I feel like I have been wrestling with Lost Abbey lately and constantly looking in my rearview mirror, but one thing that I know is, aside from Duck Duck Gooze, this is probably my favorite sour that they have ever made and, spoiler alert, it is damn good. If landing this beer wasn’t such a kick in the taint, I would seek it out all the time. Let’s get this sourgasm going on today’s review.

Veritas 007, Lost Abbey
American Wild Ale, 7% abv

A: This beer has a radiant glow to it and makes me suspect that Witches Wit or some golden was the base beer but, absent some searching on Alta Vista or AOL, the world may never know. Pathetic crackly carobnation and non-commital lacing make this beer ineligible for Jdate. Not sure where the tremblant red colors came from but, hey, belly up to the bar non-standard coloring, even a crazy off pink hue is welcome in these parts.

S: This has that funky Jolly Pumpkin signature wet bandaids with sobbed upon cardboard smell to it. Sure there’s wheat and a tart finish but the trials of a broken breakdancer are the soul of the enterprise. Also, cherries and that aggressive raspberry that ruins everyone’s game and takes over shit rapaciously.

T: This has an incredibly expansive character with cherry and raspberry at the forefront. It mellow a bit, I was told but that is like saying that the kid with ADD is doing a little bit less shitty at math. This is still incredibly tart like a cider rampage but with more dryness. Somehow, skittles got invited to this bruja and decided that archetypical tart fruits would follow up the swallow. This is orgasm in a cup for a 6 year old palate. That, no I mean, it is what a 6 year old would really enjo-, shit nevermind, next category.

M: This is super drying and light but refreshing. It would be more refreshing if I wasn’t so stressed out about drinking it at all. I can’t fault it for its existence. Sometime when I drink a rare beer, that comes through consciously and I am aware of it, denaturing the experience. I once drank ISO:FT and loved it, and then when someone told me what it was I bemoaned my fast gulps and distention to detail. This is a fantastic beer and the mouthfeel just served a self-destructive function. It was gone so quickly, said the Lotto winner, sobbing into a 4 seated jet ski.

D: See supra, this is beyond drinkable and, if I didn’t lack the temerity to seek this out, I would do so. Someone give me another bottle and I will write them a short story, just for a chance to indulge on this epic treat again. It is within the ambit of the best 10 sours that I have ever tried. It is like in Cold Mountain where Nicole Kidman falls in love with Jude Law after only giving him lemonade like once, WHAT? I didn’t even see that movie, I MEANT THE BEER WAS PRETTY LEGIT. That’s all.

Narrative: The structure of Horatio Alger works and rom-coms had led poor Devin Terpin to believe that it was possible to transcend class structure immediately, if love and a 90 minute resolution was involved. “Repeat again Devin, ’And henceforth, the mandate shall remain tattered dicta’” instructed Ethyl Balmington, his social correctional instructor. “Hens for, this man-date is a tatted dick.” Devin stumbled out warily. Ms. Balmington shook her head reproachfully. “Devin, if you ever hope to attend this Laguna Nigel wedding, you need to work on your diction and content.” Devin sighed and kicked a patch of wild raspberries before him. “Wait, Devin, what is that?” he glanced down and the plant seemed to pulse at his distinctive Riverside dialect. “THIS STRAIN OF FLORA, it is highly combustible with your 909 prototype upbringing!” Ms. Balmington an experienced amateur florist snatched his Metal Mulisha bandana and ground some tart berries into a fine paste. “Now swallow this.” “OBVI!” Devin cried out and made his fraternal sign and downed the berries not unlike the sickest bro. These will take effect in approximately 90 minutes, and all of your romantic problems will be solved. “That sounds like the reprieve of some petulant candor, to say the least!” Devin retorted, astonished. His lifted Silverado changed into a Pumpkin Carriage, then it was on some sick twanky deuces, then it was a bagged pumpkin carriage, which, was pretty cutty irrespective of circumstance. A mere 90 minutes had passed and Devin joked with a pun based upon a portmanteau of Portugese and conversational Greek to one of the guests. “WELL I NEVER!” she cried out while polishing her monocle. “AND I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!” the reverend shouted and credits began to roll, over the expanse of the life of the sickest bro. The berries were poisonous.