Double Dry Hopped citra thrill seeker on cask, the closest thing beachwood has gotten to that pillowy soft haze craze, a creamy real ale straight from the gums of a soccer hooligan. No one is clutching their screen print tees with the same tired four superlatives that they saw on untappd. The macaw tickers parroting adjectives without intentionality ::braaaaak:: creamy juicy haze ::whistle:: in this jungle climate of blunt trudging and mimicry, things grow fast under the hothouse canopy. Dipshit beer expert cultures take hold and sprout instantly in a manner of months having never heard of an Orval or clutching to the earthy groundwork of beer. It’s a race for chlorotastic validation. 

This is a well executed and resinous showcase of cottony mango fibers. In other words there’s no place for a focused, direct beer that isn’t dripping in peacocking or attention seeking pheromones. The dudes who rapaciously undercut and raffle endlessly for double digit “gains” will be the same pillars of generosity, their succor in the form of accolades and molar unit pours from strangers. No this cask ale would perish in that jungle. In a post fertility landscape the true currency is being above the absurdism of predicating your self worth on a beer. These little ground sweeping cones will be welcome in my heart any time, which only demonstrates that I don’t know shit an prolly won’t even tick then 3sons Mexican cake deviant in an Ohio basement. Brb imma eat these shade cones off the ground tbh