Parageusia1, the first transmission of future rusticity, a liquid harbinger of an alternate timeline of dystopian farmhouse malevolence sent to rectify the Wallonia transgressions of this present to ensure a more rustic future. The forthcoming standard bearers pushes the limits of ph levels to staggering low standards, foregoing all musk, forging a golden calf of wild ales from the melted iconoclasm where idols to Blaugies and Vapeur once stood. A great flood then is prophesied to occur in the book of farmhouse revelations, 12:45, which spake thus “and the seventh son of each seventh industrial park farmhouse brewer was thereby struck down and those keg cleaners who doubted the barrel overmind were instructed not to look back upon the mash tuns overflowing with the hatred of a thousand bubbling generations of saison false worship (46) and thereby when an assistant brewer looked back to mourn an adjunct stout, he was cast as a pilar of salt.”

But how does the beer fucking taste?

In a word: awesome. With an adjective modifier : presently awesome, with future implications. The look is radiant, Belgian pils, perhaps some wheat and maybe even spelt, substantial lacing, three tips mushed seamlessly, foreskin cascading like perfectly tailored drapes.

The nose is all tangerine, old rug, vacuum bags, apricot, Brett L, wet rope, and soaking wet Express g strings. It is decidedly citrus but provides a musk that is wanting in so many Midwest Saisons, this isn’t the acid show but you can put on Wundershowzen and trip balls w this beer.

Taste walks a razors edge between wild ale and saison but keeps it’s shit together and falls on the correct side of the battle, foregoing a pussy ass reliance on micro culture for a strong musky chewy wheat body that coats and delivers wave after wave of tropical starburst and mineral alkaline chalkiness on the swallow that begs for another deep throating. You get peach jolly ranchers, a sort of Petrus aspect, creamy mouthfeel with microcarb and a lasting acidity that has a safe word to tell through that tart ball gag.

This is a fantastic beer and is at home with Saison Bernice and Du Fermier as gentle well executed representations of the new cybernetic wallonia order. Ironically the beers I could drink endlessly are the hardest to obtain. Oh sure let’s just open a Florence five nights in a row, NO big Deal sure why not let me just drum another one up. It’s the tantalus curse, except it’se strapped to the wheel of ixion and I spin each rotation almost tasting these sweet delights, but the gods curse me with boxes of adjunct stouts THAT I HAVE TO FUCKING REVIEW BECAUSE YOU ASSHOLES WONT SHUT UP ABOUT THEM.

In sum, this beer trades below its pedigree and you would be a fool to not offer up something substantial to taste this. There are few that polish this glass ceiling of saison excellence.

Just popped a future rustic saiso- OH would you look at the time

Once I got hammered and made a children’s fashion blog and then forgot about it for a year. Since then I get requests to write more on it, so who am I to deny the rapacious public such wanting content:

for your reading enjoyment, I added some new posts on my children’s fashion blog, Calling Kids Out

http://callingkidsout.blogspot.com/

Let’s be honest here, tired hands has hoppy offerings that suffer and benefit from the same all fiction and benediction that Sante Adairius enjoys, the hoppy offerings are either “pretty alright” or “holy fuck, I will cup the balls for more of this.” The bell curve is sharp and unforgiving.

This is unquestionably the best hoppy offering that those Ardmore boys have ever produced. Let’s open up the penumbra to a wider scope and say it is unlike any IPA I have ever tasted. First and foremost, the melon on the nose isn’t like oily hop melon, it’s like post coitus brunch cup melon. You get pineapple bright honey and that crisp honeydew like a Honduran fruit vendor is sleeping in your garage. The taste even maintains that cantaloupe character with a tangelo and grassy bitter finish to it that is dry like that Sarah Silverman delivery that you want to hate but stick around for.

The whole endeavor would never work in bottles, and the production costs on this must be sky fucking high. It is not what you expect and if a “wild IPA” existed, it would fall perhaps close to this mark. The melon is just amazing and, for such an unworkable fruit of insoluble fiber, holy fuck they captured the spirit like materia in rubicite.

Emma Watson is a trailblazing feminist. This melon transcends hackneyed timeworn gender neutral arguments.

I need to call a physician, this erection has lasted more than 5 hours.

DDB pop saison ticks for the civilians, bottles is Pennsylvanian and the handgun’s Brazillian.

I love receiving mail from die hard fans, like this corporate tourism website, Vegas.com:

Wow this sounds incredible! How can I help?

150 beers!? I don’t wanna get left out!!!

Anxiously awaiting their response.

I don’t need to pump this beer any more than I already have. #1 Bruery apologist checking in with a world class draft only banger.

Oh man, the already stellar corn and wheelbarrow rainwater notes from the base beer sure did provide an amazing platform for this high fructose corn syrup panoply of ambrosial delights.

I used to be a busser and sometimes I would need to change those fat stick sacks of syrup in the soda machine. The contents were rank, saccharine foul bladders of failure and depression. If you have ever tasted Mr PIbb concentrate you have looked to the edge of beverage insanity and known the perils of the human condition. This is like that, except grape fanta edition. Take that decadent robitussin and cut it with boiled corn, melted children’s grape toothpaste, about 200 purple otter pops and blend it with a metallic pennies and dimes change jar: you have this malt liquor masterpiece.

I would rather go down on a Samoan escort after a century bike ride than confront this welches grape genocide again. I still have night tremors thinking of those medicinal syrup tones dripping like the blood of virgin babies on the altar of Skittles.

This lady has enough disposable income to but a pure bred poodle and a ramp for it to clamber in and out of her car. People who drink this beer will never know these levels of condescension.

I popped this dusty geriatric macro expecting massive let down, and let’s be clear, this wasn’t some flavor revelation, but it shockingly wasn’t nearly as cock-stomping as anticipated. It has the flabby orange and coriander, muddy complexion, the turbid waft of oxy and faded spices but it is worlds better than regular ass blue moon because of the oxidation present. What previously was a stupid grocery store gimmic you give to your “BEER friend” has actually unintentionally developed a light cardboard and musk from the sheer breakdown of the initially horrible character, but now is like the sage old groundskeeper who has seen some shit in his day. Like actual shit. Children have no control over their bowels and scatological play is par for the age and this beer.

Don’t go seeking this out, this is a comedy beer website and we gotta keep things in perspective. It is mediocre, but still better than some craft offerings from recent memory.

When the fuck is a banana NOT to-go?

This exhibits robust char and toasty rye and chocolate but balanced it with a sticky sweet caramel and sugar cane profile from the oak. The two work in tandem and pound both holes concurrently and no malty loads are left in the chamber. Imagine if you took 50/50 eclipse rum deviant and ratcheted it back in mouthfeel and sweetness, you’d have this nimble épée blade poking and sticking.

Just tryna turn this 350 into a full brick.

J#zzing so hard in my pants

This CL set is replete with inconsistency, top tier beers and then strange misses that you can’t even reconcile. This falls into a forgettable albeit moderately tasty middle earth where persimmon orcs toil tirelessly for Sauron the god of lactic excess.

It’s fine, it is tart, lightly bitter, a chewy estery aspect to the swallow and a moderate phenolic character as it warms but it just isn’t anything you need to leave your kids at day care over. You could miss this and no one will call you a pussy in front of your girlfriend, even if you piss your Bugle Boy jeans

This review went to a dark place real fast.