@tiredhandsbeer Hophands, for when you done working at the dispensery and your hands be smelling all like sticky cones

Tired Hands week is wrapping up and we have seen all kinds of things in the interim, oyster stouts, saisons, pale ales, so how do we close this one out? We go to the old hoppy wheelhouse and consult a draft only classic: NOW TOGETHER IN ONE CONVENIENT PACKAGE. Some naysayers hate on the hoppy saison genre and say that it betrays the musk and nuanced Belgian profile. Other hop heads feel that the base of a saison is too substantial and interferes with the hop oil experience. FUCK BOTH OF THOSE GUYS. Today we are going cones deep into some fertile soil with a straight up hoppy American Pale Ale.

EDIT TO MY PRIOR POST: I did not review this shit previously, I am a drunk pre-diabetic idiot. The cage match was between Singel Hop and Regular FARMHANDS.

Oh shit, picking all these juniper berries and then wiping petrulli oil on myself, hands be all hoppy.

Oh shit, picking all these juniper berries and then wiping petrulli oil on myself, hands be all hoppy.

Tired Hands Brewing Company
Pennsylvania, United States
American Pale Ale (APA) | 5.20% ABV

A: The beer pours with nice carbonation albeit very little lacing, a turbid deep orange and almost amber color. The beer has generous big bubbles and eschews the microfine carbonation that you might anticipate in a bottle conditioned beer. It kinda reminds me of a mix of pineapple and orange juice with the yellow and orange blend look to it.

The interplay between the resin and the citrus aspects of this beer shows some serious fucking hop team work.

The interplay between the resin and the citrus aspects of this beer shows some serious fucking hop team work.

S: Holy hell, if Entropic was the gentle APA brother who spends time in his room working on interpretive dance, this is the jock asshole hop brother who rolls in an IROC Camaro and socks nerds. This is incredibly resinous and hits the familiar APA zones of pine, lupulin, orange zest i.e. the white part, there is a Jamba Juice wheatgrass aspect to this and closes with a citrus tangelo REREREREREEEEMIXXXX on the backend. There is a ton of feels packed into the smell, if you know what I mean.

T: This imparts more of the citrus than I was expecting from the nose but carries itself confidently through the halls of lupus gaiety. You get a pineapple and tangerine sweetness at the front which fades into a deeper pinecone and dry finish with the oils leaving you both satisfied but wanting another sip because that sweet citrus opener is a hard act to follow. It’s like when AFI opened for Blink 182 in the late 90’s and you were all like “what, how did this. wait.”

At a certain point, taking a simple beer like a pale ale to these heights is borderline obsessive.

At a certain point, taking a simple beer like a pale ale to these heights is borderline obsessive.

M: This is incredibly light and shines as an APA and does not toe that questionable ass genre crossing line like Zombie Dust does. This is hoppy to def with fishtanks in the Civic because Tired Hands pimped their ride with hop cones in the rims. I love the interplay between straight up water and intense hops, the malts are like an abused child getting transferred back and forth in custody battles. The real victim is your bitter zones, you can smoke one of these growlers with a quickness and wonder why your Fedex bills are so high. If that is a drawback, THEN SIGN ME UP.

D: This is not quite as drinkable as Entropic, but strong in different ways. I wouldn’t say this is one of the crowning achievements of the APA realm like Hoppy Birthday or Zombie Dust, but it maintains an exceptional character of residual hops, drinkability, and just straight up vibrant citrus tones that I have not had in any bottle pale ale, to say the absolute least. This is incredibly drinkable and makes me have so many sads that I can’t just go drain this on the regular like Beachwood Alphamaster or something local and amazing. This APA fills an amazing void in the world of resctum stretching stouts and acidic sours always raping your mouthhole. This APA is like a gentle hand holding sessions, blowing dandelions in a field, a light hoppy kiss on the cheek that anyone would be down for.

Drink pale ales once in a while, you dont need to be a tiny dicked bad ass all the time.

Drink pale ales once in a while, you dont need to be a tiny dicked bad ass all the time.

Narrative: Trent Kim had a problem that not many could associate with: his banter was too damn pleasant. He had seen several sociolinguists as a child and, during the testing phases he had affected them in such a genial way that they simply dismissed him as playful. It was a clear disability though, Trent had inadvertently coasted through elementary school accidentally coaxing all of his teachers and beguiling all officials with his Godlike gift of bonhomie. Once, when he was 14 Trent came home after driving his parents car to a liquor store, to purchase crack cocaine. He lowered his head in shame when his mother asked “TRENT WHERE DID YOU-” “I know mother, I know exactly what I did wrong, I can’t justify my actions and-” suddenly his mom began peeling a ripe orange and bit into it and exclaimed “oh WHATS A LITTLE CRACK COCAINE FOR A GROWING BOY! I can’t stay mad at you Trent!” The haggard companion in a vinyl skirt was both in awe, and clearly a cheap prostitute that Trent had plied into giving him a handjob for free. Being this likable would be his downfall someday, but for now Trent bit into an orange slice and tossed his back of crack on the kitchen counter.


Three Floyd’s Zombie Dust, The Worlds Ballerest Pale Ale Gets the Chris Redfield Treatment, T-Virus Steeze

Pale ales have been largely passed over in this bustling world of DIPAs and O-ring fingering. Everyone wants to push that malt bill, get them mosaic hops, pound out some resinous tones and fuckall to sessionability and balance. It is like when Norwegian Black Metal lost its credibility and it was just all about 24th fret shredding. We all remember when that happened. But what about the old acorn penis pale ale? Sure it isn’t as big, but it has finesse and can go for long sessions. If you are expecting an asian penis reference, I will defer, the hop cone parallel is low hanging buds. A well done pale ale is amazing, more so than DIPAs in many ways. If you have ever rubbed Hoppy Birthday on your nips, you will know what I mean. Let’s fuck an undead woman in today’s review, so you can lose your -1 virginity once and for all.

If you posted this as your Walking Dead beer, I approve, but I kinda dont.  SO CONFLICTED.

If you posted this as your Walking Dead beer, I approve, but I kinda dont. SO CONFLICTED.

Three Floyds Brewing Co. & Brewpub
Indiana, United States
Style | ABV
American Pale Ale (APA) | 6.40% ABV

A: For a pale ale, I was expecting some sort of foamy splishy splashy affair, but this is kinda menacing, deep gold tones like those elaborate medals that dictators in Africa always rock. The carbonation is nice and subsides gently in a “pillowy cloud of douchey metaphors.” You get lil archipelagos of lacing and fuck yes I just spelled that without spell check. I dont really want it to be this dark, but, it’s kinda like when Kefka blew up the world, you know that Locke and Sabin will pull through this shit, even if you have to catch fish for 15 minutes.

the label is creepy, this beer is scary drinkable, but in the end you want to give it a hug and tell it everything will be ok

the label is creepy, this beer is scary drinkable, but in the end you want to give it a hug and tell it everything will be ok

S: God damn, this is like the Donkey Kong Jr. version of Kern River Citra. Seriously, it has mango, peach, dandelions, a light tree sap on the very end but just feels warm and inviting like a shot of fernet branca in your favorite whorehouse while away on a work trip in Amsterdam. You know the type.

T: This is more akin to hopslam at the outset with the janky cloying honey front but then the citra hops push that shit aside and it almost reminds me of that balance that Two Hearted has for a moment but then shit goes more Sculpinerer and finishes with a deeper orange rind zest. This is all painted on the canvas of an incredibly delicate resolution. If you have ever watched shrimping videos online, there’s a certain aplomb and gentleness to fucking someone’s feet that is difficult to look down upon. This is easily one of the best pale ales I have ever tasted, if not the best.

Drinking powerful ass pale ales will prepare you for some impending dystopian apocalypse.

Drinking powerful ass pale ales will prepare you for some impending dystopian apocalypse.

M: This is light and crackly at the outset and leaves streaking of tree sap resin, but in a saucy playful way on the backend and there is some light aserose aspects on the swallow. This is so god damn light but have in the vapors I feel like I am in a Eugene O’Neill play straight waving my face, getting the vapors and wiping my forehead from the execution. Shit is bomb.edu.

D: It would be an aggressive understatement to try and capture the drinkability of this beer. It was bottled 8 days ago and I currently have 40 bottles in my fridge with zero fucks given. Maybe I will give them out at Churchills Finest Hour, maybe I will buttchug some, who knows. Your rectum is the limit with a beer this clean and sessionable. I know DINT, whereever he is, will tell me that I am a shar pei dick for suggesting that a 6%+ beer is sessionable, but for serious, it is. I know we aren’t shooting darts at the pub and eating beans on toast, but if you need to bang a girl from the midwest, this beer will help you get in those Mudd Jeans I am sure they are still wearing. Midwest chicks probably still wear those wonky ass rhinestone BEBE tank tops flossing so hard. Alas I digress.

oh shit I just drank 6 of these on accident? Ruh-roh.

oh shit I just drank 6 of these on accident? Ruh-roh.

Narrative: Three hours, Chris had three fucking hours to mix this vjolt, pour it in the plant, harvest the hop cones, run up to the observatory, get fucking attacked by crows and finish mixing up his zombie elixir. Who even made this fucking mansion? Some doors require that you place symbols in completely different rooms and gems in moose heads. It seems like if you were living here on a regular basis that would get tedious. Annoyed Chris clutched his resinous v jolt vial and headed for the lauter tun, all he had to do was play Moonlight Sonata on the piano to access the lab. The real estate agent must have been less than forthright when she was showing off this Victorian mansion. Earlier Chris was attempting to get some grain from the storehouse and apparently one of the features of this 18th century gem was a sliding ceiling that would kill someone if they removed a broken shotgun from the parlor. It didn’t make sense, but soon Chris would have a sticky icky potable to sip on. If only he could get his hands on a dank Jill sammich he would be all set.


Halfacre Brewing Company Daisy Cutter Pale Ale, NOW WE ARE TALKING SRS MIDWEST WALEZ

I hate this beer. Well, that isn’t accurate, the beer is pretty decent and mildly refreshing. But the Chicago hype machine made me hate this canned asshole before I even tried it. Day in and day out on the trading forums I used to see insane trade requests for this beer and its IPA brother, Double Daisy Cutter. It is like, you know how Tool is an amazing band, but their fans are largely mouthbreathing gun enthusiasts? That’s how it is with this beer. I like the product itself, just not the annoying cadre that follows it around. Anyway, let’s do this shit.

inb4 “NICE COFFEE MAEKER” Beer nerds love to play the “what’s in the background” game.

Half Acre Beer Company
Illinois, United States
American Pale Ale (APA) | 5.20% ABV

A: very expansive carbonation that subsides quickly to a limited head. The carbonation is the tip of the iceberg for this frustrating beer, gutting all your schooners from the outset. I want a refreshing NASCAR beer, this is some gaseous burpy mess that takes longer than a Feminine Studies major to get its shit together. It is light yellow, pale urine gold with a nice transparency.

just a gentle romp in the weeds with our uncomfortable ass friend, Daisy Cutter.

S: a cloying sweetness with notes of rice and sugary malt, the watery profile is noteworthy and smells crisp and light with a pronounce hop presence, but again, this isn’t something that you could pick out of a crowd from say another midwest WALE like Finch’s Cutthroat Pale Ale or 8-bit. They are all solid, refreshing beers, no you cannot trade them for a Cable Car, douchewaffle.

T: This is difficult to define because it is almost non-existent. You taste it and within a second it imparts a mild sweetness, a hint of biscuit and is gone. The water is the predominate flavor on the palate. Slight tartness for a fleeting moment is the most noteworthy aspect of the beer and it is gone as soon as it begins, welcoming another sip almost antagonistically. The flower is certainly present as well but it feels like a strange sidecar to the whole experience, it clips along like some unwelcome ass sidekick with vegetal notes slowing down my good times. I don’t need the bark and huge bouquet on the backend, just man up and become a full on IPA already. This beer has Zombie Dust identity problems, except Zombie Dust is amazing, this just feels like an awkward attempt to remove my bra.

After having so many beers, maybe I don’t even know what a good pale ale is.

M: The mouthfeel is amongst the lightest I have ever experienced, as soon as it initiates it shuts down like a computer with boot sector problems, there is no coating, no maltiness imparted on the palate. you could brush your teeth and then drink this with little reprocussions. A forgettable experience if not for the huge hoppy dryness at the conclusion.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable in the way that Entourage is a very watchable show. The elements that draw you in at first become predictible and off-putting shortly thereafter. Maybe living in California and having access to Row2 and Hoppy Birthday has made me a spoiled ass hopbaby, but I like my cones just so, and this just didnt caress them in a lovingly affectionate manner.

Pop open some pale ale and get ready for a huge watery mess.

Narrative: Oh great, he’s going to continue on this subject “And the funny thing about arthoropoda is most people think phylum is defined by the phonemes in the” jesus, how long can one date last. Well at least this is memorable, not like my last date off of Jdate.com, the water salesman.
What was his name? John? James? Jerem- I can’t even recall. It was as though that trip to the generic predictable restaurant didn’t even happen. I think I had the ahi tuna, no, well there was that one moment when he…what was it? I was something mildly sweet and interesting, for a fleeting second. Oh he made a small crane out of the bill. Totally forgettable.

“-and so most gastropods stomachs aren’t technically their FOOT as the latin name would connote” Oh shit, he is still going, I dont know what is worse, a memorable date for the wrong reasons or a forgettable date for the right reasons. “Check please.”


Hill Farmstead, What is Enlightenment? If not the Process of a Lager Being Lightened?

Alright, I took a week off to go hit up Cabo to learn about the beer culture down there and I am back on my grizzy with something as far away from Cabo as it gets in the Western Hemisphere, some down home enlightenment in today’s post. What is the nature of enlightenment? Isn’t that the age where the oppression from a liturgical society was cast off? Didn’t it promote science and intellectual interchange and oppose superstition, intolerance and abuses in church and state. Other haters say “oh that shit went down about 1650 to 1700, it was sparked by philosophers Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677), John Locke (1632–1704), Pierre Bayle (1647–1706), physicist Isaac Newton (1643–1727), and philosopher Voltaire (1694–1778).” But fuck all that, today we figure out what enlightenment REALLY IS, for the haters.

Schopenhauer straight creepin on my Enlightenment. He just wants to Will that mouth up on this Representation.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
American Pale Ale (APA) | 5.40% ABV

A: Alright, let’s try to be impartial here, every one knows about my past love affair with this rural gemstone quarry turning out hop bombs and barrel blasters on the reg. But the beer appears directly to style and comfortably shoulders next to Zombie Dust and Hoppy Birthday with that beautiful clarity and foamy radiance that you have come to expect from infant bath time and amazing APAs. The lacing is substantial, it just gets everywhere like when slimer gets blasted on by a proton pack. The legs look nice but I think the time in the growler may have tamed it a bit so you can put that on my set, I GUESS.

At first I thought this beer was too complicated, but as I continued on, the nuances showed themselves and entirely new concerns arose.

S: There’s an amazing sweet citrus without a huge bitterness to the backend that just screams grapefruit, lemon rind, apricot, and pineapple jams. The pine and other harrowing aspects that nudge their way into APA’s is gone, thank god, so no mountainous shit ruins this experience, just you and a lovely fruit hoptail to enjoy at your leisure. Where was this beer when I was draining Modelos hardcore during the entire last week? Thousands of miles away? Oh ok, cool, just peeping out the scene.

T: The taste doesn’t go aggro on the hops or the fruit aspect. You open the door and see a nice compact edible arrangement of hops and fruit assiduously arranged on your doorstep with a nice bottle of water to refresh your palate. Enough equivocating and circumlocution: This beer is refreshing. It isn’t the depths of free press or a direct challenge to the sans culottes, but it washes away clean with a nice tinge of fruits of the Tropical Skittles variety, except not derived from sucrose, just pure pineapple, mango, guava goodness from hop oils. The whole finish washes away clean in more of a shallow pantheism than the full spectrum of intellectual depths of say, Heidegger, but who has ever found Being and Nothingness refreshing? Fucking no one.

When a brewery half asses something, you can tell immediately, such is not the case here.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and clean, imparts a nice watery tone that transfers into a mild hoppy stickiness and before you know it, the pleasure is over and it is time for the tip. Again, this cannot be construed as a diss when it is brewed exactly to style and shows such extreme balance and punishing hoppiness like the first three Ninja Gaiden games. This is a real good beer and, for the style, def in my top 5 APAs, hell make it top 3, but I am trying to be fair and balanced here.

D: Does anyone remember when Ford released the Taurus SHO and shit got nuts real quick? You take a balanced base and then push it to the limits with amazing (Yamaha/Vermont) craftsmanship and here we are. I am trying to go half throttle not to drain this old chestnut instantly but that’s how these forays into Vermont always seem to go. As I type this, my growler is gone, and I still feel like i can go kayaking or play handball, and that’s how I know the APA is working, maximum flavor without the beastly DIPA withdrawals. If Ephraim is a 911 Turbo, this is Hill Farmstead’s Lotus Elise.

It’s the smooth comfort of a well-done pale ale that comforts in a softly aggressive manner.

Narrative: The local islanders did not want to cause alarm to N’thraiku’s parents, but it was clear that something was a bit off with the archipelago youth but at a certain point you just have to call it out. N’thra stood a stately 1.5m tall at his tenth birthday, however, his triceps bulged with cuts almost .5m around. He assiduously scampered up trees and claimed even the highest hanging fruit, beyond the dietary needs of the tribe. “N’thra! COME!” the village elder, K’traikai called. “N’th, you have shown great discipline, but, seriously, you look like a bent tuning fork, let’s calm the aggressive climbing down a bit, ok?” N’thra kicked some of the obsidian black sand in front of him and looked far in the distance to the dormant fire God for solace. “I mean, sure we all enjoy local treats but, you need to ratchet it back some, we have way more almendra than anyone can eat-” suddenly N’th reached and crushed a balata in his palm and swung like a child’s swing in between his massive arms. The message was delivered loud and clear, N’th was going to keep reaping fruit, getting jacked, and juicing; dietary habits be damned.


Finch’s Beer Company, Cut Throat Pale Ale, Pale Ale Competition is Fierce These Days.

Here’s a nice herbal gem from Chicagoland. I know, the silver can, the hops presence, you get your jimmies all rankled thinking this is gonna be like Heady Topper.

Spoiler Alert: It isn’t.

I wouldn't cut a convicted rapists throat for this beer. Maybe a ponzi scheme engineer or the inventor of pop-under ads.

Finch’s Beer Company
Illinois, United States
American Pale Ale (APA) | 5.50% ABV

So you crack this open and it pours a little more amber and deep orange than I like my (negative -I) PA’s. But hey, the lacing is there and the can looks pretty legit so I continue. At first blush the smell seems legit and there’s a slight Brazilian food cart fruitiness to it but then, wait a second, you get a juniper, that same herbal aspect that reminds you of the bushes your older brother pushed you into, the one with the wasp nest. Then it’s maple leaves and yard trimmings. Things went awry quickly here.

The taste begins with a watery crescendo and I suddenly wonder how many lawns there are to mow in Joliet and then BAM! LEAVES. So this is decidedly a fall beer for imposed labor in the form of raking, not a lawnmower beer. It isn’t necessarily a pale and switch, but I was expecting something gentle and instead you get water and a deep floral aspect. I wanted some juicy juice, instead I got a nature hike, the kind where you get your no no touched.

The Verdict: better than other pale ale offerings, but don’t give up a pack of KOOLs to lock this down in the pen.

When you can, opt for the Super Swiss, don't eat babbies.