Oh man, the already stellar corn and wheelbarrow rainwater notes from the base beer sure did provide an amazing platform for this high fructose corn syrup panoply of ambrosial delights.
I used to be a busser and sometimes I would need to change those fat stick sacks of syrup in the soda machine. The contents were rank, saccharine foul bladders of failure and depression. If you have ever tasted Mr PIbb concentrate you have looked to the edge of beverage insanity and known the perils of the human condition. This is like that, except grape fanta edition. Take that decadent robitussin and cut it with boiled corn, melted children’s grape toothpaste, about 200 purple otter pops and blend it with a metallic pennies and dimes change jar: you have this malt liquor masterpiece.
I would rather go down on a Samoan escort after a century bike ride than confront this welches grape genocide again. I still have night tremors thinking of those medicinal syrup tones dripping like the blood of virgin babies on the altar of Skittles.
This lady has enough disposable income to but a pure bred poodle and a ramp for it to clamber in and out of her car. People who drink this beer will never know these levels of condescension.