Hill Farmstead Damon, DAMON…Matt….Day…mon….

Ok, so not to thoroughly beat this equine subject, but I love this brewery. They could bottle 4Loko with Hershey’s syrup in it and call it an imperial stout and I would still come running, Fedex account in hand. This beer is no exception. Let’s see what happen when the demigods in Vermont put that midas touch to one of my favorite styles: Huge Bourbon Barrel Imperial Stout. A new challenger appears…

This takes the prize as the most ridiculous bottle to open, dethroning that BA Shipwreck Porter. Dem wax. It had 5 coats like Lithuanian teenager sold into sex trafficking. Too soon.

Hill Farmstead Damon, Imperial Stout 10.5% abv

A: This looks beautiful like a fresh slab of obsidian that those rakish Hawaiians just harvested for kitschy jewelry creation. Nice deep black with roast mocha foam that is understated, yet classy, like a La Coste thong. The head takes a full 30 seconds to realize that it needs to get its shit together and finally rises to the surface reluctantly. The lacing looks incredible like that snarky liberal arts girl whose work you didn’t care much for but the substance lingered on. You know, her.

Matt....Day...Mon....Daymon.....MATT....Day....

S: The smell is like fresh brownie batter whipped up with grampa’s hooch. The smell has the note of fresh Tollhouse cookies, with a bittersweet toffee note. The whole smell reminds me of a See’s Candy Toffee Sucker. God damn, anthropomorphism makes me want to give this beer a big old smooch. Do you remember in Melrose Place where there was always a fire or amnesia or some shit always going down? Well this has that sweet and simple feel but with a ton of other elements in play and it is fucking excellent like a 50/50 lipslide into a fakie manual.

T: The taste is like licking the bowl from some sweet nana’s cookies, and nana has residual drinking problems from the great war. Also, the malts impart this subtle roastiness that nudge at you like that little voice that tells you it’s ok to drink because it is Flag Day. There’s this final finish where bourbon shows up in a flourish with confetti and cocoa coronation fanfare. The taste is like that Master P video Make Em Say Uhh, where there’s a great robust profile and cast of interesting events that you want to ruminate on its efficacy.

This is officially Moar Certified.

M: The mouthfeel just gets all carnival and sticky real quick. Someone went and scooped up some of the La Brea tar pits, jumped into Kentucky for some fine bourbon, hopped up to Pennsylvania for that aforementioned chocolate. The mouthfeel doesn’t overstay its welcome. It’s like a friend who stays, makes out with a chick on your couch and when you’re just about to get mad, BOOM, sheets folded and he’s gone. The shamiest of walks.

The proud lineage continues in this beer.

D: This is absurdly drinkable. It is outrageous in the classic sense of the word, causing outrage. I look at my bank account, then the trade forums, then my cellar, ad infinitum and it makes me staunchly aware of my needledick that I am swinging in the beer trade world for this amazing potation. I just want to post up with these all day long. This reminds me of a gentle version of BB Plead the Fifth, with hand holding and it pops the door locks for you. Now slap it on my ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass ass, and make that mother fucker Damontime.

This beer blows my mind. Damonception.

Narrative: Damon looked balefully upon his colleagues poised in a tight circle. Lunches on the quad never seemed so long he was ousted from the magic: The Gathering society. Those 43 minutes ticked by with a painful awareness of the liches that were being summoned, the artifacts utilized, and don’t even get Damon started on the sheer potential for enchanted creatures. “Hey Damon” a pigeontoed youth with a screen print shirt reading “5 Dollar Footlong” with a tasteful arrow pointing down approached Damon. “Hey so uh, some of us other guys were gonna start up a Yu-Gi-Oh league an-” “GOD DAMNIT Clarence! What do I look like? A CHILD. You dont have to start some RC COLA LEAGUE to supplicate my self esteem!” Clarence looked to the ground and sheepishly retreated, clutching his deck ruefully. Damon had a heart of darkness and several booster packs worth of rares. However, deep down there was a loving, entreating spirit who could guide others into something amazing. Damon walked over to the circle of disapproving glances and looked down at the match in progress. “Royal Assassin in a blue deck? Good luck with that,” Damon quipped as he dropped a Timewalk into the circle and the masses jubilantly cried out at the sight of a rare and banned card from earlier days. One headgeared, poxfaced individual placed a hand on Damon’s shoulder “Heysh Daymonsh, you’re and shalright guy, you know thasht?” he said, spitting on Damon’s Type O Negative shirt. Damon nodded and all was right again, he was free to summon his loving darkness upon the masses.

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One thought on “Hill Farmstead Damon, DAMON…Matt….Day…mon….

  1. I liked your comments, (especially, “The smell is like fresh brownie batter whipped up with grampa’s hooch”) but I could do without the memes. I’d rather see more pictures of the beer.

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