If you weren’t into craft beer in the early 2010s, it’s hard to explain what a massive whale these Funky Buddha bottles were. Now the idea of trading huge bottles for some fruited kettle sour seems quaint. It was the beginning of Floridaweiss and the progenitor of harrowing lactic consequences.

This has not only not aged well, it’s a dystopian acetic hellscape. Privileged people have dental insurance and this is how they self flagellate. The initial huff has a solvent and pool chemical acrid aspect that lets you know it’s been a long 11 years in that bottle.

Quinine protects against malaria but nothing protects against vengeful American wild ales left unchecked. The first taste is bracing like warheads left in seat cushions. All the fun of red wine vinegar with no summer salad. The fruit at this point is an absentee father and whatever sweetness remained left when the passionfruit went out for smokes.

This was one of like 50 bottles so at least we know this is a contained incident most people won’t endure. I paid $100 for this vial of pool chemicals to step on my cubes. The swallow is Southwest customer service and no vouchers are provided. You can feel the sides of your tongue contract and your tastebuds become ridged and embossed as it sucks the saliva out of every opening.

I’ve never had pure citric acid but this has to be approaching that meyer lemon event horizon.

We live in a privileged beer landscape now where even better beers can be overlooked. It’s important to reflect upon these lactic sleep paralysis demons from the past, to move beyond the florida snake oil, to seek absolution in drinkability.

My bicuspids may never recover.