Monthly Archives: December 2011

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Surly Furious IPA, THIS BEER MAKES ME SO MAD RIGHT NOW SRSLY GUIZE.

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THIS BEER MAKES ME FEEL CONTENT AND NOT FURIOUS ARGGHH FALSE ADVERTISSIONSDGOINDSGOIN-

Surly Furious

A: Orange radiance that calls more to a DIPA the way that the carbonation sloshes all over the sides like it owns the place. Nice big bubbles that dissipate fairly quickly.

S: There’s a huge pineapple citrus bouquet to this that doesn’t bring along the irksome herbal/pine qualities that some single IPAs try and push on you. I enjoyed the traditional grapefruit notes but there’s also this little sneaky pete of toffee that pokes its head in there for a moment as well. I wish he would stay but apparently, non-citrus notes are not invited to hang out.

Surly Furious here to save the day.

T: The first taste is a bit thin with a huge orangey orange to it, it subsides to a gentle bitterness and washes away clean and fast. There is no real lingering aftertaste, just a one two combo and a ninja roll out the side door leaving orange rind in the entry way. Luckily the inexpensive 16oz cans don’t leave you high and dry, you are sufficiently low and…uh…wet. I GUESS!

M: Again, this is not exceptionally thick or chewy and it is even thinner than many hef’s and lower ABV beers. It is interesting in how completely lopsided that the beer is with a huge flavor and relatively low ABV and mouthfeel. If this were an army man, it would be the dude who carries the metal detector. Not because it is a raging vagina, it just serves a niche purpose, and an awesome one at that.

Single IPAs can get you double twisted.

D: This is incredibly drinkable top to bottom. Well, it’s the same all the way through but you know what I am trying to…it’s…you can drink it ok? This is similar to the Masala Mama category where they need to up the serving sizes if for nothing else but my own self esteem. I could kill a 4 pack of this without reproach and glance menacingly around the room for someone to say something. Take a sip and if your glass isn’t empty in a forthright fashion, you are doing this beer wrong.

Single IPA, for this cheap, that is this good. Confus.

Narrative: “Professor Mailer, the subjects aren’t responding to the medication, hell, even the control groups are becoming more enraged,” the lab technician pleaded while gesturing towards graphs which can only be sure to contain sciences. “MONITOR THEIR FURY, it is the fury I seek, not the intermediate results.” Professor Mailer boomed as he slammed his protractor on the desk, sending science all over the place. The lab technicians poked in on the control group playing the Dam Level of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for Nintendo and noted that the furious levels were through the roof. Next they monitored someone on hold with the DMV, the fury again was unparalleled. “Sir? According to these calculations, the furiousness of each group, even the control group has actually increased. Sir?” Professor Mailer insouciantly spun some sciences on his desk, in a sciencey fashion. “And the literature camp?” he impugned, “well sir, without even taking the medication, the group forced to read Mrs. Dalloway was, well, very, very, pissed.” “Excellent, proceed to phase two, up the dosage and administer Superman 64 to each group” he commanded with a refined poise.

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Maine Beer Company, Mean Old Tom, Uncle Thomas Was A Grouchy Jerk

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As you guys may know, Maine Beer Company has exceeded its allotment of fucking around and seems to have none to spare as of late. Zoe, Peeper, and Lunch rocked faces and now we take this new offering out for a spin. A weak vanilla stout to see if it has the legs to honor its environmental cause.

Mean Old Tom, Meanest Tom in the Whole Damn Tom, Meaner than a Junkyard Tom

Maine Beer Company, Mean Old Tom Stout, 6.5% abv

A: this has a distinct single stout look to it, a stripped down badass Lotus Elise sort of panache that makes you long for more horsepower, but secretly you’re confident you wont need it. It’s black, but not overpowering, like Don Cheadle, oh shit toeing the line with that simile. Nice white foam that generously cascades from the bottle conditioning. Also they donate 1% of all proceeds to a series of noble charities so I feel kinda like a dick sitting here and drinking this and not doing more but, donaters gonna donate.

Not a massive stout, but you appreciate the little charge it provides, attraction even.

S: The smell has a mild Peet’s coffee feel to it, but with a nice sticky vanilla aftersweetness to it. This could teach Urca’s vanilla trainwreck a thing or two about balance. It is gentle and reminds me of the old days, when Stouts were mild and gentle and not 15% anal rampagers and you didn’t have to eat an entire loaf of hawaiian rolls to prepare to taste them. Thems the days.

T: This beer is a gentle coffee pixie with a nice light touch of vanilla. The entire execution is in line with the whole Maine Beer Company profile wherein the beer is amazing but its like the hot girl in overalls with the ponytail. You know its amazing and beautiful, you’ve just been conditioned improperly. You feel me?

I want to go back in time and have this beer again, but, I am pretty sure my safety would not be assured.

M: It is thin and watery but not in a bad way. This is likely exactly how this beer should taste and I respect it for it. I can drink several and that’s an amazing quality. I think drinking a bunch of huge imperial stouts has made me a sad panda and now I have to pick up the piece. Jeez louise.

D: This is a normal stout, non imperial, non barrel aged and, whenever I have one of these beers these days it is like someone played a trick on me. I dont know where the rest of the beer went and, as a result of my own gluttony, this is incredible and I killed it fast, like it straight up owed me money. You know how it goes, drink a normal stout once, shame on me, etc.

I got this as an extra, I want more, but I feel like I am being ridiculed for my desires. This makes me self-conscious. Sheesh.

Narrative: Tom knew there was more than just this sticky old vanilla bean refinery. He has dreams, aspirations. He didn’t just want to be that asshole uncle to his bratty brother’s kids. But hey, that’s how they saw poor Tom. He thought Oracle stock was a solid gift for an 11 year old girl’s birthday party. That was just the composition of his character. The children disliked his creaky old apartment with the plastic wrapped furniture, but, those children have to learn the value of thrift. It arguably wasn’t his place to strike children that were not his own, but they had to learn not to overcook Pizza Pockets and it surely would not be at the expense of his new microwave. Maribel hated coupon cutting while Tom babysat them but, as they deftly learned, every day was certainly not Disneyland, despite expectations of same. The crimson asscheeks of relatives distanced them from Mean Old Tom, but, someday, a strange woman with incredibly low self esteem would put up with his behavior and help him assemble a model train town worthy of great distinction.

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New England Brewing Company Gandhi-bot Double IPA, Civilly Disobediently Disliking this DIPA.

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This gives complications to stoicism and fasting. I HOPE THE DOCILE TERMINATORS WIN.

This is a beer that gets a lot of hype from east coast kids. They savor the opportunity to hang their hat on a double IPA. Here we go-

New England Brewing Company Gandhi-Bot Double IPA 8.8% abv

A: It has a radiantly golden hue with a ridiculous amount of carbonation and thick white foam. It has crazy amount of lacing like soap scum, but in a cool ass way. It’s pretty sticky and glaring at the same time. It reminds me of a 14k pliny the elder, pliny the middleaged.

The feel of this beer is refreshing and familiar, completely unlike God's punchline pictured above.

S: Again, this is suspiciously Pliny in execution. The entire nose is that precariously pine and orange zest. I feel like I have seen this movie before like when I saw No Strings Attached and, that other movie, what is it, Birth of a Nation, back to back.

T: This is definitely the Honda to Pliny’s Acura. It has that same feel, with less maltiness. It has those same orange and grapefruit hops, but just ratcheted back. Everything is just muted a little bit, more water, more pine, it feels like they took this in a Lysol direction. It is still an exceptional offering but you almost have to be an asshole in a category this contested. For those of you keeping track, the top 5 DIPAs that you absolutely must try are: Ephraim, Citra, Heady Topper, Pliny, and Abner. This is not within those ranks. It is still good, but a good ipa a great ipa does not make.

I would like to speak to the original brewer of this recipe. That's what I thought.

M: this has some crystal and 2 row, simple hat tricks for the genre but lacks that punch and radical wow factor. It lays a little low in the mouthfeel and kinda opts for a gentle coating and simple hop profile that is still exemplary but feels like the Monkees to the Beat-ok ok ok ok enough sappy metaphors.

D: This is awesomely drinkable and outshines Pliny in this regard. It has a thinner profile and I want to hang out with it more. It seems like it listens to my stories more intently without butting in. Ultimately, I dislike this beer for the same reason that I don’t respect Chrysler. You can make your own shit, dont jock another brand. Katt Williams said it best “Yeah you think it looks like a Phantom, until a real Phantom pulls up.” And when I pull up Ephraim to this DIPA, the game just changes.

This beer kills normal Double IPAs but remains untested in the main tournament.

Narrative:

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Hill Farmstead The Birth of Tragedy, Apollonian vs Dionysian and Everyone getting Twisted

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Thus Spoke Aleathurstra

Ok so what’s the deal with this asshole? Well it’s the imperial version of an already badass porter, Twilight of the Idols. It is named after a Nietzsche work, it has bourbon, coffee, and a nice alcoholic heat to it. It’s like they read my diary.

Hill Farmstead Birth of Tragedy, 11% abv, Imperial Porter aged in bourbon barrels

A: The appearance has that classic imperial porter sheen to it, like the coat of an alcoholic panda bear. Black and slick in all the right places, it beckons to slippery asphalt and car crashes that New Englanders no doubt survived in obtaining this succulent potation. As a side note, my bottle had hardly any cabronation, wah wah, here comes the wahhhmbulance ready to pick some nits.

Ok ok, bourbon barrel aged porter, let's settle down.

S: This has a crazy powerful bouquet that smells like melted chocolate, toffee, boozy vanilla extract, and a mild hint of bourbon heat. There is a sweetness that is perfectly balanced by mild alcoholic heat, just like your old bus driver.

T: This is an incredible porter and I know that I ride this brewery’s jock like its jock will soon be discontinued, but it’s really that good. Top 5 porter and guess what, one of the other spots is held by, that’s right Barrel Aged Everett. I can’t get over this brewery, like the haughty 14 year old girl, who just wont accept that her 22 year old boyfriend wasn’t really in love with her. Ok so, it has a nice sweetness that enters and has a set allowing the alcohol waft to permeate and suddenly you forget that you are at a drive in, then a mild coffee pick me up before the bourbon mellows it all out. Just ridiculously pleasant, koala foot massage pleasant.

Just. Want. More Sick Porters.

M: It is thin, like a porter should be, no fat ass imperial stouts up in this mix. It is just light and coats just enough to be rewarding but then hammers its point home. The alcohol is like a stage director in all black watching every movement, making sure that the pilgrim chocolate kids dont miss their entry cues. Holy mixed metaphors.

D: This is incredibly drinkable, I am trying to tame myself from powering through the entire 500ml bottle with little success. It is thin, hot, and sweet, oh wait here’s a patently obvious female entendre. Nope, keeping it classy here. It is totally drinkable and I wish it came in sick sixers or at least tall boys to take up to the lake. PSYCHE. This beer is meant for hearths and post skiing discussions, luge comparisons and other highbrow Vermontean prose.

Do want more.

Narrative: “Existing within the framework entitles you to undeserved, awkward sexual interactions. That is the nature of a collegiate degree” the professor boomed to the teeming auditorium. His teaching methods were unorthodox but shattered the line between biology, psychology, and will to power. “You see, this is the only time that your biological willing will be in comport with the acquiescence with your biological counterpart.” Several students shifted in their chairs and looked left and right, largely Asians and Latter Day Saints. “The supple and demean curve hits its apex at precisely 20 years of age. It is at that age that alcohol enters a golden period of divine inspiration of inhibition where each person may assert the fulfillment of the Dionysian condition while still feeling confident in the missteps guided by the Apollonian age. You will have sex, it will be terrible, but it will be compulsory.” A scandinavian girl had seen enough and left promptly. “You see, all of dark willing is urging, and that is controlled ultimately by a tempering of the passions, and 20 years old is the exact age when both sides meet in a murky confrontation of rationalized bad decisions. It is in this moment that you will be the most alive, the most willing, and consequently the most powerful. You will never receive as much affection, as easily, as everlastingly as this year of your life my college juniors.” The student body began to look left and right with much trepidation and embarrassment. As much as his homework made little sense, the handjobs were rough and undeserved, the kisses pounding and syncopated. It would take the purchase of a Dodge Challenger and countless dates to recapture the ethos that was ejaculated into the air of that auditorium that day. “Only then, will you all become ubermensch. Now, go make out.” Class dismissed.

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Upland Kiwi Lambic, Face Melting 24th Fret Hammer On Solos

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The perfect beer for people who want to make their dentists rich as hell.

A: This beer has a straight up yellow, Squirt/Lemonhead look to it. It has some nice carbonation that peaces out almost immediately. It has other things to do apparently. I am ok with that, the bubbles seemed like sick bros. Super beast.

S: There’s a cheddar cheese funkiness to it, or like the a carpet sample book at Home Depot in a strangely good way because the harsh lemon zest makes it seem like its a weird baked good. Cheese Merengue Pie. This just comes off as super acidic from the get go.

T: Holy acidic hell. This is more sour than most geuzes that I have had and it dethrones 3F Sch. Kriek as the most face melting sour I have ever had. Seriously wow, it makes your face cringe in happiness at the full court acidic press that it wages on your tastebuds. Even before you swallow, it comes in and starts tearing down the drywall and just wrecking shit like an old school punk show. The taste is bitter hot tart lemonheads with acid that melts like that stuff on Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I get no kiwi, largely because kiwis usually dont burn the enamel off of my bicuspids. This is the type of beer that people try around me and look at me like I am a fucking maniac for drinking this recreationally.

M: The mouthfeel is fire and acid that burns with the fury of a thousand ex-wives. It creates a chemical methlab and just scorches the surface with DDT and lemon acid. The fields are fallow and salted, none are saved from the tart wrath of this scornful master.

D: Did you even read the foregoing? I am working my way steadily through this 750ml but this is clearly meant to be shared. This is on the absolute extreme end of flavor profiles. I dont see how Weyerbach or other Cantillon offerings can get much more ridiculous than this. This is just a straight up acid rampage that takes no prisoners. All tastebuds are executed upon sight without recompense or remorse. Somehow, the sheer malevolence is almost a loving quality and I feel wiser and stronger for having been subject to this acrimonious treatment. Yes sir, can I have another.

Narrative: Face too sore to write narrative, must…use… flouride….

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Coastal Fog Brewing India Pale Ale, The Bay Area Rolls out something more lackluster than Silicon Valley children.

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Coastal Fog usually tastes like Parliaments and salt, now it tastes like escort spit.

Ok so, this is the lowest rated IPA in the beer community and is (in)famous for being the only IPA in the worst 50 beers category. Today I wrangle this gentle flower and get its pistil and stamen all up in my face.

Coastal Fog India Pale Ale, 5.2% ABV

A: The appearance is nothing too offensive, but also nothing exceptionally wrong either. It has a muted copper and penny look to it like oh, I dont know, an ESB. Does that make you happy? You want labels. FINE. There’s your label, translucent lake water, now go find it in Behr and do you child’s nursery in it. Also, the lacing and carbonation is great, its like the lake after a sick Eliminator goes through straight up eliminating.

Worst IPA Ever? Go on. I am listening.

S: The hop profile is not usual for a single IPA but it isn’t really that bad either. It has a huge wateriness to it, but that might be intentional for a casual fun IPA. Who knows. It has a mild turbinado sugar like a watered down belgian dubbel and finally some hops that are a bit like unraked yard trimmings. it isn’t really that bad, like how Blossom was ok, but if you compare this beer to a real show like Breaking Bad, it’s going to seem shitty by comparison. WHOA.

T: The taste is really thin and watery with an initial sweet honey note to it like if you did a 3:1 water ratio with Hopslam (3oz water 1oz Hopslam) but it has a nice little redeeming pine at the end. Like when you walk into a bathroom and it clearly smells like deuce, but then someone has a forest Glade plug in to let you know that they were at least trying.

M: Ok so, if you missed it, it is watery. Sessionable as hell and almost to the point where I wonder how much crystal and 2 row that they actually used. It comes off almost more like an English Mild in a way, but oh well, haters gonna hate. I feel like the threadbare old white cop who learned something from my renegade partner that, I shouldn’t just judge IPAs on the face of things, and never to touch an IPA’s radio when he is being all sassy.

This beer is not going through any phases, this is exactly how it really tastes. No need to age this.

D: Well, this is kinda drinkable, I GUESS. Furthermore, it is pretty thin and doesn’t really dry out the gumline. It doesn’t really bother me, but I dont really get excited drinking it either. The ho’s and hum’s cascade effortlessly. However, this beer is cheap. I think I got a bomber for $2.99 so there’s that. But then Lagunitas doesn’t taste like bidet water and it is about the same price so, oh well. Is it as bad as everyone says? Not hardly. It’s not even the worst IPA that I have ever had. I think anything by Hermitage is far worse. It enjoys a fate worse than awful, the purgatory of “oh? I forget, no dont get that.”

Coastal Fog did not do the cooking by the book.

Narrative: Clive Worthington was the smoothest loan restructuring agent in the tricounty area, but you wouldn’t see his phone ringing anytime soon. Sure, people loved having their mortgage rates adjusted, and Clive cut through the red tape with the slickest of ease. Once it was over, Clive was left with a series of pink carbon copies and an empty heart. Who ever calls the old loan structure specialist? No one. Real Estate agents get invited to housewarming parties, but old Clive just stares out the window at the children making obscene snow sculptures and wonders what love feels like. He has his model trains at home, his botanical garden, and of course his Ziggy comics, but no one would ask old Clive to a wedding, or even a funeral. He was ultimately not a bad guy, just a guy who was there when things were bad. The opposite of a fairweather friend really. Clive smiled as a child was pushed into a snow vagina and nodded his head knowing that he would die alone. The child climbed out of the crude snow crevasse and shouted to his mother when he noticed that old man Worthington was watching them with no pants on again.

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The Bruery Humulus Lager, More Clouds Than an E40 Picnic

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Humulus Cumulus Lupulus Dupulus.

A: This beer has a nice cloudy yellow with inviting murkiness to it. It looks like a filthy lemonade with great carbonation. The lacing is minimal but the head is like a clou- no, I will not go there, it’s painfully apparent.

S: The nose is plentiful with lemons and zest with sweet biscuit and citrus hops. There’s a bit of grapefruit that feels like a single IPA, but it doesn’t override. It has more of a crispness to the smell.

Too many of these and some awkward iSituations could go down.

T: The taste is super refreshing with a mellow hop character that rounds out the sweet cornbread notes. It almost reminds me of a mellowed out Gumballhead with more of an acidic character. I feel that this is superior for Gumballhead, for the sheer complexity and balance that it attains.

M The mouthfeel is middle of the road but incredibly refreshing with a great hop resonance that serves as a gateway drug to any person with an IPA aversion. I know the Bruery said that they would never brew an IPA, but this is pretty close, by all accounts.

Solid beer, no mystery here.

D: This is incredibly drinkable because it creates this revolving door wherein you drink it, love the refreshing nature and the hops dry the palate at the end. The result is a moebius strip of refreshment that is ultimately rewarding. The drink ability is huge just hug, right up there with Alpine Hoppy Birthday and Live Oak Hefeweizen. The big league D squad, if you will, although you probably wont.

Narrative: The Celtis bush looked longingly across the yard to the supple humulus fields blooming with careless abandon. What was so different between the two pedigrees really? Was not the Celtis bush blessed with hearty, chloro- efficiency? The children frolicked and hid amongst the verdant leaves of the fragrant humulus bush, but not the old cantankerous hackberry. Everything was going fine until stupid old Pliny made a distinction between the two. It was all downhill for the loveable hackberry at that point. I guess being violently toxic didn’t help. “Oh, here comes a child, he. . .oh he’s counting, PERHAPS THE HACKBERRY SHALL NOW BECOME THE BASE FOR THESE TAG EXPLOITS!” Not within 4 minutes did little Jerry begin to wheeze and scratch himself violently. Two branches were ripped off and made into makeshift guns, later into circus whips for the children’s imaginary animal menagerie. “GOD DAMN YOU HUMULUS BUSH!” The neighboring female humulus bush smiled coyly and self replicated in front of the poor Celtis, no need for any pesky seeds or male intervention here. Stick vinuous tears soaked the fertile ground, poor Hackberry would live to see another day as a critical ingredient in Propecia. Then the joke will be on Humulus indeed. Two sides of the same floral coin.

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Flossmore Station Railhopper IPA, Getting my Rails Hopped So Hard Right Now.

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My rails get all hopped just looking at this beer.

Flossmore Station Railhopper IPA, 7% abv

A: Nothing too crazy here, nice bright amber with deep gold hues, decent carbonation that mellows pretty quickly, not exceptionally beautiful but nothing ugly about it. A solid ale on the streets but a hoppy freak in the sheets.

S: Some orange rind and some mild sweetness but not a huge nose to this, maybe it’s because it was 2 months old, but I don’t see that being a great alibi because even the subtle notes arent there. It has a very flat olfactory character. No amount of clever writing will make Ashton Kutcher likeable, no amount of artful smells will make this crazy interesting.

You enjoy this IPA? How about I slap your shit?

T: This tastes like a 1.5 IPA, I say that with the respect that it has a nice light citrus character and a mellow piney character. There’s nothing wrong with it but it’s just lackluster. It sidesaddles two genres and comes off feeling a bit weak and generic. I don’t want all “Fresh Hopslam” proponents to get all up in arms but this just seems rather hackneyed for a brewery that rolls out crazy original. I harm them because I love them and just expect more. There’s not excuse for domestic hop violence.

M: Very good, nice crispness without being overly drying. Nice bubbles throughout and a taste that lingers without being oppressive like some Maharajas that I know. No overly herbal character, but it will be difficult to pick it out of a lineup of IPAs. It doesn’t have that certain joi de vivre that most flagship IPAs will maintain.

I should have drank this sooner.

D: Very drinkable, if accessible. I don’t want to insult it as an “entry level IPA” like a monicre I would give to Ranger IPA, but it just feels like someone phoned it in on either the hop bill or just went for the standard grain bill or something. Maybe I am just being an IPA curmudgeon, who knows. Certainly drinkable but it wouldn’t be my go to over the stable (D)IPAs like Pliny/Sculpin etc/

Narrative: “You can’t return this, at least not without a receipt, and then unfortunately you can only receive store credit at FashionBug.” His demeanor was cool and calm, Waylon Lupus was the calm store manager notorious for difusing tense situations. “Now please, if you would like another spandex unitard, you can feel free to select another that is to your liking.” He did not maintain a smile or the slightest bit of hesitation while addressing the irate female single mother desperately searching for deals. His voice was monotone and crisp, like an audio book revealing depressing consumer news to crestfallen patrons. “Perhaps I could show you our wide selection of strapless patent leather shoes?” He uttered effortlessly and slid whimsically towards the appropriate section, mesmerizing his pacified companion. “No one knows your greatness Waylon, no one but me,” a soft voice uttered in the security booth while tracing a single finger across the monitor looking over the shoe aisle. “No one but me.”

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Goose Island Lolita, Getting Nabokov All Twisted.

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Finally a wild ale even non-pedophiles can enjoy.

Lolita, American Wild Ale, 7.0% abv

A: light cherry red hues with minimal lacing and carbonation that dissipates quickly. Capri Sun nailed it on this one and Hi-C is jocking so hard.

S: the Brett funk is present with wafts of wet hay and blankets. It is expansive and in the words of one observer, “something is rotten.” In my opinion, all is well and delicious with the aroma, considering the style. It finishes with cherry and tart fruit roll up smells. It’s like a ridiculously alcoholic recess sesh.

This beer is tempting, but dangerous.

t: Raspberries are present with a very sour mild drying effect that is not overwhelming on the sour. Overall is has very good balance and is incredibly refreshing. The juiciness has a strange tart nature with a crisp nice bite to the finish. The hops are completely absent, but they are not wantonly missed. Gushers for grown ups all up in my grill.

M: Put simply, there is no coating and the maltiness is similar to a lambic or a thin profile gueuze. You swallow and bam it’s over, all that anticipation and just a fleeting sour note, like most Brendan Fraser movies.

I want to sit around and be patient for more, but, I know it will never come.

D: This is a tough call because it is very drinkable but slightly drying after 22 oz. It reminds me of listening to a Dragonforce album, where at first blush you love every note and run, you praise the complexity but after a solid hour of it the wear and tear of the items all taking place at once begin to grate on you. It is hard to fault and, just short of Russian River and Lost Abbey offerings, this is incredible.

Narrative: Lola had this anxiety in her chest. A strange aching pain that began just after 6th grade that she couldn’t explain. At first blush it seemed like a mere tightness, or maybe just a hormonal inbalance, however, she began to realize some powerful changes in the following year. Now I present this not in a biological or coming of age way, to be quite blunt, Lola could reduce her size at will. It began simply enough she would exhale to relieve herself of the constant worry and tension and note her sprite figure diminish from her regular 5’1” stature to a 4’6” height. With practice in her room, she even could push these numbers lower and lower until at the crest of her 14th birthday she could rest comfortably sweet and refined amongst her massive pillows with her things. Her iPod screen showed full screen matinees and all over her childhood possessions took huge new forms. She was indeed as Lolita as one could be, ensconced in between the comforter. She giggled to herself when her mother came in and couldn’t find her amongst the folds. She was as sweet as the day was long but she held that tart little character, and an everlasting little secret.

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Olde Hickory Event Horizon Imperial Stout, EVENTFUL THINGS ABOUT THIS HOLIDAY SEASON.

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My Horizon has some sick events on it. Lawrence Fishburn will probably be there.

Olde Hickory, Event Horizon 2010, 8.5% Barrel Aged Imperial Stout

A: This has a deep hateful color to it that cascades in a murky mess out of the bottle. A hard pour seems to make it angrier and a huge tan head subsides into pencil shavings color. It leaves spotty lacing that looks like those plants in Ursula’s cavern. The beer itself is darker than Goofy’s taint. Disney references abound.

S: Huge sticky maple syrupy sweetness subsides into a burnt bakers chocolate and coffee dryness. The mild heat smell is welcoming, like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. So far so good, this beer impresses on all levels.

Look at this beer. This beer is bad ass.

T: It has a great prickly bourbon tingle to the front taste that establishes a nice booziness that isn’t exactly hot, just sweet and smoothe. Then like a dapper southern gentleman, the chair is pulled back and chocolate enters with a bouquet of toffee and coffee, much to the entertainment of your palate. Very balanced in execution and feels like a halfway home between Goose Island Rare and Canadian Breakfast Stout.

M: The mouthfeel is a bit lighter than I was expecting but still a solid medium coating which does not disappoint. The coffee doesn’t overpower and the bourbon and sweetness lingers. The honey notes come through more as a maple syrup I would assume due to the barrel but who knows, it just works.

I can't even be critical of this old gem.

D: With each refreshing sip I look sadly to my glass and wish that this beer wasn’t so hard to come by. It is certainly worthy of the hype and should be far higher on the Top 100 list in my opinion. This is a world class beer that is not only delicious but incredibly session able. I cant see this getting any better over time because it is already mellow, boozy, and delicious. The relatively lower ABV makes it a more relaxed, incredibly drinkable imperial stout and it is all the better as a result.

Narrative: This confidence scheme wasn’t going as planned. Dirk “Oilcan” Murkerson had the whole thing planned to a “T” but things started to unravel bit by bit. His dolt of a partner, Sitcky Bittles, was supposed to walk into the jewelry store and say that he has lost his obsidian diamond, and offer a huge standing reward for it. Oilcan walks in with a fake black diamond and pawns it for thousands, they both get away clean in the old struggle buggy. Simple. The darkness in both of their hearts mirrored in the balanced and smooth plan down to the execution, if not for that bumbling sweet confidence man, Bittles. “Eh old Oilcan, how was I sapposed to know that the diamond was a legit diamond from the boy’s stash? Cahmannn Oilcan!” Bittles pleaded entreatingly chewing the stub of his gnarled cigar nervously. “I shall tell you what you shall do, consult the provisions of your offer, offer your own indemnity to obtain the reward yourself, while hedging the item you pawned within the structure of the ombundsman’s gambit.” BY GUMMIT, Old Oilcan had done it again and gotten the boys out of a sticky fix! You can say what you want about his dark velvet suit, but his dapper demeanor won even the coldest hearts over.