Rogue White Whale Ale, A Beer Brewed with a Copy of Moby Dick in the Brewkettle

I am not shitting you:

A reading from the book of Hyperonomy.


As though their last foray into Maple Bacon Burned Down Planned Parenthoods was not enough, now they are putting printed paper into the brew kettle to drum up hype. I get it, whales are a trope of the trading and ticking culture. There are tan whales, taupe walez, white wales, and even midwestshelfwalez. At the heart of all wales is usually 1) rarity 2) taste 3) bottle counts or 4) inaccessability. This beer takes a regular beer, adds recycled paper with ink on it and therefore destroys #2.

It is made by Rogue so we know that item #1 is out by default. If you are shipping to BevMo, you can expect n00bsexual traders to offer this up looking for BA Batch 9000 and shit. What about bottle counts? Well this is available online, so let’s just guess upwards of 30,000 bottles. So item #3 is out. On that same point, if you can sit back and order it ONLINE and have it delivered to your house, unless that box says “Etre Gourmet” or “Cascade” on it, it likely won’t be a white wale. This parade of dumb ass adjuncts seems to be the new rage either in this form, or by fruiting base beers that taste like shit to pass them on to an unsuspecting beer nerd populace.

THIS IS NOT A WALE. Giving it pieces of paper will not make it a WHALE

Look forward to your uninitiated normal friends to buy you this garbage and then you have to nod thoughtfully and thank them for their pointed gift. Call me Bitchmale.


Goose Island Bourbon County Vanilla Brand Stout: PART 3 – Revenge of the Midwest Shelfwales

Ah those old 13,000 bottle release shelfwales, they have entered our fair community with panache and aplomb that would make even Balzac blush. This has been a noticeable oversight for quite some time and beer nerds have often asked me why this beer of all the variants was so scornfully cast out of the house like a coffee drinking Latter Day Saint. The simple answer is: this is the worst of the BCBS variants. Now it is still BCBS at heart so that is like saying that the Gallardo is the shittiest lambo; it will still get you some lackluster handjobs. Let’s look at what kinda beans this beer is grinding in today’s review:

Oh shit, the elusive non-standard toaster shot. This is like the BCBVS rookie card up in this mix.

Goose Island Beer Co.
Illinois, United States
American Double / Imperial Stout | 13.00% ABV

A: Get ready for some serious Hitchcock twist to this review: IT LOOKS EXACTLY LIKE BCBS. There are no raw pieces of vanilla or flecks of artisnal beans up in this medium. It is just deep dark murky blackness with minimal lacing, light sheeting and carbonation that phones it in harder than the Miami Dolphins. Not a particularly beautiful beer but, whatever, I AM JUST LOOKING TO LAND A BOOS WITH THIS ALRIGHT.

I feel bad for anyone who drops crazy bottles on this in a trade, you know that feel.

S: This is overridingly sweet, not in that Bruery White Chocolate fashion where you give it a playful shove, like so sweet that you ask it to pull over so you can get out. This has the roast and charming marshmallow meets oak profile with coy little chocolate peeking downstairs at mama bourbon wrapping presents, then holy fuck, Papa Vanilla comes home and starts making declarative statements about how he pays that bills and no one respects him. This is just sweet sticky vanilla extract overload that ends up coming across less like an Oreo/Coffee/Chocolate treat, and more like the lipsmackers lip balm from all those chicks you weren’t making out with in 9th grade.

T: This starts out pretty awesome as BCBS is wont to do, then vanilla jumps with its sweet cloying claws like the T1000 getting dragged behind what would have been a pleasant stout journey to Skynet. There’s a chocolate and coffee presence and vanilla adds this Torani syrup quality like drinks from Starbucks that prevents everyone from getting laid, just beanblocking. This beer seriously makes me just want a regular old BCBS and to leave this sticky sweet interloper out of things, a boy can dream.

This beer tries too hard and ends up coming out as a lesser product as a result. JUST BE YOURSELF BCBS, WE LIKE YOU FOR YOU.

M: This has a generous coating and leaves a deep lingering roast, char, sweet milk chocolate and guess who is riding shotgunning, fucking Vanilla, messing with the radio controls making you listen to Static X and other shit you don’t need or want. I am not saying this is worlds worse than even ::gasp:: BRAMBLE, but what I am saying is that, it would have been better if what makes it so desired was left out. No one is pining after megan Fox because she has toe thumbs, its just something you put up with for the rest of the package.

D: This is less drinkable than every other variant and as it warmed I wish I shared this with someone. Again, this is not a bad beer, it is still BCBS at heart, but you just wish it would cool it with the Baskin Robbins sticky sweet overload. The vanilla is distracting and the types of things that this beer is commanding at this point is downright confusing to me, but then again, toottoot shelfwalez only get more rarerer and not less rare, no walez on the train, mixed metaphor leaving the station. vrroooooom.

Disagree with the midwest cadre about one of their crown jewels? Fuck the police.

Narrative: “Ok here he comes, he’s walking up the drivewa- oh no, his cousin Nigel Beansington is with him, everyone get down get ready to yell surprise!” All of Mark’s friends hid in his small one bedroom apartment and could smell Nigel’s sickeningly sweet DKNY APPLE cologne as he entered the room. “AND SO I TOLD THEM IT WOULD BE OBVIOUS TO YOU THAT THEY WERE PLANNING A SURPRISE PART-” “SURPRISE!” the crowd groaned in unison. Nigel had ruined things again. He was sweet enough and it was hard to fault his blissful ignorance but he just always ended up in places that he did not belong. “Ya see? Told ya, surprise party, obvious right?” Nigel quipped and pushed a finger into the uncut birthday cake and ate a dab of frosting. “EWW BUTTERSCOTCH frosting, what is this a COSTCO, oh KIRKLAND, ya KIRKLAND means Costco cake.” The party universally exhaled and reflected how this overpowering asshole ruined what would have been an incredible affair.


Foothills Brewing Company, Barrel Aged Sexual Chocolate, ERMAGERDD PERPY VAN WANKLE BERRELS

Alright, barrel aged stout week continues with yet another top 100 imperial stout aged in NONE OTHER THAN PAPPY VAN WINKLE BARRELS. The catch here is that, like the disappointing BA People’s Porter, they spent a hot minute on the barrels. A hot 4 months, to be exact. By my BA standards, that is barely what you serve for repeat domestic violence charges. I want some straight up lifers when it comes to ba stouts. Anyway, people love this beer, I am not a huge fan, but who am I to deny you my erudite take on this revered libation? Let’s take a look at this blacksploitation ass bottle

I have been informed that the south is hot, intolerant, sticky, and humid. Pass the barrel aged stouts please.

Foothills Brewing Company
North Carolina, United States
Russian Imperial Stout | 9.75% ABV

A: This follows in the same vein as my review of Great Lakes barrel aged Blackout Stout in that it is incredibly thin for an imperial stout. Think Czar Jack levels. I am not sure if this makes stoichometric sense, but, I feel like barrel aging this beer actually made it considerable thinner. The sheeting is minimal and the carbonation is reluctant as a C student in madrasa. The look is a nice pentel ink black with a slick shine to it like boot black.

You take pappy van winkle barrels and expect some epic shit, then you realize it has a tiny japanese school girl hanging off of it. That caption really ran into some problems.

S: This has a great nose to it, and is probably my favorite part of this beer. I enjoy the chocolate, sweet cocoa notes, you get some light oak, there’s a touch of macaroon and butterscotch to it, but again this is all set forth on the stage of immense chocolate. Again, I feel that even that aspect from the base beer has been ratcheted back, for obvious reasons. I am not sure that the tradeoff for the brief jaunt in a barrel was really worth it. Then again, this beer usually hovers around 1000 bottles, so obviously the clamoring masses know better than I.

T: There is a light sweetness of coffee and some fleeting notes of caramel bourbon, similar to 4 roses treatments. Again, the whole affair is very brief and imparts a very gentle introductory and impartially administered hand to the BA Stout crowd. If you are coming off the heels of BCBS or something like that, this is going to seem downright sessionable. There’s a light cola aspect to it, but the thin tepid nature just doesn’t deliver huge on either a chocolate cake or illiterate gold miner bourbon aspect either. It’s like when Super Mario Bros 2 came out and everyone was like “wait wat.”

With enough time in a bourbon barrel, amazing things can evolve and develop.

M: Just rehash all I said above and use your imagination for once. This beer is thin, crisp, lightly slick, and doesn’t hang around for very long. This is by no means a bad beer and I welcome variations in execution, but this just doesn’t suit my particular stout needs. Insert innuendo re: thick, black, sticky, what have you.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable. The 22oz bottle drinks like a 6% import stout and this beer soars in this category. However, the last release was what, 1200 bottles? So this isn’t exactly like Stone IRS where you can just chain combos together for maximum points. If you are into sweeter BA stouts like the Eclipse treatments and that sorta jazz, this will probably be up your alley, but for all the trouble associated with trading for it, the base beer is arguably superior.

This is just a gentle lil stout that wants some malty cuddling and a nice home. Does not bite, has all shots, is housebroken.

Narrative: The Baltimore police department had spent the greater part of their annual budget on this risky gambit, but they finally developed the ultimate weapon to counteract west Baltimore heroin sales. “ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE,” the monitor boomed from the center compartment of the R.A.V.E.N. 3400. “Very good Raven, now walk forward-” Carl Kensington commanded into the laboratory microphone. The 4 months of development had taken officer Jennings from a comatose beat officer into a highly sophisticated crime fighting instrument of martial law. “Engaging BRIAN BILLICK SEQUENCE-” the robot boomed and staggered forward, 3 steps forward, 4 steps back, on questionable terrain. Dr. Kensington chewed his glasses pensively in what could only be deemd the most cliche manner possible. “It seems the original AI has fused with officer Jennings personal concerns, WE HAVE MADE A MONSTER.” The mechanical abomination began on a rapid mechanize tirade stating, “Afterastellar2006season/improveuponthe13-3record…injuries…poorplay_plagued..2007seasonintheAFCNorth$$cellar…disappointing5-11record…humiliating22-16overtimeloss…previouslywinlessMiamiDolphins-” The scientists could not get this din to stop. They had taken the magic of officer Jennings and imparted a strange sophistication upon him that no one asked for. May God have mercy on the West Baltimore projects.


Evil Twin Brewing, Imperial Biscotti Break, It’s a Coffee Drink for Hipsters that Weight More than 135 lbs.

Man, if I were a hophead in my degenerate beer development, I would be pissed off at this site. What with Wale Week- NO IPAS, then two stouts, it’s like, man what’s a guy gotta do to get his hop cones blasted? Well suffer through, today’s gem is a decadent coffee treat from Evil Twin, not YOUR evil twin, he doesn’t brew beer, he is just barred from coming within 1000 feet of schools and parks.

Phase one: take your eharmony girlfriend out for coffee, phase two: present this libation, phase three: Babylon 5 Marathon.
Let her explain that to her pretentious friends.

Evil Twin Brewing
American Double / Imperial Stout | 11.50% ABV

A: The appearance takes the coffee note to new levels of Seattle hysteria, deep frothy mocha whip no shot side of upside down malt caramel, is the most concise description of the pour. The darkness is deep and complex like Alan Thicke’s character on Growing Pains. The lacing is whimsical and adorns the glass with streamers for the coffee baby shower.

This beer is dark, but adorable, complex, but dangerous. Best enjoyed young.

S: There’s a deep coffee note with a sweetness on the backend that, as the eponymous beer notes, is like deconstructed biscotti. For those of you who in the south who do not have biscotti, it is a stale bread that pretentious people dunk into overpriced coffee. Think Dunkin Donuts, and then the converse. There’s a sweet vanilla, sticky almond meets hazelnut, acidic coffee with a mocha finish that imparts a sort of cocoa dryness. I am a bit wary on the sweet notes but, hey, I once ate an entire Sbarro pizza and fell asleep on some Macy’s beds, so moderation is hardly my strong suit.

T: There is a fantastic interplay between the coffee and the rise to power of the almond armada. The warring factions represent different fealty to the overriding crown of the Church of Stout. Surprisingly, this war of attrition results in savage interbreeding between coffee and vanilla, the nutty aspects couple nicely with the acidic finish from the coffee, and the sweet chocolate and baker’s chocolate nod approvingly at the new feudal stout empire.

Coffee and high alcohol content? This may take me to places that I am not ready for.

M: The mouthfeel coats aggressively and toes the line that Huna and Abyss so admonishingly drew into the sand. I would say medicinal in its sheeting, however, this would be medicine for someone like the person who works the Customer Service desk at Walmart: not quite legitimate medicine. The sweetness eventually overpowers as this thing warms and, while watching the Bachelorette, the sweetness was overriding and unpalatable, also the beer became undrinkable BA ZING!

D: As long as you keep this below 55 degrees, it washes away nicely and imparts huge flavor, however, once the Torani syrup demons are awakened from their century long slumber, this biscotti turns into Bicotivrex, vile libation destroyer and sorrow harvester of palates from the netherrealm. So, serve…serve it cold is basically…that’s what I am trying to say.

If someone can’t find a beer, here’s usually how the discussion goes. I was lucky to have someone in Washington who cares about me help me out. CARING, pass it on.

Narrative: Maxwell House stock had been in a freefall ever since meth hit the market. It wasn’t that people didn’t want Maxwell House, they didn’t, and never really did. The problem was that the poorest of the poor, riddled with vice and an abysmal view of the future, now simply smoked crank to wake up for their degrading jobs. “How can we recover from this newest batch, Jennings?” Wilfred Maxwell IV asked the boardroom as he stared out over the Tarrytown, New York skyline. “Well, the Samoan spiker vanilla blend has been covering the spread in-” “NO JENNINGS, the newest batch of meth. Maxwell House can’t take another potency renovation, people know that we have never been good to the last drop, must less the first, they just want to get high-” he surveyed the hopeful faces surrounding the rich mahogany table, sipping bourbon, enjoying biscotti at their leisure in Brooks Brothers suits. “THEY JUST WANT TO GET HIGH!” Mr. Maxwell IV exclaimed. Jennings rocked back in his supple calfskin leather chair and nodded knowingly. The chemists began cooking down the horrible beans into synthetic caffeine crystals. The dank sticky shards broke like brown stained glass after the first batch was completed. Guillermo, the local day porter of the facility, was asked to try the new product. Ironically, Guillermo was already on meth to face his horrible employment prospects. The coffee glass burned deep and hard like almond and vanilla shards, but it could be worse, he could have been a P’zolo tester.


Avery Uncle Jacob’s Stout, A Stout that Socks You 215 years Beyond the Grave

Avery beers have been divisive for me, sometimes it is a tart delight, other times it is a dramatic wine substitute. This is a nice foray into the world of their hellish huge beers in the same lineage as Mephistopheles, The Beast, Grand Cru, etc. I enjoyed one of those three, so we shall see how this 17.42% abv giant socks me in the face in today’s review.

The Left Hand glass is appropriate because this beer straight slapped me across the face.

Avery Brewing Company
Colorado, United States
American Double / Imperial Stout | 17.42% ABV

Let’s let the label speak for itself:

In the quest to create a collection of barrel-aged beers to be reproduced annually, Avery Brewing Company is releasing Uncle Jacob’s Stout, the second member of its Annual Barrel Series. The collection began with Rumpkin rum barrel-aged pumpkin ale in the fall of 2011, and now continues with this 17.4% ABV stout that was aged in first-use Bourbon barrels for 6 months. While the Avery Barrel-Aged Series features one-time-only batches, such as the recent Muscat d’Amour and Récolte Sauvage, the Annual Barrel Series features a selection of cellarable barrel-aged beers that fans can return to and get to know every year.

In other words, get ready to get socked in the liver.

A: This is jet black, Joan Jett black and this beer loves rock and/or roll. The lacing is minimal largely due to the huge slick sheeting imparted by the massive ABV. It settles to an inky blackness almost instantly but I wouldn’t expect my tank class to be nimble.

This beer will beat you ass, but you won’t feel embarrassed about it at all, well maybe a little.

S: The smell of this beer isn’t too menacing and almost comes across as something at half the alcohol content. There’s some gentle chocolate and brownie batter smell that subsides into some nice light char similar to a sweet Cohiba cigar. The bourbon has that oaky vanilla aspect similar to single barrel Buffalo Trace, but at 684 cases you know they used Rebel Yell or some shit that Eclipse nerds go apeshit for. Smells good, but this is the eye of the storm.

T: The sweetness of the bourbon rolls onto the sweet zones like tight sickles prickling the entire way back in a crackly chocolate pop rocks sensation. The light char can barely hold back the massive kraken that is the bourbon and sweet malts profile. Even the baker’s chocolate looks pissed, furiously rolling out baked macaroon shurikens and tossing them down the back of my throat.

Maybe it is the 17.4% abv, or maybe I am just too immature for this shit. Or both.

M: This is as hot as a New Mexico meth lab and scorches the insides just the same. The chocolate and coffee notes haunt like specters of mouths past, letting me know that this 12oz bottle should have been shared but, oh well, too late for those prodigious moments, off to 17.42% assaults. The chocolate octagon takes it out on your liver and Uncle Jacob stares on knowingly from a bourbon barrel altar, thumbing through the maltronomicon.

D: This is a tough call, at the outset I want to pull the simple “too hot, too big” red flag like all the haters but, I don’t think deserves that treatment. Sure it is a behemoth to wrangle and puts you back in 6th grade pretty quickly, the 16 bit RPGs are busted out after a single bottle. Sure you CAN drink a single bottle, but you certainly SHOULDN’T. I mean, sure I did, but do you want to be like me? Buying clothes at the LA Morgue and running a website that talks shit on beer nerds and hipsters? Well, I guess it isn’t so bad.

I guess this is similar to being put at peace, it is tantamount to self administered anesthesia.

Narrative: “This is a cop out but, I can’t formulate a reasonable response to this beer. My chest feels like E.T. punched my sternum and my mouth is like a 5th grade sleepover chocolate binge. I was gonna write this dystopian steampunk novella about a chocolate harbinger that steals bourbon souls, or some shit, but after a couple beers and then this haymaker, the creative juices are frozen in my head. I homebrewed something of a similar strength that was aged on Willet oak and it gave me this same heat in my chest and light residual headaches. Maybe I am just a cooze, maybe I could have just framed it as a first person narrative from some dialogue mouthpiece but oh well, here we are-” Thomas Jacobs thought to himself in his 8th grade algebra class, thinking of the 6’er of Coronas he had hidden under his bed.


2010 Portsmouth Kate the Great, Katherine Sure Was Great, Until She Went All Small On Us.

Ah the venerable Katherine the Great, I know her intimately as Kate, but the rest of you who don’t know her closely likely press your face up against the ebay glass and hold the silken glove of oppressive royalty in reverence. I can open this review with a quote from economist/philosopher, Dan Olson, “That shit didn’t even go into a barrel” is the purest sentiment that is usually cast upon this decadent gem. However, before we depose this matriarch, let’s see if she can swim with the big baltic whales in today’s review.

You may notice that this bottle is twice the size of the bottles that you are accustomed to. It also may come to your attention that the label doesn’t look like a Thomas Nast outtake. That’s fine, stay with me and go Google Thomas Nast like you were about to.

Portsmouth Brewery
New Hampshire, United States
Russian Imperial Stout | 12.00% ABV

Today we class it up with a representative allegory, oh shit, street knowledge takes a back seat ONE MO GIN’

A: This stately old woman is a firecracker but maintains her slim figure and delicately splashes into the glass like a size 4 woman into a wading pool. There’s a gentle mocha whip to the poise and sticky lacing that clings to the glass like those texts you wish you could avoid from Jdate. The color is light cola at the edges and lets you know that this playful minx isn’t here to ruin your night, but to get it started. You are expecting more of a boisterous presentation, but the subtle glove of a caring Katherine is only one of her nuanced gentle charms.

Kate’s court was severe but loving at the same time, and you are edified as a result.

S: There is a sweetness that rivals bayou Sundays after church. Mammy brought home some milk chocolate and bottles of Portugese wine. Those porties are famous for their wines and Russians sure know how to cultivate cacao in their icy hateful tundra. The court begins a delightful scherzo and lovely Kate guides you amiably and you can feel the coffee mantua bounce with surprising acidity as you look across the deep plum overtones from the walls ordained with imported Rococo crown molding that buttressed the vaulted deep fruit ceiling with ornate care.

T: The dance picks up with a chocolate Bourrée or wait, is that a port wine gavotte? The steps are so thin and quick that it is difficult to discern where Katherine is leading you. Countess and courtesan has fallen beneath her tender anise toe steps but she will pick you up, despite the power in her 12% offset steps. A mahogany deep fruit rag wipes the drops of sweat from your ascot and the Court looks on lovingly as Kate performs her signature molasses menuet that exercises grace and poise, the likes of which make the boorish Count Van De Stone IRS look clumsy by contrast. It was a once in a lifetime tryst that lasted scarcely the frame of a Handel opera.

The short stays that are endured with Kate are enjoyable and opulent in the fashion of the finest repose.

M: Katherine leads you deftly out to the outside terrace and the grace of her chiffon mahogany dress peels lightly from your lips and, despite your unworthiness, you retract knowing another touch of pinot grigio and chocolate vapors will come shortly. She is a cruel mistress of terse demeanor, but you can only seem an aggressive Ivan, terrible by juxtaposition in light of her diaphanous dress and light airy nature. It takes little equipage to prepare such a rare specimen of beauty, the dressing would only weigh down such a figure of balance, coffee and port, chocolate and roast, the newly discovered Americas coupled with a deep baltic tradition. In a strange manner, she reminds you of a strong female porter you met on a Scandinavian whale hunting journey in how capriciously she could handle both the blade and warming blanket in a loving fashion.

D: The night had passed in a way beyond comprehension and you found yourself wishing for just a single measure of additional contact. Alas, the 22 beats are gone, the band has retired to a gentle repose on the balustrade and you have returned to a lowly barrister class. You seek another court, another tryst, but to your chagrin the sweet succor of this caliber should only be enjoyed in short bursts. Little would you know that a smattering of inferior short dances would follow this, with a series of imposters all claiming the be Kate’s equal. Nothing will rival that coffee and port soaked evening in the greenery.

Despite the gentle scherzo, the 3/4 step was completed all too soon.

Narrative: If you seriously expect me to write a narrative after all that, you are an asshole.


3 Floyd’s Bourbon Barrel Aged Alpha Klaus with Plums, Adjective Stacking FTW

I know what you are thinking “another rare Barrel Aged 3 Floyd’s beer? Give that shit a rest.” Alright, fair enough, but BA Behemoth was beyond amazing so I can’t stay away, the game needs me. This is another one of those 391 bottle, generic barrel aged bottle releases and so far, all the prior releases were amazing. Let’s see if this follows suit or IF IT DOESN’T HAVE THE PLUMS TO DO SO

Keeping it Alpha as fuck with Victorian literature.

Three Floyds Brewing Co. / Brewery & Pub
Indiana, United States
American Porter | 10.00% ABV

Oh shit, bottle number 221/391, .rar bonus.

A: This has that inky squid discharge look with the nimble porter wateriness that you’ve come to expect from those charming offerings. The splishy splashy cola notes give it a flat soda look with some moderate carbonation. It looks pretty legit, through and through, although some middle carbonation wouldn’t be a total turn off. But this isn’t a Hustler spread, so let’s leave these fictional dreams well enough alone.

Whenever I open a barrel aged 3 Floyd’s Beer: I HAVE THE POWER.

S: While it is plum, I get a deep grape and black cherry from the nose, mixed in like a Cordial with some chocolate and a marshmallow froth. There’s some booze holding this kraken back, but the whole thing seems sweeter and purple Flintstones vitamin more than chocolate rampage.

T: The plum kicks into a deep sweet grapitey grape rampage. Statutory grape, if you will. The plum comes across in more of a light tannin fairy dust sprinkled throughout the fracas like feathers in a sorority girl pillow fight and the chocolate and roast look inside through the malt window with visible erections. It reminds me of a purple fanta meets yoohoo outing that is neither suitable for hikes nor sitting by the hearth, discussing Roosevelt’s re-election. Like a plum bachelorette, neither classy, nor explicitly trashy.

This beer pulls of some strange stunts, which you appreciate but are not sure how to apply in a larger medium.

M: The mouthfeel is dead on and cartwheels into a nimble posture, tossing black cherry shurikens pell mell. It washes away clean but the booze hangs out on the way out, looking for trim on the way down. I would not suggest this to novice beer drinkers unless you want to hear a bunch of irritating adjectives that will denature your experience, “OH MAN IT IS LIKE A TAFFY BURNT TIRE BRO” see I can’t even make them shitty enough to impart realism.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, but I am torn as to whether I like it more cold or warmer. Cold it is more chocolate with tame fruits, around 60 degrees this shit starts getting into Fruit Stripe Gum territory real quick, which is tasty and original, but maybe not as drinkable. If you focus on the lingering chocolate and cocoa phosphate aspect, it is fulfilling through and through.

Porterrr….plumssses…..bourbon….now….build me a dam sweet Indiana muses…

Narrative: William Goyette gripped his temples and popped another prune into his mouth. His status consistently garnered no showering of likes, thumbs, approval or otherwise. “GOD DAMNIT THIS GUY AGAIN!” he exclaimed and looked at his minifeed cluttered with “THE DOCTOR SAYD YOUR HAVENG A GIRL!” with 56 likes. Another status from a marginally attractive Mormon girl said “each day is a gift wrapped in a sunrise” that received 34 comments. “THIS MAKES NO FUCKING SENSE,” he thought to himself and took a bite from a juicy plum. William lives strictly off of Farmer’s Market food, did crossfit, read H.P. Lovecraft and thought that he was edgy as fuck. He still could not understand why the goldpan of life passed his pithy statuses by. “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what LPs Real Estate are going to release next fall” he could not understand how that gem of relevance and ultra ironic but self deprecating tone of metacritical commentary rolled in auspicious knowledge, somehow failed to elicit “likes.” Likes are the lifeblood and currency of the insecure. They feed the Williams of the world with a sweet succor of post-collegiate relevance. It is the sweet nectar for his race, the rare and relevant, the cloistered tiers of esoteric civilization. He popped a dried plum into his mouth from the Ronco food dehydrator and he began his 43rd screenplay, this time a SciFi re-imagining of Howard’s End. He was edgy as fuck.


Southern Tier Mokah, Why Brew Coffee When You Can Brew Beer? Oh, DUIs.

Southern Tier rolled out a whole line of these imperial stout monsters that tasted like other things, creme brulee, mokah, jahva, all kinds of things. You don’t see that in other formats, I have never seen a baker making cupcakes that taste like an imperial stout, I guess it’s a one way street for people with things to take care of. Anyway, let’s get coffee wasted and start cupping in today’s review.

I can’t be bothered to sort all these damn imperial stout pictures, but this one tasted like coffee. Big shocker.

Guess what, this tasted exactly like creme brulee and the girls lost their shit over it. I thought it was sweeter than the end of a Nicholas Sparks movie, but then again I have that XY chromosomal order.

Spoiler alert, this beer, called Choklat, tasted like a sweet kiss from Johnny Depp, psyche, it tasted like fucking chocolate. Duh, next beer.

I completely forgot what the fuck we were talking about. Oh yeah, this beer, which is TOTALLY DIFFERENT THAN ALL THAT OTHER SHIT. Just kidding, they are all awesome, haters gonna hate.

Southern Tier, Mokah 11.2% abv, Imperial Stout

A: Deep dark oily hues, not so black as Satan’s magic or straight up Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but, still pretty black. Mild tiny bubbles, tiny carbonation, tiny everything. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Most people can’t afford to take down a series of Southern Tier dank ass stouts, pic related.

S: Very sweet milk notes, not unlike their crème brulee, with a solid coffee waft as the backbone. I am very intrigued by this penumbra between the two elements. “Oh wait, he is intrigued?” not a single fuck was given today, I know. But seriously, the dichotomy is amazing.

T: The taste is a spot on rendition between a sweet stout and a deep coffee stout. It is just amazing on both polar ends. At the outset you get an amazing caramel milky sweetness that subsides into a drying coffee dryness. It feels like a cuvee between a milk stout and a coffee stout. Again, just amazing on all fronts.

I love you forever Southern Tier, even though you put my nice things in the toilet.

M: This imperial stout is not overbearing but is incredible in the mouth feel. It coats and imparts some great sweet and bitter notes and fades quickly, not overstaying its welcome. The whole endeavor just smacks of value. This beer has a great breakfast stout character to it without any barrel aging, very impressive.

D: Very drinkable, incredibly silky in its body with a great mouthfeel and coating to it. I cannot believe that this is a simple off shelf beer and again, when it comes to stouts, the east coast is spoiled beyond belief. I feel like I just spoil this category but I seriously could drink this stout for days on end, it has an incredible balance. For reals.

Unlike facebook, I never rage at Southern Tier stouts, because they are sweet and amazing.

Narrative: Do you ever feel like someone is just controlling your every movement? Like Truman show? No like literally hedging every single one of your clips and turns. In what way? Ok, I don’t want to invoke the old deontological chestnut where we discuss pre-destination relative to a divine plan, I mean, in this earthly world, some people are destined to encounter some conflict and resolution, purely on the basis of man’s plight and have it resolved by the same anomalous factors. Well sometimes, like a flat tire and a serendipitous tow truck? That sort of thing? Exactly and now what those conflicting elements interplay so succinctly? Well usually something bad happens and then something pretty cool happens. The bitter and the sweet. Well, yeah. So who determines this balance, if it is determined, the interplay should be fairly evenly divided but who is the wholesale recipient of a load of bitter while others receive nothing but sweet. Well, to that I cannot say? It feels arbitrary and totally unfocused but at the same time, it is uplifting knowing that at any given moment a blast of splenda or carmelized sugar could come my way, sure it could be in the form of strippers or Magic: the Gathering cards, but the treats are nonetheless sweet. Well, I guess I feel you, but I can’t help feeling that this entire discussion was a paper thin pretense for both deontology and simple aromatics in food. Well, basically. Those two are pretty aligned.


Olde Hickory Imperial Stout, NOW MADE WITH 50% MORE HICKORY!

So no secret here, Event Horizon was amazing. Olde Rabbits Foot was also sublime. BUT, what about this beer? Is this the base beer for Event Horizon? No. Does it carry the proud barrel aged lineage? No. Does it still have the ridiculous wax that is impossible to remove? Yes. Ok, let’s get it.

Removing that wax burned about 431 calories, so I should break almost even on this beast.

Olde Hickory Imperial Stout, 10.2% abv

A: This is a strangely thin imperial stout that has some amber and deep mahogany tones at the edges. I am not disappointed, I just expected more given the ornate wax and Victorian seal. Which, by the way, makes these bottles a coronation ceremony, or a bris. Depending on how adept you are. It has almost no lacing and is underwhelming on the carbonation.

This is how I envision North Carolina breweries spend their used mash. Then wrangle chickens around the lauter tun.

S: There is a ton of sweet notes and a cloying walnut that lingers around like a Boo in Super Mario 3. You try to confront the smell discretely and it covers itself in shame with coffee and chocolate notes.

T: For all the pageantry and wax bottles, this is a solid, normal imperial stout. It isn’t bad by any means but the outset is very sweet and nutty. The light boozy notes don’t resound, they hang out, admiring the architecture and solid construction of my palate, not really bothering anyone. A coffee dryness finally bounces them out, but elects to remain on the clock until the next sip. It is a cascading enterprise of people milking the clock, in this case, my mouth hole.


M: It is pretty thin and splashy splashy for the high abv. I guess I don’t really need this walnut and peanut puree taste setting up shop but I was able to power through this like a diligent Alabama common law husband. You know what I am talking about. Part of the problem is I received this beer and Event Horizon at the same time. It’s like being asked to Sadies just a day prior by a slovenly hook toothed scallywag, when you are dreaming of sweet chocolate that could have been. This turned racial and dental very quickly.

D: This is very drinkable, in the respect that I am looking longingly to find another beer because these tastes aren’t a weekend friend taste, they are more of a coffee date taste. I appreciate this in small pours and wish that I brought this to a tasting but, alas, took this all to my dome piece. I wouldn’t discourage anyone from picking this up but, at the same time, they could presumably save time and money by pursuing other avenues.

Drink imperial stouts for a living? OUTSTANDING IDEA CHAP!

Narrative: “The quarterly file reviews? You KNOW I was on those, hey, go Rams!” Chance Masterson wryly smiled after darting around the corner of a cubicle. He pressed his back against the cool repose of a Fanta vending machine. “How long can I do this before they realize that I got kicked out of high school sophmore year for stowing weed in a Tool CD case?” “HEY CHANCE! You’re killing the office pool, you’re the GOLDEN BOY, can’t wait to see your powerpoint presentation next Tuesday, KILLING IT!” Tyler Derpings commented in passing. His time had faded, and now the ultimate charlatan had taken his place. “It’s not my fault really, my perfectly aligned bicuspids, my attention to minutia, natural effervescense. They practically wanted to hire a fraud.” He began to sweat along the collar of his counterfeit Ben Sherman suit. The forthcoming power point presentation was a quarterly analysis of all debentures and IRAs within the cost/benefit matrix. Perhaps lying about being both a CFA and MBA was not the best idea on his resume but, “hey, in a recession, you gotta shoot for the moon and if you hang out with the stars, then, people are still gonna hate on you” Chance approximated while he listened to the tick of an AC compressor begin to cool off some authentic Fanta.


Dark Horse Brewing One Oatmeal Stout, One Stout to Bind Them

Ok so you drank One, but what is it called? And other such “who’s on first jokes.” I always enjoy the mouthfeel of this style but hearing that it was done by the kings of HUGE BEERS, Dark Horse, I knew a shitstorm was a brewing. Let’s check the drizzle in today’s review.

If you are drinking this for breakfast, you probably work at the Post Office or some other government job with zero accountability.

Dark Horse Brewery, Oatmeal Stout Ale, 8% abv

A: I was expecting a bit of welcoming breakfast time fun here but it was just a petulant hatred of deep blacks and mild browns within the murky middle carbonation. The khaki head has that great lacing and tiny bubbles that I used to lay awake in my bunk and dream about in summer camp. Nice tiny bubbles and a coffee appearance make this clear that this is for big people and tattered livers.

This beer is just out of control, I don’t know what to do with it Maury.

S: This has a great coffee and chocolate profile with a mild cameo from everyone’s favorite trickster duo, toffee and caramel. Their appearance is fleeting and you wonder if they got IMDB credit in this project.

T: This is more bitter and acidic than the pleasing Founders Breakfast Stout, however, the bitterness isn’t cloying and the sweet chocolate notes balance this out pretty well. It’s like finding weed in your 7th grader son’s comic book binder: you aren’t mad, just disappointed. The experience doesn’t linger and keeps this to more of an everyday sort of stout instead of those 4 a.m. in Iowa City bender stouts where you walk around with khaki colored teeth. We have all been there.

This is clearly not the work of amateur brewers.

M: This is an oatmeal stout so I expected it to crush it out of the park in this category but, eh, it doesn’t have that silkiness and creamy pseudo-nitro tap feel to it that usually slam dunks this category. It seems almost like a black IPA were the coffee notes not so all up in the mix. It is decent but for an oatmeal stout, the mouthfeel should be too legit, even to quit.

D: This is moderately drinkable, and very pairable, for the old obvious reasons. I can’t say that this is a bad stout but it certainly doesn’t knock it out of the park and feels more like a baby Imperial Russian Stout instead of an Oatmeal Stout. It needs to practice its major chords and let go of its rock star arpeggio shredding dreams.

This is a great stout, without Koalifiers.

Narrative: “MICHAEL? God I swear sometimes you just don’t listen, go get some Gladwrap and DO NOT GET SARAN WRAP, you did that last time and ruined the bake sale for everyone, so if you want Kaitlyn to cry, go get Saran, you’re good at that, ok so can you handle just getting GLAD. WRAP? OK?” Michael stared off and ruminated to himself about the dreams that he entertained at age 16, gripping the steering wheel of a broken down Plymouth Neon Espresso. Now he gripped the plastic bar of a supermarket shopping cart and was the regular recipient of admonishing and chastising for minor purchase deviations. “Yeah, the Sara- GLAD. Ok, Glad.” He nodded and thought back to the raw energy of those first bluegrass shows that he attended. The raw oats crushed into the ground and the sticky sweet twang of the steel guitar. Now he felt so mildly bitter and artificial. “They, well, the Glad was more expensive so I got the other-” “GOD DAMNIT MIKE, is it really that hard not to be a complete failure at everything?” During his wife’s diatribe he heard the sweet dulcet tones of Loretta Lynn and drifted away to a time bereft of cellophane wrapping.