Fantome Magic Ghost, The Perfect Beer to Enjoy on Easter; Hereticale Statements Abound

Errybody knows that I love Fantome. I once almost shanked some school children in Boyle Heights for a Fantome stemware glass before I realized it was really just a Fruitopia bottle. That raised even more questions as to why people in Boyle Heights were still drinking outdated ass soft drinks, alas I digress. This is an amazing beer that has been chugging along on the hype train for gosh knows how long, now I finally get to try some of this mutagen and take the Pepsi challenge.

No Easter jokes about Divine resurrection, please.

Brasserie Fantôme
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 8.00% ABV

A: Holy hell, this is one of the most interesting beers that I have ever laid my eyes on. Seriously, look above. Aside from March 17th, when was the last time you opened a bottle and your saison was as green as Battletoad pubes? This is incredibly beautiful in every aspect, the crisp white bubbles are smaller than my business acumen and the green hue is vibrant like popping a bottle of high class ecto-cooler. I can’t get over how radiant this beer is, seemingly offputting, yet amiable at the same time. The lacing is minimal but, who cares, if you popped this out at any party, people would think you have a carbonated appletini and you’d finally strike up a conversation with that high school junior you have been eyeing for AGES.

With this beer, at first you have no idea what is going on, then you win the game.

S: There’s that Fantome ghost again, fucking things up for the better, imparting musk, hay, apple, honey sweetness, a crisp pear, some fresh honeydew, and an amazing apple note that just begs for springtime like a Parolee awaiting a Good Behavior hearing.

T: It was never made clear that the Secret of the Ooze was, but I am sure that Fantome had something to do with Tokka and Rahzar. This mutagen has a fantastic saison body to it with a light wheat aspect that is the underpinning for a light kiwi tartness and some serious green tea action. I am talking Hipsters in summer green tea, the hardcore shit. The spices don’t muddle this affair and they serve as a percussive element to the din of the core saison. If this is 8% abv, then send the kids to bed, shit is about to get ruined in your house real fast. There is zero alcohol taste in this beer nd the fruit and tea interplay almost makes this feel good for me after and equally destructive P90x orkout getting a sick swole on, deep saison pump n0x shred on the dorsi tip.

This amazing saison seems like a novelty act until it pounds the shit out mouth, left all green teethed.

M: The mouthfeel is like a frothy waterpark in some hot inland city. It is exciting, foamy, mildly remniscience of a septic element, but ultimately all the pre-teen piss in your mouth can’t ruin the experience, the beer I mean. It washes away clean with an herbal aspect that lingers longingly like that girl you shouldn’t have made out with in the first place but she works at GNC so you still get sick deals on metabolic enhancers. That sort of clinging. Mutual love predicated on usury.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, and I mean that in the scope of the other already vaporous Fantome beers, not beers at large. I know a beer is good when I start contemplating what massive whales (TSHYEAH RIGHT) that I have to obtain more bottles of this. Ultimately no one wants my tawdry ass wares so this may be the last time that I get to taste the sweet succor of this magic ghost. However, seek this out if you are in a state not inundated with beer lovers that swoop up all my sexy ghosts. Shit is PHANTASMTIC.

You know what this would pair well with? Arby's. You know why? Because this beer would taste amazing with damn near any solid food. Even Gamer Grub.

Narrative: “Yeah, here she is, the old Barrow’s Theater, not much to look at but, hey with a little spit and elbow grease, you might be able to make your horticulture echinacea dreams come true,” boomed the real estate salesperson in the interior of the badly charred left veranda. Andrew and Summer surveyed the premises with the utmost acuity, noting the burned Rococo banisters, the singed velvet curtains, each a reminder of that tragic day. “So uh, exactly how many Arcade Fire fans died on that fateful day?” Andrew interjected, setting the salesperson to unease. “Well no one remembers that hardly, I mean, who even listens to Arcade Fire anymore, right?” He was avoiding the question and Summer knew it. There was the faint lingering smell of burnt Toms shoes and Burt’s Bees products in the air. A light breeze tickled the fairtrade crystal chandelier and plinked out a few notes from the hit single from Godspeed You Black Emperor, “Storm.” Andrew turned to descend the split Victorian staircase and saw a rail thin apparition standing at the foot of the vestibule. “You here for AF? Yeah, I didn’t even want to come, been into them since ’08, but, such a directed change.” Andrew’s mouth fell agape seeing the ethereal figure push his gawdy blunt cut bangs to the side of his gaunt cheeks. “I mean, the builds are solid but the reliance on flanger fills are so post-Decadedence, you know?” Andrew came here to start an echinacea farm, but he had hit the motherload of hipster ghosts.

. . .

Ultimately, Roger Venkman had no trouble disposing of the unwanted celestial interlopers and hipster ghosts proved even less valuable in death than in life, somehow. Yet, Andrew’s echinacea farm took off to a resounding success largely in part due to the soil cultures imbued with pure, incinerated vegan flesh. It was that touch of herbs and ghost that made all the difference.



Lost Abbey Red Poppy, Red Poppy be Throwing up B’s Reppin’ Flanders Red Sourblood Crew in the Trap

Ah I remember last year’s Red Poppy, a reasonable $13.99 or something at the brewery, maybe even more. Well things haven’t changed much price and distribution wise, but let’s see if this old Redface has any new tricks up its sleeve this year, aside from a Tek 9 and a 64 impala.

Getting things red poppin off, man, the puns aren't working tonight.

Lost Abbey, Red Poppy, Flanders Red, 5.5% abv

A: This is darker than I remember from last year’s foray. There’s very little amber or ruby hues and almost a deep crimson that light cannot pass through. It’s like the black stuff from Pirates of Dark Water, if anyone remembers that shit. There’s a very subtle ruddiness to the center of it but it is largely almost a deep brown murkiness. The frothy carbonation is like lemon meringue all ready to take me to the candy shop.

I gladly paid $15.99 for this bottle with fond memories of last year, jokes, bonhomie, barrel kisses

S: There’s a fresh cut strawberry zest with a cherry note to it. This also has an air to it similar to red flavored candy, red candy anything, well except maybe Red Raspberry Dollars, but that candy sucks ass. A mild vinegar aspect gets up in the mix and starts dry humping the olfactory zone with an acerbic disposition.

T: The taste is much simpler and to the punch than I recall from previous outings. It winds up with a nice tart Skittles haymaker, transitions into a cherry tannin taste with some nice oakiness closing up shop and then, that’s it. It is over as fast as you can read this sentence. There is a lingering tartness similar to a currant but the whole affair is over far too quickly, like when you order a private dance and they use the cross fader when there’s still like 40 seconds left of Tony Rich Project. No one else? Ok cool.

I was expecting the tart comedic stylings of Fred Flintone, and then this guy showed up at my birthday party.

M: The mouthfeel has a sharp bite at the outset that subsides into a mellow juiciness that almost seems nutritional by way of contrast to most of the garbage I usually put in my body (beers specifically, not objects.) It washes away gently and I almost forget that I took a sip by the time I want to take another sip. It’s like Deep Blue Something – Breakfast at Tiffanys, it’s so benign that you can shop for slacks in the grocery store without even realizing you are draining $15.99 almost instantly.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable but for all the wrong reasons. I don’t think it is on style for Flanders Reds to be going apeshit and tearing my mouth up like Cal Trans workers, but this is as one dimensional as a fashion student. Much like an awkward Bucca Di Beppo date, you forget about it sooner than you should, and there’s a mild family style disappointment on your palate. The cherry is good, the sour patch goodness is rad, but the swift nature in which this pricey bottle is done leaves something to be desired.

It remains entirely unclear to me, on a Mudkips level, as to why last year's version of this beer was incredible and this year's version is closer to the R-word (rhymes with scrodenbach)

Narrative: “Ok and frame up to a half body shot and, CUT it’s a wrap!” the crew looked on in amazement at Cerise Michael, master director at work. His style was innovative and bold to a fault. His minimalist films had gotten shorter and shorter until, his latest project was a series of 5 shots that had a run time of 94 seconds. Still, people flocked to the theater to see what shocking new revelation that he had committed to cellulose acetate. The recent project was a series of shots of a mailman delivering packages, some starwipes to ducks wearing ties, and finally a sustained 12 second shot of a Seattle garbage dump. Masterful. Local theaters had revolving doors installed so that patrons could purchase bulk tickets and imbibe the tart glory over and over, 94 seconds of complexity at a time. Some pundits argued that a concentrated burst of complexity could use some elaboration, suffice it to say, CERISE MICHAEL COMPROMISES FOR NO ONE.


Cascade Blueberry Wild Ale, Sometimes a Sour is So Good It Leaves Me With Blue Berries When It Is Gone

Cascade has plenty of incredible rare offerings, but let’s not just sit back and cast garlands upon Oregon and their amazing case per person law. Sure, I love sitting around like the next guy, waiting for one of the 12 bottles of this month’s rage to come my way. Oh wait, it’s just me? Sorry Oregon, just keep hanging onto your bottles, I will toss up a few Chocolate Rains for the next batch of Ruth. BEER NERDS KNOW WHAT IS HAPEN. Bottom line: Cascade is amazing and their distribution is beyond fantastic. Lazy assholes like myself can hang out online, order, and wait until the blueberry goodness just arrives on his doorstep. Shit is cray.

Murder this beer wrote scopin old ass beer drinkers hittin them with that Matlock .45

Cascade Brewing Company, Blueberry Wild Ale, 7.3% abv

A: This has an awesome light purple or a DEEP LAVENDER if you will, radiance to it. The lacing is nice and the microbubbles splash around playfully, thinking of gentler times. The note told me to leave this beer alone, but fuck all that, this beer just took a fantastic journey from Oregon, time to “bust it open and pop a picture with my phone” – Yung Joc.

Please excuse my lack of enthusia- wait what, one of my favorite breweries just made a blueberry sour? Well nevermind, fuck my reader base, they can get their ow-

S: The smell is a fantastic cascade of acidity, musk, borderline Cantillon levels of funk, and of course an awesome blueberry with a blackberry jam presence. It’s like nana made preserves and the whole neighborhood gang is invited to pal along. Oh and nana is a master brewer.

T: The taste has a sharp acidity at the outset and you get the underlying wheat beer aspect like watching your friend drive away with his hand pressed against a blackberry smeared window. The taste is fantastic and simplistic, blueberries for sal, acidity and blueberries for the bears chasing sal. Pretty simplistic really. But the Volkswagen GTI was simplistic and it got countless eurotrash guys laid, so there’s always that. The nice hit of tannins on the gumline adds a minor bit of complexity but really it is a 2 person White Stripes ensemble and keeps it grass roots through and through. Bottomline, this is a fantastic wild ale and I recommend it highly, get your messy jam sesh on.

Sometimes when I am tasting an incredible sour from Cascade I stop and realize there is another aspect and wait, what is that brett- wait no, there's a spoiler on my spoiler. The end result keeps my drag co-efficient so low.

M: The mouthfeel is as to be expected from a blonde ale base that has gone all apeshit in souring barrel treatment and bunked up with berries for months on end. You come out sweet, but secretly so tart inside. I am not saying that the blueberries raped the shit out of the blonde ale, please, this is a family blog. But before the Goof Troop activists get all nuts, I will say that the drying is minimal and the blueberries add a sweetness that makes you crave the next sip.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and the sour notes don’t slow shit down. I dont even know why this isn’t an outright session sour, having less than 2 bottles of this in your cellar is pointless like an Uzi with a beam, mashing out on sours in a ‘cuzi full of steam. I ordered plenty of bottles and sure enough, I will ship plenty of these to midwest traders and then I will be a whiny bitch in 2 months about how I can’t taste this amazing beer. Boo to the fuckin hoo up in this piece.

Wait, you are a sour, with blueberries, from Oregon...
Did we just become best friends?

Narrative: “No, no please just the wash-” Rodney Blahberre opined to the car care specialists. He wondered to himself why every position had now changed itself to a new lofty title. Servers were table maintenance technicians, janitors were municipal waste engineers, Lawyers were still giant assholes, but beauticians that were failures still called themselves “stay at home wives,” which irked old Rodney. Being the empirical beast he was, Rodney laid out all the plans of a failed, boring, wife-based business: a hair and antique boutique. No one walked in with an express desire to buy a wagon wheel and obtain a shitty perm but, well, here we were at Rodney Antiquated Everything: Cuts and Huts Emporium. One day, Rodney realized that this business model, without the assistance of subservient wages, would soon capsize, he hired a series of Portugese people, whom he offensively referred to as “Porties.” The level of racism was staggering around the Cuts and Huts Emporium, particularly to those poor Iberians. After taking a brief tour concerning the failed Southern American colonies and the relics left behind, he lost interest outright. His business was in ruin and he couldn’t offload all these Mayan artifacts. Rodney popped a delicious blueberry in his mouth and left the amazing history to other highhanded sources but everyone in his tour group recognized that he had just accomplished something berrincredible.


Drie Fonteinen, Tuverbol Lambic, TuverBOL so Hard, But First Tuvers Gotta Find Me

First, mad props to my Irish overseas homie for this one, you know who you are. I always was curious about this uberlambic, so wait, it’s a lambic but it has 10.5% abv, what’s going on here? Sounds like a sorority date rape potation if I ever saw one. The confusion sets in…before the doctor…can even close the door…OH I FEEL THIS LAMBIC KICKING IN [C:/endLivereference.exe]

It's like a regular lambic with a cold air intake, bolt on headers and a cat back exhaust, it doesn't gain much but what it gains IS SO ILLMATIC.

Man, today’s content feels a little weak, might as well pad things out with some pictures, business as usual on this shitty beer site, right?

Initially I thought the prospect of a 10.5% lambic sounded so hard and I was wilding out backflipping like Tony Stewart up in this bitch.

Drie Fonteinen, 2007 Tuverbol, 10.5% abv lambic

A: Well, so far so good, it looks like a lambic, with carbonation lower than a 64 impala. If Doesjel is the baby, this is the abusive father of uncarbonated lambics. The radiance is alluring though, nips all blasting with interest like the freezer aisle.

When I tasted this, I was like aight den, then the alcohol and chardonnay finish kicked in and shit got real.

S: The smell is on the rails too, looks like next stop Lambicville, you get a lemon zest, mild funk that is like the straw at a pumpkin patch and you’re pretty sure that there’s preteen piss in there, but in a musky alluring way that a tiger would find palpable.

T: Wait what. What is going on here? This isn’t lambicville at all, it’s more like Silent Hill. The zesty sour notes are gone and in its place is this sweet but entirely creepy old man who keeps talking about something “rustling [his] jimmies” which is offputting but interesting at the same time. You get a tannic chardonnay presence that isn’t drying but doesn’t really care if you check into its spooky old inn either. The wispy vapors leave some oakiness and grassy notes but ultimately subside into a ghostly almost chlorine aspect mixed with dry white wine character. The alcohol is well integrated and just shakes chains and makes a moaning sound.

It looks like a cute little lambic and OH SHIT IT IS RUINING ALL OF MY THINGS-

M: Ultimately you go upstairs and find a bloodsplattered journal from Dr. Mouthfeel and you find out about his palate experiments that apparently went horribly wrong. Town is cursed yadda yadda, the mouthfeel is actually my favorite part of this beer. If this is 10.5% then sign me up for Sigma Kappa because this might as well be a Peach Bellini. The alcohol just hangs out and slaps people on the back and provides a good old times. There’s a bit of brackish drying and some white grape notes but those are incidental to the refreshing crisp character of this beer. It’s pretty cutty through and through.

Sometimes I feel like something is just not made for my palate. Pic related.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, particularly for this 10.5% abv. If that is above 10% alcohol, then 50/50 Eclipse has something to learn about genteel manners and how to court a palate. You just dont grab for the inner thigh sweet zones, a soft handed dance of lemon, grapefruit and must integrates the inevitable groping much more coherently. Gotta massage the lambic oils, fuck, things got massageatistic real quick there.

Ultimately there is nothing wrong with the embrace of a 10.5% sweet lil belgian treat, even if you know it will someday rip your face off.

Narrative: “Fer fucks sake Taylor, give it a rest and come have a brew with your Uncle Skeeter!” Taylor Pierre was not taking nicely to his exchange family and, despite their kind notions, his host family in South Carolina was not what he expected. At first he thought that the quasi-coastal weather would be perfect for his high school experiment harvesting live cultures for his ale projects- “GODDD DAMNITTT, PEEURRR! You just missed the sickest slam, Rockster just put the damn near people’s whole arm up on CENA!” Aside from IMDB, Taylor PEEURR was unsure of the logistics of this brutal foreign sport and instead preferred orienteering and Pétanque. He lumbered into the living room/dining room/den/conservatory and wrestled with his size 0 jeans and adjusted his 3/4 sleeve cardigan in the sticky southern climate. “And then, watch watch, so McMahon is gonna be like ‘the fuck you ain’t gonna complete your CONTRACT!'” his host “Uncle Skeeter” insisted on wearing his class of ’94 letterman jacket and rubbing the varsity wrestling letter for good luck and would not have his favorite sport impugned with inquiries into its legitimacy or credence. “AND THEN…wait…OH FUCCKKKK…I thought Rey Mysterio was IN RETIREEEMENTTT!” the swill known as Camo left a lasting impression on his adolescent memoires and he sobbed gently while thinking of Bordeaux fields later that evening.


Allagash Ghoulschip, Zuul is the Gatekeeper of this Ephemeral Brew

I always seem to miss the boat on these highly sought-after Allagash beers. Just like when Sega Genesis came out with its bad ass BLAST PROCESSSING, my NES wasn’t blast processing shit. Now my liver finally gets the chance to blast process this sour and take the Pepsi challenge and see if these limited beers are worth the hype.

Who you gonna call? Alebusters. ::groans::

Allagash Ghoulschip, American Wild Ale, 6.9% abv

Oak Aged Ale Brewed with pumpkin, toasted pumpkin seeds and molasses.

A: This beer has a nice deep yellow hue that brightens at the edges like a sweet agave nectar. The center has a metallic copper color with GENEROUS carbonation. I had to pour a bit, come back, watch an episode of Battlestar Galactica, come back, learn stoichiometry, and finally it was ready to drink. The lacing for some reason wasn’t making a title starring role appearance, it had a brief cameo and some one liners and then peaced out.

The carbonation was so immense that I was like, quit playin. Srsly quit playin.

S: I was expecting a huge October treat with this one but I was worried it wouldn’t meld with the sour aspects of the beer but, they pulled it off with a precarious balance of the two, ultimately favoring the cobweb and smashed drywall muskiness with only a gentle gourd and nutmeg smell at the very outset. I get a big tart melon and kiwi aspect from this as well, but I think that might just be a byproduct of the acidity. Either way, this rocks the Hannah Montana act of sour/seasonal better than Jem.

T: The taste has a nice tartness with lemon, mild pumpkin, allspice, the acidity is huge and there’s a hint of molasses in the finish but ultimately this rocks an interesting swiss army knife barrage of funk, tartness, and autumn goodness.

I tasted it and at first you get some lambic notes, tartness and then sneaky pumpkin rolls in, wait what?

M: There’s a light lingering sweetness, like that administrative assistant whose name you can never remember but she knows you like the Pentec G2’s, and a huge acerbic tartness, more similar to that woman in payroll whom you can only assume hates you. The drying effect hits hard and leaves a raw sensation in your mouth like making out with a chick with bands/braces, but ultimately it is all worth it. I could have used some more pumpkin, but hey, in the land of beggars, the man with one chooser is king.

D: The drinkability is huge and it didn’t even hurt my tum tum. I really enjoyed the clean, full flavored gourdiness to it and it reminded me of fall in the way that Armand Herfst did, albeit in a completely different way as the beers are both unique. Again, making this beer exceptionally drinkable is the clever Allagash curse, particularly since they made like 1000 bottles of this. I got 99 bottles but this ale ain’t one.

I'm not sure how gracefully this beer will age, but I am sure it will still be a complete bad ass.

Narrative: “Wooooo, woooo, this is the Haunted Pumpkin pattchhh on 3rd and Cedarrrrr” Joe Clemson called to the children whose cold ignoring glances did little for his self esteem. “This is so lame, God why can’t we just pick out our pumpkin without that irritating owner hassling us?” one precocious 9 year old remarked while irritatingly smacking her gum. Joe kicked a pile of hay in front of him and took off his borderline racist “ghost” costume. “Ah shucks Joe, they know this ole lot aint no haunted punkin patch, shoot, 10 months out of the year it serves as an overflow lot for the adult book store across the street!” Joe thought back to the one time he actually did scare a child when one of the wares from that store was discovered in the hay. THEN SUDDENLY JOE HAD IT. “What’s missing from this lot is a sense of danger, that sort of imminent ghoulish sense of demise, dagummit!” The next day, Joe allowed the adult book store to commingle with the children. Authentic zombie looking prostitutes came and solicited candy from all patrons. One homeless man screamed into a Snapple bottle for 3 hours that “he couldn’t make all the DAMS” and the children seemed to believe this sentiment. It was a truly ghoulish Halloween indeed.


Cantillon Blabaer. After An Entire Year of Searching, I Finally Land My White Whale

FINALLY. After an entire year of searching, countless internet posts, unsolicited mail sent to people all over the place, and Craigslist Casual Sour Encounters that went awry: I finally tried Cantillon Blabaer. This beer is rated #9 on the top 100 beers of all time and it is 2 scissoring bitches to land. This beer is made in cooperation with Jeppe from Olbuttikken in Copenhagen. Jeppe provides the blueberries for the beer,and it is brewed at Cantillon and then shipped back to Copenhagen and only sold at Olbutikken. There are only approximately 400 bottles sold each year, really fucking far away. That shit cray.

2009 vintage 750 ml with berries firing on all cylinders, tasting like escort gumline and Wild Grape Squeezits. THE WHITEST OF WALES.

Cantillon Blabaer, Fruit Lambic, 5% abv

This beer has a perfect 100 score on Beeradvocate and is one of the most sought after beers in the world. Raters gonna rate.

A: This has a murky deep ruby frothiness with a magenta head and deep plum hues. The lacing is minimal and the entire beer crackles with this acidic liveliness and it reminds me of that pit of acid that the Joker got pushed into in Batman, and it reminds me that I will probably never get to try this again. Just a bunch of Blabaerless nights listening to Jason Mraz and watching ABC Family.

With Cantillon you always think they pulled an adjunct jackmove, but no shooops here. All bugs, berries, and bitches.

S: The smell is largely acidic, acetyl, wet grass, morning rain, damp laundry, and really ripe boysenberries. I dont get the archetypical blueberry smell here but, not a single fuck could be located for comment.

T: The taste is fantastically tart and complex. At the outset there is a dry acrimonious funk that sets a nice straw and musky oeuvre that transitions into a boysenberry, tart blackberry, and really hard strawberry, the kind that pucker your face like a gushers commercial. I enjoy the smell more than the taste and it seems almost like Lou Pepe Geuze wearing a thin disguise, but the berries are a chill ass addition to what is already an incredible sour.

I tend to be overly critical with my beer reviews, but with a beer this flawless, reviews get all hard and shit.

M: This scorches and dries in that way that only Cantillon can. It would be tough to take down more than 12oz of this, but the depth of the taste is fulfilling and I enjoy how the fruits opened up as the beer warmed, LIKE YOUR MOM DOES WHEN SHE IS A LAMBIC. Sick burn.

D: How drinkable is this beer considering that it is impossible to land? Interesting question, you hateful interlocutor. But in all seriousness, I really liked this beer but I probably wont seek it out again. People want your entire cellar and a cup full of unmarked jizz for a bottle of this and my unmarked jizz simply is not for barter. I enjoy St. Lamvinus and Fou Foune more and they are (relatively?) easier to land. Again, this is all within the constraints of judging it as the best sour beer in the entire world, so take it with a GRAIN OF BLUEBERRY.

When you're expecting the best treat in the world, you're always setting yourself up for disappointment. Why you feelings.

Narrative: The bed and breakfast was a quaint cottage in rural Montana, which is essentially, redundant. The fields of lavender were verdant and moist with the tears of angels. It was the perfect place for Charles Montague to settle down and work on that UPN pilot he had been harshly instructed to complete. The premise of a family of produce canners that hit it big in the blueberry jam business seemed a bit thin, but Charles needed to air it out and hit the fields, see the shit firsthand. “Chalres, rook ova hai, broobaree brushes!” Ed Lu was the caretaker of the Bed and Breakfast and he spoke with a borderline offensive dialect that was entirely fabricated to make white people feel at home. “Yes Ed, thank you, stop, stop trying to put a blueberry in my mouth.” The pushed his hands into the bushes and communed with the tart fruit. He took a deep breath and simply couldn’t think of anything but Moesha re-runs. “DAMNIT CHARLES THIS IS THE BIGGEST THING YOU’VE EVER TACKLED, focus, or they will know if you phoned it in.” Suddenly Ed slid a yellow memo pad across the wet grass to Charles. “MY GOD, ED-” Ed Lu nodded with his offensive high ponytail and winked emphasizing “BROOBREEREES.” Charles knew that it was unorthodox to make an entire 13 episode arch based upon a reimagining of Blueberries for Sal but, THE NETWORK COULD FUCK ITSELF, this was his personal victory and it was his magnum opus.


Armand’4 Zomer, Such a Huge Zomer for this, Geuze, srsly.

OH SHIT ANOTHER TOP 100 BEER? You have got to be kidding me. Tis the season indeed, hot in the streets, killing the mixtape scene right now.

Anyway, here’s an expensive ass rare beer from Belgium. For a change.

I think I am getting a Zomer just looking at this.

Ok so this is another one of those 40 euro bottles that cost another $25 to ship to the U.S. that everyone is so jazzed about, and well, it’s basically a perfect geuze. That is all there is to it. Werf it.

Armand’4 Oude Geuze Zomer (Summer) 6% abv

A: This beer is radiant and downright beautiful. The carbonation is a bit obnoxious, but I guess being put in a box and being shipped from Belgium to Colorado to California and then greeting my ugly face leaves something to be desired and the reaction was substantial. Accidentally all the carbonation. But the beer itself has a brilliant yellow gold sort of hue and a deep cloudiness that just cascades sheets of bubbles like a malfunctioning dishwasher, you aint even mad tho.

A beer to share with your son. Not even mad tho. Amazing.

S: I got a huge floral aspect to beer that feels like laying on a cotton blanket in a poppyfield or some other shit that dryer sheet commercials depict my life to be. There’s a nice apricot and tart lemon and its like rays of ethereal light up into my nose holes. It’s like opening the Ark of the Covenant and discovering delicious fruit instead of hateful hessidic rage.

T: The taste is incredibly layered and complex, let me eat the oat pieces and try to get the marshmellow ratio up to explain this. Ok so you get this funky like hot basement musk that turns into sweettarts immediately then washes into an acidic note like a harsh white wine but in a delicious citrus way. It just really shines in this department and leaves very little to be desired except a bit more fruits, but hey, go get on Toucan Sam’s shit for that, it’s perfect in nearly every other way. What do you want from this beer you ingrate?

Alright so pricey perfectly executed geuze isn't your thing? How about a mouse? There you go, ingrate.

M: The mouthfeel is interesting in that it, literally, burns my lips with acidity. The tingle is similar to when I drank Goose Island Rare and there was that hot flash of tingling on my lips, except this time it was the liquid sun spraying summer all over the place. It expands with a Faulkner depth and clarity that subsides into a dry sourness, also like Faulkner, ba dum tish.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and I kinda regret taking this whole 750ml to my domepiece. These bottles usually go for like $90 so I guess I don’t win the sharing badge, but, it’s still exceptional in every way. I played Battlefield 3 feeling all like it was summer and my lean frame was embracing the verdant hillside, skipping and tossing marigolds aloft. Shit was so cash.

This absolutely gets the Seal. Top 5 geuze. Go get you one.

Narrative: Summer in Morris, Illinois had a special radiance to it. The rays felt like they were delivered especially for each resident as a golden shaft from Helios himself. The residents went about their business, yet each and every one of the 13,636 residents knew that a special radiant love waited to embrace them right when they stepped out the door to embrace that Illinois soil. Skip Masterson looked up to the sun and smiled nodding knowingly as he headed to his job at the Dresden Power Plant. The residents looked not unlike the opening scene of Beauty and the Beast, a man doffed his cap to Skip while carrying a wicker basket of baguettes and a fresh pitcher of lemonade. Just another picturesque morning in sweet Morris. The summer sun welcomed the Lyondell Chemical Company trucks into town and the children skipped and frolicked in the glow of the summer sun, running after the ammonia sulfide inside the trucks, playing with toy guns and playing pitchpennies into a tin can enjoying the sweet glow of a perfect metropolitan suburban life. Summer was a gift from god and embraced each resident with a sweet fulfilling handshake that pulls in for a comforting hug.


Upland Kiwi Lambic, Face Melting 24th Fret Hammer On Solos

The perfect beer for people who want to make their dentists rich as hell.

A: This beer has a straight up yellow, Squirt/Lemonhead look to it. It has some nice carbonation that peaces out almost immediately. It has other things to do apparently. I am ok with that, the bubbles seemed like sick bros. Super beast.

S: There’s a cheddar cheese funkiness to it, or like the a carpet sample book at Home Depot in a strangely good way because the harsh lemon zest makes it seem like its a weird baked good. Cheese Merengue Pie. This just comes off as super acidic from the get go.

T: Holy acidic hell. This is more sour than most geuzes that I have had and it dethrones 3F Sch. Kriek as the most face melting sour I have ever had. Seriously wow, it makes your face cringe in happiness at the full court acidic press that it wages on your tastebuds. Even before you swallow, it comes in and starts tearing down the drywall and just wrecking shit like an old school punk show. The taste is bitter hot tart lemonheads with acid that melts like that stuff on Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I get no kiwi, largely because kiwis usually dont burn the enamel off of my bicuspids. This is the type of beer that people try around me and look at me like I am a fucking maniac for drinking this recreationally.

M: The mouthfeel is fire and acid that burns with the fury of a thousand ex-wives. It creates a chemical methlab and just scorches the surface with DDT and lemon acid. The fields are fallow and salted, none are saved from the tart wrath of this scornful master.

D: Did you even read the foregoing? I am working my way steadily through this 750ml but this is clearly meant to be shared. This is on the absolute extreme end of flavor profiles. I dont see how Weyerbach or other Cantillon offerings can get much more ridiculous than this. This is just a straight up acid rampage that takes no prisoners. All tastebuds are executed upon sight without recompense or remorse. Somehow, the sheer malevolence is almost a loving quality and I feel wiser and stronger for having been subject to this acrimonious treatment. Yes sir, can I have another.

Narrative: Face too sore to write narrative, must…use… flouride….