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Moonlight Legal Tender, Where we are going, YOU WONT NEED CURRENCY

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Before this review rerevs the shitengine, let’s get one thing clear: MOONLIGHT IS AMAZING. This isn’t a CYA or some back pedaling. Reality Czech is mindblowing and Death and Taxes got me through undergrad. That being said, I don’t like going down on the plant monsters from Troll 2, so let’s get this shit underway:

Some negligent ass reviews going on these days. I ordered this at Jupiter during a shitshow, no pics were taken thanks to stupid Cal undergrads. Thanks Berkeley, you ruined beer for everyone else.

Moonlight legal tender, style? abv?

A: The ultimate quandry, you are immediately made aware that no hops went into this abomination but yet you see it’s taunting Porter-esque appearance, who is this rogue character? Well the shiny disposition leaves only variables. Do I befriend it? Use a pokeball? This is a rough road to hoe. Herbal assault imminent.

despite a strange refuse character, I am intrigued.

S: It feels like a shoryuken of grassy, pine, herbal and medicinal notes. Understand, I do not mean this in the fulfilling Majaraja malty way, I mean it in a “you will shortly be drinking a rhododendron” sort of way. This is like you just moved to Portland and started dating a vegan chick. It is ultra earth day to your face.

T: Murder, on every front. It is just a fleeting dryness that transforms into a watered down fernet branca and water, with a crazy character that feels like inhaling campfire smoke and drinking soda water. Not smoky in that ballsy rauschbeer way, just a “mom can I stay home from school” sort of manner. Go work for 6 months in Northern California as a lumber harvester and tell me how it works out, then drink this crazy innovative beer.

This beer puts a new spin on a crazy natural concept. Mashups galore.

M: This had a calm, very pleasing disposition. I didn’t dislike the mouthfeel and it seemed almost like a watered down jagermeister drink with disgetife particulars. I guess this was its best quality in the way that the engine was the best quality of the Dodge Neon Espresso. This reminded me of a super vegetal potion from an RPG that cures all ailments, but also inflicts MUTE. Something to that effect.

D: I guess this comes down to how off the beaten path you are. Do you go to burning man? Do you love non-corporate media? Well this isnt even for you, this is just bizarre. I have trouble rating it low due to innovation but it is just menacing, it attracted conversation but resoundingly everyone who tried this beer was inexplicably concerned that I enjoyed drinking this.

Moonlight usually drops mad lute, however, not a single minstrel to be found from this traveling company

Narrative: No one ever said that life as a level sixteen vegan paladin would be easy. Sure you are unable to expend excess calories due to co2 expirations, and sure you cant waste any biofuel….ANY BIOFUEL. But one treat is your old redwood ale, chipped consentially with the earth from chips and bark. Delicious. It just feels so good to know that you are violating the earth with your enjoyment with its consent. Sure it seems like a gladiola bed right in your mouth, but the offset is much more intangible. People always look askance at you in the produce aisle when you place your own for sale but…who are they to judge? The grassy nature is what you live for and…once you figure out a way for plants to pay for your Vassar degree…you will be all set.

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Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar, Juicing those Nuts for their Brown Nectar

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Ah time for an ale throwback to revisit the old gateway drugs that get beer nerds hooked. It is usual the local pushers like Stone, Dogfish Head, Sam Adams or these guys. It would be a classic beer nerd form to look down on readily accessible beers and be a complete hater, however, that’s NOT HOW I ROLL. It can’t be walez all the time, gotta look back on solid nuts to know where you came from. Er, you know what I mean.

Old beers, new flows, shitty pics, good beer. Life is a juxtaposition.

Rogue Hazelnut Brown Nectar, 6.x%, Brown Ale

A: Nice wood bark tones with lots of transparency and deep cedar hues. The carbonation is aggressive but calms down after it finds its car keys deep in the depths of the glass. There is fantastic lacing that creates little archipelagos to live on, I just want to point out that I spelled that without Microsoft word’s help, it’s the little victories people. You know what word.

hazelnut might not be my favorite flavor, but it beats ginger.

S: I get a huge waft of walnuts, smoked peanuts, and Amonds. They call them amonds because they shake the L out of them at harvest ti- alright fine. Moving on.

T: The taste is pretty light and imparts the same nutty, woody notes that are on the nose. No bait and switch taking place here, just solid old Rogue products. I enjoy the simplicity of it and assertive nature of the malt backbone. It feels like Newcastle’s over achieving little brother, who secretly pines for greatness. In terms of brown ales, a category that I don’t usually care to notice, this is about as good as it gets. It reminds me of how I remembered that the Toyota FJ Cruiser was a pretty cool SUV in a lineup of items that I usually reserve for total shitheads.

This takes me back to the good old days of deep secrets and fulfilling simplicity.

M: It is a bit watery on the front but it is an alluring methodology that this beer employs. The woody notes strike swiftly from the bushes with a great drying effect, leaving the consume helpless to aid his situation but by calling in more watery mouth front, which, at that point a full on Catch 22 is on and Joseph Heller can rest content at a shitty mixed metaphor having been executed horribly.

D: This is very drinkable and reminds me of Chimay Blue in many respects. I know the hardcore beer intelligensia will spit imperial stout all over their respective monocles, but, this realm is not well traveled and if you absolutely must go this route, this is a fantastic Sherpa.

Back in 2006 this beast was too shocking for most people.

Narrative: “Hazel nut, cobb nut, yeah, call me whatever you damn well feel like” Shellers gruffly responded while fashioning a shiv out of what appeared to be the husk of a deceased walnut. “I seen every damn nut in this place, aint a single one cracked old Shellers yet, and I dare them to try.” He meant this, without trepidation. Shellers ran the nuthouse with precision and deft brutality. He would push his fellow nuts to the top of the pile for wanting consumers to smash and grind into paste with joy. “YOU THINK I AM A NEW VARIETAL!?” he called out from the bottom of the bin, not a single nut moved a shell. “THAT’S RIGHT WHO SAID ANYTHING WHEN WE GOT INFECTED WITH XANTHOMONAS?” no one could respond, that crippling blight was both Sheller’s own device and saving grace. “THAT’S RIGHT ME! SO IF YOU WANNA END UP A CONFECTIONARY GOOD FOR AN ELDERLY PERSON. Go right ahead, I will personally see to it your soft shelled ass makes it right to the top.” Sheller’s use of bitter irony and entendre was too much sometimes, so soft and sweet in his interior, but hard coated in exterior.

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Highwater Retribution, IT IS TIME TO TAKE VENGEANCE ON THE WATER

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Alright, time to dust off an old review and try and make sense of the past. The Bruery told me to support this brewer and, if memory serves me right, he used to brew at Valley Brewing which made an incredible wild ale that few people tried. So here’s my tip of the cap to him, in today’s high handed high watery review. SCRATCH THAT BONUS REVIEW.

Some readers loved that MS Paint masterpiece I did for Founders Devil Dancer, so here you go, RETRIBUTION.

Highwater Brewing Retribution Imperial Pale Ale 9.5% ABV

A: Looks good, golden and amber notes, a burnt orange throughout, very similar to Pliny the Elder, suspiciously Pliniesque. There may be some elements of ancient romans within the lacing.

OK QUICK Q: How is a beer this 1) hoppy 2) strong and 3) inexpensive. Usually that shit is pick 2 and go to bed.

S: I love it when Imperial IPAs go the citrus route over a super heavy tomahawk/pine forward approach, it’s that genteel white glove treatment that keeps my bitter zones from being too skiddish on the first date. This has a more muted citrus profile than the best, but it is still present and accomplished. It smells like if Alpine Duet was vigorously scolded as a child or grew up in an oppressive Presbytarian household or something. Let those citrus notes free.

T: This has a fantastic taste of sweet drying orange rind on the first sip with a satisfying finish throughout. The problem is it feels like listening to your favorite album on ipod headphones. You want to tell it to let loose and embrace its hop profile. The tastes are there they just aren’t “big” enough, if we can break Kantian conception of time space. I mean, if you focus and seek them out, they are there but they just seem like they are up to malfeasance, curiously silent. You feel like something is up with these hops.

PROTIP: A beer this sessionable at this ABV may result in unwanted Jedi children.

M: Fan. Tastic. I love the drinkable character of this beer and the crisp thin nature is satisfying. I know some people will comment about how I slammed Dogfish Head’s Boring Baton for being too thin but this is a whole different story. When the hops deliver, albeit in a silent abused way, the maltiness doesn’t have to be the breadwinner of the family. This isn’t the maltiness show, the hops can pitch in around the house too once in a while.

D: The thin character with the nimble acidic hops give it a great get up and go. I love how it quenches and demolishes your taste buds at the same time. It is drinkable in the way spicy cheetos are edible, you keep drinking, harming yourself, and seeking more as a cure. I hope someone picks up this brewery on distribution because they are cheap and very well done. It may be that they get infected with Alipinitis and we see people swapping 24 packs of Furious for these sooner rather than later.

Solid thumbs up bro to this new brewery, do your thang player.

Narrative: “AND IF I EVER CATCH YOU PLAYING WITH THIS DAMN CHEMISTRY SET AGAIN REUBEN, THIS BELT IS COMING OFF!” The door slammed and little Reuben just clenched his jaw. Oh sure, sodium bicarbonate made in his own house, who was Reuben kidding? He sat there, conscious of his genius but rolled over on his Thundercats bedspread and wondered if anyone would take the time to read his algorithm that created a move paradigm for Magic: the Gathering cards. Everything that he touched became clearer and more accessible, if only his parents could see that. “NO MORE LINUX DISTRIBUTIONS REUBEN!” He remember his father’s words so well. Now when people asked Reuben what he was working on he would just shrug his shoulders and mutter “justacoldfusionreactorohitsnothing.” His genius remained latent for that one fertile bed of appreciation to accept him.

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

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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.

Time for maximum IMPERIAL STOUT OVERDRIVE.

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.

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

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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.

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Kern River Pumpkin Ale, Get Smashed on Some Pumpkins in Today’s Review

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I know what you are thinking “PUMPKIN BEER? Where the hell is the Citra review no one we have been waiting for?” Well to tithe you over, put on your skanky Halloween costume and enjoy this pumpkin jam.

Halloween in June, Ring a ding ding.

Kern River Brewing Company, Pumpkin Ale, 6% abv

BONUS PIC, here’s where I got this beer from:

Pics or it didn’t happen.

A: This beer looks almost like a pilsner but with a bit of an orange hue to it, tons of tiny bubbles provide a nice lacing that subsides almost immediately. The biscuit clarity leaves a sort of cornbread meets golden hue melange.

zabba with the pumpkin and the Rudy and the Bakersfield JELLOOOOO

S: There is a hint of pumpkin sweetness, a touch of cinnamon, and a dash of allspice. Those are to be taken quite literally because the nose of this beer is not an autumnal overload. It is reminiscent of fall in the same way that backpacks are, in a muted roundabout manner.

T: The taste lacks all the charm of the nose and instead offers up a crisp moderate sweetness that fades almost immediately into a mild hoppy character. This isn’t the pumpkin blast that some other offer up, nor is it the spice overload that other fall beers take either. In sum, the tastes is almost like an adjunct lager with some hints of cinnamon and pumpkin zest.

Most pumpkin beers are completely derivative, this one stands out beyond all the allspice and nutmeg sex that is usually going on.

M: This is mildly bready but the notes fade quickly and leave just a tame hop profile and some allspice in your mouth. It is underwhelming and feels like the pumpkin was added as an afterthought to an existing blonde.

D: This is incredibly drinkable, but any low abv beer without an aggressive profile will be drinkable. Ultimately this just fails to deliver in the aspect that it most heavily touts: making with the punkin. If Final Fantasy 7 bragged all day long about the Knights of the Round materia, put it on the box, and made it seem like it was an integral part of the game, people would be pissed. The average person doesn’t want to breed black chocobos all day and when I am promised pumpkin and given watery cinnamon, I bid the beer adieu. I say good day sir.

This beer is a bit wacky, yet intriguing at the same time.

Narrative: “I think you know why I called this meeting, Royce” Mr. Wallerson boomed while staring out the floor to ceiling glass windows, gazing out upon the dirt lot across the street. “Sir? I, uh that is, not exactly-” “ROYCE, when I hired you as our logistics systems analyst, you knew that we had a multifaceted resort to build, did you not?” “Yes, yes sir but I don’t see-” “AND, in the course of your duties, where did you infer that buying and storing mashed pumpkin slurry was somehow a requisite to this position?” Royce exhaled ruefully and realized that the jig was up. “I just, I always” “YOU ALWAYS WHAT? It’s just always customary to keep rotting pumpkin bits in your desk? That’s just part of the job description? Well here I have the employee manual that you were provided and it rea-” Royce stood up and clenched his fists and stared a white hot gaze right through Mr. Wallerson. His gaze was so intense that it stopped him dead in his tracks. “Yes sir, it was my secret, you know what ISN’T A SECRET? Pumpkins are a part of the Cucurbita family, they contain potassium and vitamin A, and they were once recommended for removing freckles and snake bites. SURE, everyone knows that. You know what everyone DOESN’T know? That you have sex with the HR rep assistant on a bi-weekly basis.” Royce stared down his brow and walked intently over to Mr. Wallerson’s desk. “So unless you want some more pumpkin facts: why don’t you stay the fuck away from my desk.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some mushy, lukewarm pumpkin sludge and placed it on the desk on top of the Employee Handbook and walked calmly out of the room.

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Founder’s Devil Dancer Triple IPA, Dance with the Devil in the (TI) Pale (Ale) Moonlight

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Triple IPAs. Ah, another controversial class of beers that no one seems to know what to do with. Is it a DIPA that is boozier? Maybe just a misclassified American Barleywine? Who gives a shit. Just pop your hoptops and let’s figure out what kind of demons the people in Michigan are escaping to need this powerful potation.

I couldn’t find the pic that I had of this beer so I drew you a recreation in MS Paint. Enjoy.

Founder’s Devil Dancer, Triple IPA, 12% abv

A: This has incredibly minimal carbonation, no middle body, and very faint lacing. It looks deep amber, almost red. It just sits there and folds its malty arms unimpressed with the Belgian tulip I have lovingly provided. Triple IPAs are like housecats, they don’t need your approval and there will eventually be piss on something in your bedroom.

Triple IPAs are like mashing out on greens so hard.

S: The smell has a malty hop presence with an intense sweetness that almost mows over the grassiness present in the back end. It’s like that kid in Geometry that has a heart of gold but covers it up with a Limp Bizkit t-shirt and a jerky frown; ONLY IN REVERSE. The hops are in an epic struggle with the boozy waft, but ultimately the hops win out.

T: This is wrong on two fronts: it is far too strong on the alpha acids at the outset and tastes like pennies rolled in the Vermont woods, then it turns into this wonky barley wine flavor that is far too sweet and cloying. This just stretches itself in too many directions, like a tortured asian teenager living under the tyranny of a tiger mother. Violin, gymnastics, math team, and academic decathlon is tall order for this poor triple IPA.

I like my IPAs to be hardcore, but not THIS hardcore.

M: This has the carbonation of a Nebraskan plains lands, endlessly flat and disinteresting. It just coats in a viney grassy way that lingers along the gumline and lights up a cigarette in a casual Jaleel-White-as-Stefan sort of manner. I am not saying that a beer this beer needs to be a gusher, but come on, don’t just LIE THERE. Ryan Gosling’s junk is uninspired by the sweet hoppy monster.

D: Not at all, I just sit and stare at the hateful liquid, letting the condensation beads form and dissipate. Even a 12oz serving is too much for me. It isn’t the ABV, I have had much worse. It isn’t the hops, I have had much beer. It is just a guy wheelieing while studying for the GMAT. Too much business in one glass and it turns into a train wreck.

Tripel IAPS? Gooby pls.

Narrative: Chip Thornewood gritted his jaw and pressed his house keys into the surface of the coffee table. “Well Mrs. Thornewood, it is tough to diagnose Chip’s condition, it isn’t exactly Asperger’s syndrome,” the two looked through a two way mirror and watched as Chip tore the pages out of a novel in the waiting room. “You see, he has a rare psychological condition known as Prickinium Disorder. It takes the normal human psyche and inverts all the premises that would make it pleasant, turning the patient into a bitter, well, I will just demonstrate. Dr. Thetic walked into the waiting room and offer Chip a Fig Newton. “Oh hey! Sure, let me go ahead and have some of this fruit and cake, or wait, HOW ABOUT THIS?” Chip violently threw the cookie onto the ground and spun his heel on the crushed remains. “Mmm, wow, very tasty, thanks.” Dr. Thetic shook his head with grave disappointment, “Mrs. Thornewood, I don’t know how to say this so I will be blunt: your child is an asshole. A completely bitter, self-absorbed, off-putting, unnecessarily acerbic and acrimonius asshole whom no one would willingly associate him or herself with unless compelled for a good reason.” Dr. Thetic scribbled out a hasty prescription for Ritalin and outstretched the small scrap to Ms. Thornewood. “It won’t cure him, but it will make him a sedate asshole, similar to those you encounter on a daily basis or at a hipster café. Godspeed.”

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Midnight Sun Barfly, The Only Time That You Can Brag About Having Flies

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Alright, let’s get this shit out of the way: this beer is not worth seeking out. Let me clarify, it is an amazing stout and you will likely rock a half mast alerection after trying it but, what the market is asking for is simply not worth it. Sure, maybe you live in Alaska and got in on the ground floor, but this 1000ish bottle release is too rich for the blood of the rest of us non-Palins. We all know that I love Arctic Devil, Berserker was solid, so what now of this strange offspring? Let’s take it to the frigid north to investigate Seward’s Folly in today’s review.

More like tradefly. How many bottles of this actually left Alaska remains to be seen.

Midnight Sun Brewing Co.
Alaska, United States
American Double / Imperial Stout | 12.60% ABV

A: This has a bit of a lighter slicker sheen to it than the massive stouts you see on this site getting tick on the reg. It looks nice with a frothy blackness that imparts a gentle coating that smiles at you like an amiable concierge, despite your ignoble intentions. You get a bit of crackling bubbles but nothing to whip out a post card for. The mocha coloring seems on point for the style but largely predictable “did you want pink bubbles?” no STFU.

PROTIP: If you feed this to a chimpanzee, he will probably toss his guts on your wall.

S: This nose starts with a black and mild cigar waft like a vacant strip club and melds into a vacant chocolate factory which is equally disturbing. Next up I get some tire, eraser, and sticky Charles Shaw red wine that recent divorcees are so fond of. Again, this just doesn’t strike on all my favorite stoutzones, my stoutrogenous zones remain unfired.

T: This has a much better taste but again, nothing to sell your ’94 Neon Espresso to obtain. This starts with a huge merlot aspect that lets you know, ok, good job barfly you were in a barrel. Then it continues its Community College Drama major and seeks attention via the route of smoked chocolate and sticky tobacco. That’s not the way to win the love of an absentee father. I enjoyed the light stickiness but ultimately this wasn’t what I had spent 8 months busting ale sessions to. It’s like meeting Skrillex in real life and realizing that he is just that fat kid who played D.J. on Roseanne.

You want to like it. You really do. But ultimately, the whole endeavor feels forced and you end up cleaning up the results.

M: This is swift and flows like that river in Huckleberry Finn, I forget which one. The chocolate is drying and the port/red wine aspects come off and stumbling blocks rather than assets to this process. You know when Logan busts out of the weapon X tank dripping wet? That’s how I feel after busting my cock to get this thing and it is a smoky, thin, red wine tasting little monster. It was not bad by any means but, at this price, you expect superchargers or at least a NAV system.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable, hell, you might even be able to trick girls into drinking stouts if they hang out in Santa Monica and enjoy deep juicy red wines and Weeds or some nonsense. Red wine sticks out like a sore labia in this beer and I can’t get past the imposing nature of the adjunct elements. Berserker was all coffee, ok fine, now this beer goes apeshit with a BCBG female grape aspect. It is good, let’s get that clear. Rag and Bone makes great clothes, but both are complete ripoffs in the end.

Is it good? Yes. Is it worth real life? No.

Narrative: Devin Griggs was the most avid fan of YooHoo Chocolate drinks this side of the Prime Meridian. He had sampled the most rare varietals of the cacao potation and nodded in disapproval at the rarest gems. “Watery, chocolate afterthoughts, it is like The Unbearable Lightness of Being in chocolate drink format” he opined to the throngs of 45 people who were also into this shit. Madeline, his assistant surveyed his impressive YooHoo cellar with a calm fortitude as he presented the legendary YooHoo b54 from 1961 with the notorious discontinued “racist label.” In the calm of his den he surveyed the empty bottles and shook his head in disapproval. “Sir?” Madeline poked her head in from the rich teak doors. “Look at these vintages Maddy, each milky discharge a potent entry in the pages of history,” Devin stated as he took a deep pull of his milky chocolate treat, 1995 vintage. “Do you ever feel like it is all a fool’s errand? Just a shot into the dark, the stockpiling of inherently consumable chattel? Perhaps it is a fleeting grasp at immortality in a fading medium, like the lactose itself.” Madeline shook her head and leaned intently upon stacked cases of 2002 YooHoo, the alleged infected bottles. “Sir, ultimately, a hobby is a fleeting outlet and a fading grasp at value in a world of inherent scorn. . .or it is a way to get your D S’ed in a niche market.” Devin licked his milk moustache and nodded in agreement, at Milk Chocolate Drink conventions he had gotten his DS’ed more than Nintendo.

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Alpine Bad Boy Double Imperial Pale Ale, Bad Boys Go To Their Respective Hop Rooms.

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This beer always comes up when the best Double IPAs in the world are discussed. Hell, it is on most top 100 lists and constantly spars with Ephraim and Citra. Let’s stop pussyfooting around and figure this shit out once and for all, how good is the crowning DIPA glory from San Diego’s finest hop masters? We shall see.

This particular 64oz growler, I did not skull to my dome piece, so my judgment was not impaired. Better than Hill Farmstead Ephraim? Sadly no. But still amazing. There, I said it.

Alpine Bad Boy, 9.5% abv, Double IPA

A: This has a radiant golden glow to it with a great clarity like majestic apple juice. The lacing looks like an abandoned haunted house and these a tons of webs all up in this piece. This be looking mad antiquated. The carbonation from the growler is solid and sticky throughout. This looks dangerous and somehow session able.

This beer has an amazing salad meets hop oil converging with pineapple and bunny musk going on.

S: The smell even on opening the growler is relentless. The hop presence detonates like pinecones galvanized all up in your dome piece. There is a grassy pineapple to it with some herbal grapefruit. I would deem this 60/40 herbal to fruit which is a solid balance. Hop Wallop needs to take some notes. This has more balance than a Chinese gymnast with an inner ear infection.

T: This is exactly what Alpine does so. Damn. Well. It just delivers a huge initial sweetness that fades into a freshly cut grassiness that makes you feel all elementary school for a second until, bam, honey sweetness that fades. This is like the more tactful version of Hopslam. A friend you can confide secrets in, a hoppy buddy you can take places and know he wont talk about when someone touched your no no. That kind of friend.

The scope of the undertaking is impressive, wait till you see the taste.

M: The mouthfeel is impossibly light. It is Pale Ale thin, imparts a huge herbal character that swirls a maple cape and fades into a loveable sweet note. It is David Blaine ass hop work. It leaves my mouth all astounded but wanting more. I suppose a growler is both an appropriate and inappropriate serving size, for obvious reasons. This will take a serious prestige amongst Ephraim and Citra. To be clear, this is far superior to Exponential Hoppiness in the way that Nightcrawler is superior to Colossus. It is just someone I would rather hang out with on a regular basis. This is nimble and bad ass, not some lumbering asshole who always asks you to save his sister from a tractor.

D: Holy jeez, this is the Live Oak of DIPA’s which is to say its drink ability is off the charts for the ABV and the complex character of the hop profile. I almost want to run my own tests to ascertain if this has any more than 4% abv but, the old liver test is sufficient. The fact that this is not in bottles has allegedly saved CalTrans millions in roadside clean ups. So there’s always that.

With a growler in tow, you can go on some epic San Diego adventures where you will no doubt lose your shoes and your entryway will be soaked in the morning.

Narrative: “Well? Did you find anything? All OF THE OPENINGS ARE SEALED!” Tarynn cried with the utmost agitation, Mark felt that a reference to ‘that’s what she said’ would be not apropos in the case of a spelunking disaster. “WE ARE GOING TO DIE DOWN HERE!” Tarynn exclaimed while running her fingers through her thinning hair. She fell to her knees in desperation and clutched the halogen lantern desperately. “We can’t be below the water table, so therefore, the sediment should push up some sustainable filtered water and, potentially some veget-” Mark tripped over a thick tuft of underground foliage. “What in the-” he discontinued his sentence in that staccato manner that characters in situation comedies do, despite not being interrupted. “HECK” he finished, but so much later that it didn’t seem canon with his previous sentence. “What is it Mark?” Tarynn called out. There was a fresh pool of water seeping through the floor but it was fully entwined by sticky, vinuous hop plants. The smell was overwhelming. “This-” he did it again, “is our only chance of survival.” The two nodded gravely and began to suck from the pools the sticky water and push raw hop flowers into their gullets. “If only we-” Mark declared before falling asleep. The geological team found them 8 days later, high out of their minds on raw hop flowers. Mark’s sentences have since been correc-

3

Sam Adams 1995 Triple Bock, A Beer That Is Older Than Your Girlfriend, Sicko.

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Ah finally a beer that is older than your girlfriend. Let’s mix it up a bit with a rare gem from earlier days: Triple Bock. Ok, transport yourself back to 1995 for a moment, you’re listening to Spin Doctors, buying Beyond Baggy Jeans at Millers Outpost- shit is going pretty well right? Well not for craft beer. Unless adjunct lagers got you all half mast, craft beer was not as it is today. This beer was an innovative testament to show the world what beer COULD BE. These days, it is more a testament that COULD does not always mean SHOULD. Let’s hit on this geriatric gem in today’s Elder Abuse review.

This beer is like an ICP fan: strange while young and abhorrent when it matures.

Boston Beer Company (Samuel Adams)
Massachusetts, United States
American Strong Ale | 17.50% ABV

A: This beer comes in a weird little 7.5oz cobalt bottle, but don’t worry, you aren’t getting ripped off, you wont want much more than 2 ounces of this beast. So it pours our like spent canola oil with potato skin burned fragment sludge bobbing gracefully in the wake. This is what Lake Tahoe is gonna look like in the year 2031. There is a murky sludge aspect to it with teenage chunks of malty char chunks suspended in the medium. Spoiler alert: there is no carbonation. This beer looks like bottled felch.

Just keep sipping on these, you’ll be safe because no one will want to hang out with you.

S: The smell is like the tire aisle at Costco. Then you get this deep cigar muskiness from the Golden Age that is like rummaging through old dresses at Good Will. Next comes a putrid wave of Kikoman soy sauce olfactory rape. It is like your nose is doing lines of Dragon Roll. Finally a sickening sweetness like asian candies where you don’t know exactly what it is, but you’re afraid because you’re pretty sure there’s durian or shellfish in there.

T: Oh man, this is where they really slam your cock in a car door. This initially tastes like pencil graphite, burnt gristle, and Skoal dip cup spit. You get a lingering sweetness and a chocolate presence that pushes its hand to the glass but the death sentence is clear. There’s aspects of Lowe’s peat and gardening dirt, pennies, and tonguing an open coldsore that imparts an iron rich maltiness. Finally the oxidation sets in and you get this dryness that tastes like used breakdancer cardboard and Filipino sweat.

Sure, this might not be the best beer I have ever had. That’s a class composed of (every beer I Have ever Had – 1 ) I can deal with that.

M: The mouthfeel slops and sways like the contents of a lava lamp but the solution rides upon a hot layer of booze everywhere it goes. It is like Iceman, how he used to tear ass on that ice bridge, except this bridge is made of composted solids, tar, and the blood of Owlbears. While I was finishing my final refreshing sips, I got a huge chunk of black malt on my tongue, which usually means that an angel just got its wings. I pressed it between my fingers and it looked like I just got booked by LAPD. Which is so appropriate because what apt foreshadowing for a beer that will get you really hammered and make you feel like you just went down on a Cal Trans worker?

D: This beer could not be less drinkable if it were a gas. This plays an important part in beer history but, the sheer importance as an extreme beer does not a good ale make. I am glad to have tried it but it makes me longingly look at the state of today’s beer market with love. One great use for this beer would be to give it to your kids at age 11 and be like “YOU WANT BEER! THIS IS BEER! NOW FINISH THE WHOLE THING AND LOVE IT.” Scare them straight before they turn into a mesomorphic asshole like me.

This beer is barely legal.

Narrative: Walter Murkmire was a regular fixture in the Boston Common. He trudged covered in muck and melted tar and people avoided their gaze if only to avoid thinking how someone became so caked in the dregs of society. “DONT FORGET TO ROTATE THEM TIRES!” he would scream at insouciant pigeons in the early morning with petulant refuse dripping off of cloak. Some Boston fables said that he used to work at the Boston Tire Company and lost it when they took his Z rated patent from him. Now like an urban Lazarus, he found the most fragrant and odious piles to rise from, each day, like a putrid trash phoenix. “1995! The tires toll! Not for you, but for US ALL!” he called menacingly to a disintered hot dog vendor. How was a guy supposed to earn a living with a local Baron haunting the park smelling like burnt hair and indian food? A 17 year old boy looked on across the park and caught his penetrating gaze. Murkmire produced a piece of filthy California Roll and smiled a knowing grin. His lineage was secure in this lad, drawn from the mire in 1995, but the clinic would never admit such a thing.