@hillfarmstead Madness and Civilization I: The Unbecoming More Than Without

I wanted to use an abstract gerund phrase to take the piss out of recent brewery titles but Jean and the TH boys beat me to it with a lengthy Vonnegut reference, so we all get to collectively rub those philosophy degrees for kindling. Except I can’t brew for shit. Anyway, I Tarrantino’ed the fuck out of these reviews and dropped a fat #2 of madness on your before I closed with a long hard #1 of Madness. This has been colloquially deemed the more “accessible” of the two offerings. But that is like a Dupont Registry buyer saying that a Gallardo is an “entry level offering.” Take your KBS bullshit elsewhere, the men are talking. Anyway, let’s take this supercar of stouts around the ring a bit, is this the malty r8 everyone is hoping for or just some bullshit Tesla hype? We shall see.

Look, oh wow, I didnt share it, that means I know some shit, right, oh wait I am still a prediabetic bitch.

Look, oh wow, I didnt share it, that means I know some shit, right, oh wait I am still a prediabetic bitch.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States

Style | ABV
American Double / Imperial Stout | 9.00% ABV
It is a BLEND of very complex components – 2 year old Buckwheat Rye aged in Elijah Craig 18 barrels, 15 month Maple Wheat Imperial Stout, and a blend of Vanilla and Cacao Nib Bourbon Barrel aged Everett.

A: Alright drink all of the above in an just imagine the world that you live in being sucked sideways by a wanting George T. Stagg fleshlight. This is far more lively than the second offering, but for reasons that will be outlined shortly. This is the Island of the Blue Dolphins of the HF stouts accessibility and it looks beautiful with a splashy wake like some bourbon otters are cracking some cask oak on their chests. The carb is there, the alcohol doesn’t drill your anoos, everything was well.

Sometimes I get emails about some stupid BJCP or Naked Pint shit and I be like-

Sometimes I get emails about some stupid BJCP or Naked Pint shit and I be like-

S: This is where things start going from standard to “oh fuck, this Fedex box was worth it.” I love two things that I have read in other reviews: 1) this is amazing at 45 degrees and 2) I can certainly pick out XXXX barrel. For the former, you dun goofed. The olfactory consequences will never be the same. Let this warm up and it is like a derelict candy dealer dropping cacao and sticky hersheys in your nose holes. This is more scent than MC2, and delivers a more complex smell bouquet than its elusive brother. You get some red wine tannins at higher temps in the same vein as Parabola but this has the sustain of oak and baker’s chocolate that rings deep and pure. The nose just fucks you sideways and you tip up for it.

T: The taste does not deliver in the intensity that MC2 provides. This has a sweetness and almost a Grape Fanta finish to it that is still GOOD, but after my butthole was stretched to Rubix cube levels by MC2, it is hard not to long for that gentle chocolatey fist. Regardless, this has a more nuanced gentle profile with red wine tannins, the sweetness of the bourbon, a vanilla profile that seems to watch over this shit like a Mormon dance, not letting anything become too ridiculous. At the closer you get a kind of chocolate pancake aspect that is sweet but the red wine just interlopes hard like an Orange County mother you wish would move its fake tits on out of here.

MC1 puts you on that sweet sticky drinkable game that you love to love.

MC1 puts you on that sweet sticky drinkable game that you love to love.

M: The mouthfeel is lighter than MC2 for a billion reasons, but it has its own charms. You can apprehend the nuances and variety of notes taking place here, whereas the MC2 is a full on assault that takes a fuckload of concentration to address, this is a delcious Event Horizon sort of stout that lets you meander at your leisure, never unfulfilled. It is sweeter but doesn’t overwhelm in a way that most bullshit tickers wont notice anyway as they are lining up 45 bottles on the mantle of their garbage track home.

D: This is easily more drinkable than MC2 but the format also almost seems to lend itself to this fact. If you have ever been to a diner at 3am and had the “chicken noodle soup” and had the reduced blast that is the stiffarm of concentrated madness, you will know the true nature of this beer. To be honest, most people will like this version more. The bitch ass tickers who focus on rarity will claim to like MC2 more and continue to rate Darkness down for being “too hot” but at the end of the day, these are two different beers both kissing the neck of two totally different neckbeards. MC2 is for the hardened veteran ready for the 2009 Beer Cynic, the MC1 is there to glad hand the normal “Huna for BWXIV” kids. I don’t know what DDB has degenerated to, but this shit was delicious.

some tickers complain that DDB has lost touch with the regular beer world, like this shit ever resided there.

some tickers complain that DDB has lost touch with the regular beer world, like this shit ever resided there.

Narrative: “Hello? Is this recordin-pshh- hello?” Taylor Carmen tapped the monitor pleadingly. He never meant for this to happen. Just three weeks ago he was your average Orange County youth, slammed Silverado, flat brimmed hat, Crazy Town not an uncommon artist within the ambit of his auditory selection. He was a master of NU METAL and presented a deep and profound manner that every woman with pink highlights would embrace. But now here he was, an ad hoc astronaut. To be fair, the prank war was getting a bit out of hand. “Please, if anyone sees my step mom, tell her, I am so sorry for mistreating her-” Taylor started it by down tuning his friends bass to E flat. Then the classic bucket in the doorway, things escalated, and they tricked poor Taylor into boarding the launch of a new Verizon satellite. “And if you see Aiden, tell him he is a total dick. . .I am running out of air. . .but he should know. . .those texts never came from a. . .chick-” He layed against the GPS monitor and gasps the sickest final breaths of a bro cut down before the pinnacle of his sickness. Later they would recover these remains from Mars and realize his genius, a prank that was common to all but inacessible and perfectly executed for its purity and sweet nature. Poor Taylor Carmen.

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