Back in 2010 KBS was a personal white whale and when I landed it seven years ago, I thought I was on some Radio Rahim shit 📻. Every year, someone would inevitably extra me a single bottle and I would stroll down that malty memory lane, still unique and occupying that coffee soaked cockle of my heart like an album you’d heard so many times you could only skip to the deepest cut. After seven years, this is the first year that I was able to go to a retail establishment and buy it with no FedEx involved. In a world of rapidly evolving tastes and palate differences, this remains a steadfast constant that may wane as the growing bones of adolescent palates seek more salacious framework, but like a well oiled mitt or a RealDoll you used to French kiss before you met your secondlife wife: this holds a special love that endures. With the waxing and waning of the need for trade machinations, we have a new crop of eager and excited BevMo ballers and Total Wine warriors becoming instaRones overnight, as they should. The framework for rapid palate evolution and traditional neglect is built upon the shattered staves of top of the spear neckbeards falling upon countless limited releases. In World War I after the Battle of the Marne the cycling of troops from the front to the rear became standard to prevent psychosis and shell shock. Every rising palate investing in $37/slot raffles today will be a grizzled dortmunder drinker in three years, having witnessed the horrors of luxury consumables. The vets and greenest troops can still find solace in these beers. Stout. Stout never changes.