends with ironic consequences, like a grandmother overdosing on merlot, or artery problems due to wheatgrass,” the genie nodded solemnly “such is the Genie Code, to provide wishes only with disastrous consequences and life changing realizations but, you’ve hardly even tried yours out yet.” Clarence surverey the fields and firmly stated “GENIE! I want something that will make everyone happy, something that no one will die from, and no one will hate me for.” The genie waved his hands over the South Carolina countryside and the grapes and wheat grass disappeared. In wave after wave, tobacco fields rolled over the verdant pastures. “NOW EVERYONE WILL REMEMBER ME FAVORABLY!” Clarence called and ran all the way to the Charleston homestead which was recently founded