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Jester King, Black Metal Imperial Stout, Austin, Texas Turning Out Something Besides Meth and Sunburned Hipsters

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I remember seeing people going all apeshit over this beer last year and whenever I looked at the reviews I was like “I can buy a Speedway stout, I am not paying Fedex to bring me this shit.” Anyway, a year older, year dumber, this finally got some limited distribution to the west coast, so my laziness and $12.99 got the best of me. WATCH WHAT HAPPENS.

Why is the blackest metal usually performed by people from the palest places in the world?

Jester King Black Metal Imperial Stout, 10.4% abv

FUN FACT: I wrote this entire review while listening to Hammerfall. If you aint know Hammerfall, you and Spotify need to have a chat.

A: The appearance is about as dead on as stouts can get. It has a fantastic depth and hateful depth to it that is as dark as a Norwegian winter and a jet black pallour of that goth kid no one bothered to talk to, now look at him, dot com millionaire. The lacing is non-existent but that foam looks like Banana Republic khakis, except there’s actually something dark inside, unlike that racist ass store.

This beer is a strange hybrid of greatness that is awesome in its own right.

S: There is a mild raisin, chocolate, light coffee, and a big sweetness that finishes with a fleeting acidity. I am not unstoked for this, but knowing there’s no bourbon magic dust in this, my stout arousal is around 6/10.

T: The taste delivers in a huge way about and beyond the nose of the beer. There’s a delicious coffee initial note that lays the groundwork for a baker’s chocolate 85% cocoa dryness that is just sweet enough to be fantastic. At the end the light woody and mild hop notes round out the palate. This is a solid non-BA offering and does a ton with the malts presented. The alcohol is smuggled in like prohibition Canadian whiskey. 7th graders could class it up and drink this while listening to KoRn and complain about how their middle-class parents don’t understand their middle class adolescent life, like if this stout could just get its own car it would totally be out of here, like now.

There's a deep childlike satisfaction that comes from this beer. No beards necessary.

M: The mouthfeel doesn’t go full on apeshit like Hunaphu’s but it hits a fantastic lingering coating and frothiness that lingers long after the sip, let’s call it 40 seconds and just go about our lives, jesus why does everything have to be a competition for this guy? The label says “It is best enjoyed while pumping out blast beats, summoning trolls, or enjoying a nice leisurely reading of the Necronomicon.” God damn, extra points for the awesome label and classy 750ml packaging. I came into this wanting to dislike this beer but left with ebony teeth and a nod of approval.

D: This is not exceptionally drinkable but is a great beer to share amongst friends. Not that I am some raging labia who can’t handle one, I can rock this all day long. Other mandolin players might not be able to handle the face melting 24th fret solos and wicked sick runs it sets forth. I could beer bong this no problem and still have room for spicy Thai, I try to write to the common 8th grade Newsweek audience. Writing beer reviews for 8th graders seems on point. Super cutty.

This isn't the child that I never had, but it feels familiar.

Narrative: Sarai bore the silent communion with God and nodded solemnly as her name was changed to Sarah, my princess. Her fallow belly was infused with a deep power to change the world and eventually she begot Isaac, which by all accounts was the beginning of power black death metal. In a roundabout way, the humble beginnings in the fertile crescent would have never foreseen that in a mere 6000 years beyond their legacy that Norwegian and Swedish youths would push the nature of dithyrambic dissonance to face melting power. The Ark of the Covenant possess a power to smite and destroy a man where he stood. Likewise, man built in the image of God sought to control this mixolydian speed and fire within their own fingertips and scales progressively were run faster, hammer on pull offs harder, screams higher. Finally, as the lost scrolls prophesied, a deep unworldly power was discovered: THE PINCH HARMONIC. When man discovered how to mute a struck harmonic, the screeching power of simple melodies hit black, evil levels. This dark art was furthered by low class Ibanez guitar owners until the black science was reduced into a fine art. This deep communion still takes place at forgotten realms within the midwest, wherein the metal bands have been banished to obscurity for their blistering, shredding ways of worship.

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Arcadia Bourbon Barrel Aged Shipwreck Porter, For When Your Life is a Total Shipwreck

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So you take a porter, completely rape the style and boost it to a staggering 12% abv and then put it in a bourbon barrel and the beer nerd kids get all half chub, then you add some wax to it and the beerection is so hard that a kitten’s claws couldn’t scratch it.

When this thing breaches your hull, you're going down.

Man, this beer was a huge pain in the ass to open. They went for the 6 coats of wax option and I sure worked up a hunger for 360 calories of beer after going through that shit. IRREGARDLESS, notwithstamping the formgoing, the beer-

Arcadia BA Shipwreck Porter, 12% abv, Baltic Porter

A: Ah imperial porters, always a hazy venn diagram for beer nerds to debate about Imperial Stouts and other very pressing style classification issues. This has a nice water inkiness that produces a night frothy mocha head, but I’ve definitely heard this one before, more specifically it is a porter through and through in body and spirit. It is candid in a “did the neighbors see us through the window” sort of fashion. Straight up porter blood, no B’s and C’s.

For some people, barrel aged porters complete them, these people need an ottervention.

S: The nose of this beer has a nice toffee and brown sugar note to it that reminds me of a honey ham glaze with a nice oaky finish. The chocolate dallies in like a fat kid in PE class, but eventually makes it there. Very nice smell to it and I sure wish I landed more than just one of these but, then again, I have enough to take down as is.

T: This has a fantastic initial sweetness like a butterscotch kiss from See’s Candy, a nice boozy heat to the middle, and then a gentle chocolate coffee finish as a nightcap to the sip. I am liking this style more and more ever since Hill Farmstead went and fucked my world up with Birth of Tragedy, but this is an amiable substitute. As a side note, I paired this with a tuna melt and the two parties could not be reconciled, it tasted like shit all the way through on both sides like a Family Law case. So, dont pair this with fish, is what I am saying, or maybe don’t get divorced, I GUESS.

Sometimes just a little barrel aging is all it takes to turn that liverfrown upside down.

M: The thing I love about Imperial Porters is that you know exactly what you are getting: a ton of flavor and very mild filling and coating on the interior surfaces. That’s a Home Depot joke for all the painting contractors. Moreover, this beer washes clean and after just 12oz you start feeling it and watching iCarly seems like an acceptable thing to do.

D: For the huge bourbon presence and sweetness, this beer still gets a high marking in drinkability for its versatility, small format, and sheer deliciousness index. I would recommend giving this to a sorority girl and shaking your head ruefully when her palate rejects it forthright. This is a gentleman’s drink, to be consumed on boat decks with passing ironic references to the title. Again, BA imperial porters aren’t all over the place so this is a great one to spread around.

Some people think imperial porters are a weak substitute for the real ultra kush imperial stouts. I see them as something altogether different.

Narrative: Devin Worthington threw his back out at work. Well, to be more specific, he was reaching for a Payday in the vending machine and torqued his C-2 vertebrae, but that’s splitting hairs. After the first two days of watching endless daytime dramas and Court TV he began on a new venture: shipbuilding, in bottles. At first glance, the old impossible bottle schtick seemed like something you’d see in a glass case next to a wooden wolf carving or perhaps a beanie baby collection in a finely appointed trailer. However, his new passion called for a tiny nautical lifestyle and he put a pot of Progresso clam chowder on the stove to celebrate this ambitious undertaking. The manuals set forth the traditional mast raising technique from inside the bottle, but fuck that, Devin wasn’t some land loving labia, he wanted the real deal: mini-long handed tools. The epoxy got all over the inside of the bottle and his expensive tools proved as useless as his disability checks. When he sobbed over breaking a tiny balsawood mast, he knew his life was the real shipwreck.

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Schlafly No. 20, Volume 4. Southern Hemisphere IPA or SN20V4SHIPA for Short.

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This is an anniversary IPA from those lunatics in the Lou, aka St. Louis in the M. O. This is maybe the second Schlafly beer that I have ever had and they have been creeping up and putting midwest numbers on my map. I have about 6 other Schlalfly beers in the cellar but hey, give my liver a break, haters.

Galaxy Hops and long acronyms. So dope.

SN20V4SHIPA – India Pale Ale, 7% abv

The name of this beer looks like a router code.

A: This beer looks fantastic just how an IPA should look, nice apple juice translucence and generous carbonation that whips up like lemon meringue and crackles away without prodigious ceremony. So far so good, and it is in a fancy 750ml bottle, so you know shit is about to get cracking.

when I first smelled this beer my face was all like this.

S: This beer “is kettle hopped and dry hopped with a unique hop from Tasmania, Galaxy.” If you haven’t tried this hop varietal yet, holy shit, it is second only to Citra as my favorite hop. It presents a nice herbal bouquet but a huge honeycomb and tangerine smell. If this beer was just smell and no palate, it would be a world class brew, the nose is seriously that good but I dont know how much of that should be credited to the galaxy hop.

T: Sadly the appearance and nose were the high note of this beer and the taste is not bad by any means but it went from two five stars to a 3.5 in the taste. It is still a great IPA but nothing like the A and S were getting me all half chub for. It would be like if Waka Flocka Flame jumped out the cut but then used Bahamen beats. You are stoked but then like ahhhh. Anyway, it has a mild honey and light juniper, some herbal aserose aspects, and then BOOM shit is over like the first Lord of the Rings movie and you’re all like “alright? I guess let’s just go back to my place.” She knew the popcorn had a false bottom.

After I tasted this beer, my hopes were dashed upon the rocks and I was all like-

M: No shocker here, the mouthfeel is crisp and light and imparts a frothy foam that washes away within 3 seconds and leave a mild pinecone flavor. I wish that Galaxy tasted as good as it smelled in this beer, and now the dead horse has been sufficiently beaten.

D: I have no idea what this costs but this is a fancy, damn good IPA. Assuming this is an $8.99 750ml, this could scrap with some bigger boys. I will list some single IPAs that this is far better than: Ranger, Torpedo, Golden Road, etc. It cannot touch the Sculpins, Blind Pigs, Hill Farmsteads of the world but it is still a great beer. HOW ELSE CAN I SAY THIS.

Regardless of the rampant comparisons, once you drink an entire 750ml of this, you president now.

Narrative: Jacob Michaelson woke up out of the coma in 2009. The world had changed so drastically since he was last conscious. Initially he sat up in his hospital bed and looked with strange deference to the thin laptop that looked nothing like the lap computers of 1995. He was equally dismayed to learn that not a single person ever listened to the Spin Doctors and his favorite group, SWV, was also the subject of derision. Jacob walked the streets looking for a payphone to use and was stymied to learn that even migrant workers had cell phones in this modern era. It was similar to a movie he once saw starring Brendan Fraser where he was a person who was from a separate time period and then had to adjust, wait, what was that movie? Blast from the Past? Encino Man? George of the Jungle? Dudley Do Right? No. CRASH. That was the movie Jacob was thinking of. It would take some time to stop relying on the screeching of modems but he quickly was apprized that people listened to those sounds recreationally and it was apparently called SKRILLEX.

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Oscar Blues Ten Fidy, for Those Times When just Ten Will Not Do

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So amongst that camp that doesn’t seek out crazy rare releases or attend long lines and crazy beer debuts, this is usually mentioned as their whipping boy and constantly brought to battle against the high level Materia from hardcore stout mages. Ultimately, it isn’t a fair fight, but let’s see how this non-BA big boy holds his weight.

Lock Ness Monstah want abotu TEEEEEEIIIN FIDDYYYY.

Oscar Blues Ten Fidy 10.5% abv Imperial Stout

This comes in a can, not sure if that jazzes you up. To finally address the issue, YES, you can age this in a can, for fucks sake can we not have any more threads about this? Fine. Let’s move on.

A: This has a pretty viscous appearance to it with nice coating and sticky mahogany carbonation. However, contrary to what most people think, this is not the most viscous used motor oilesque beer that I have ever seen. Rare, Parabola, Abyss, and particularly Hunapuhs are all thicker and exhibit better coating. That is not to say this beer isn’t as black as Satan’s magic, it is. It has tiny bubbles and isolated dots of lacing.

I dont want to get all 1% on everyone but this is widely available, solid, and enjoyable, but nothing too amazing. It majored in Sociology.

S: There is a bit of coffee and some black licorice. You can smell the roasted malts and a sort of burnt turbinado sugar. The bouquet is a bit flat and unremarkable, pretty standard for the genre and style.

T: It has a huge bitter chocolate sweetness at the outset that subsides into deep chocolate malts and finishes with a drying effect. This is a very solid offering especially for the non-barrel aged crowd that can be seen as so pedestrian. Everyone just shaking their heads, “tisking” to their heart’s desire, knowing that a baller version exists out there.

This beer is good but it is only good, I might kill a kitten to get some barrel aging up in this piece.

M: The mouth feel has a great stickiness that lingers for about 25 seconds after you swallow it. The mouthfeel is thick but not oppressively so. For the huge gravity and alcohol of this beer, it doesn’t come off as overly filling. I enjoy the interplay of sweet and very bitter elements.

D: Strangely, this is a very delicious and drinkable stout, despite its shortcomings in the aroma and taste aspects. This is not a session beer, but the cans make it very versatile and I can finally take a huge thick stout to the beach. All of my dreams finally come true, my tossing a Frisbee around care free, swishing in the tide with stained khaki teeth.

Oh, well I just opened an Imperial Stout, please, have a seat.

Narrative: It was a one stoplight town in rural Alabama, but it held a simple regal poise. Michael Davidson operated a simple confectionary bake shop with his beautiful wife. Also, the town dentist had intercourse with her just months before Michael met her. He often toiled with the idea of driving to North Haversberg to have his teeth cleaned, but that was clear 90 miles away and they didn’t accept his insurance. Each visit was a toil of patience and self-discipline for Michael, he flipped through the Highlights magazine hurriedly, nervously awaiting Jeffrey Nogales, DDS. The coy way Mr. Nogales removed his latex gloves couldn’t help but augur that hate deep in Michael’s heart to imagine the same latex condom, cast away from his life partner. “So, I see we have some enamel erosion here, TOO MANY SWEETS FROM YOUR SWEET EH MICH-” Michael bit down hard and clenched his bicuspids and stared Dr. Nogales in his eyes and knowingly nodded with a black hateful rage, casting his dental care away for a spiteful pride. Michael spit the tip of Dr. Nogales’s index finger into the rinse bowl and smiled a crimson smile and signed the COBRA paperwork accordingly.

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Bruery Filmishmish, Apricot Sour Blonde Ale Aged in Oak, Getting my Vitamin C the Pirate Way

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This is a Bruery Reserve Society exclusive, so the expectations are already high when you had to whore yourself out to Johns on craigslist to scrape together the sheckles for this expensive club, well here were are. It’s an apricot sour, what does that mean? It is an acceptable alternative to Jamba Juice, plain and simple.

The Bruery Filmishmish, for those times when you feel like getting your fill of some mishmish. Ba dum mishmish.

The Bruery, Filmishmish 5.8% abv, Apricot Sour

A: Well, cant fault them for this one, it is a huge bright radiant beer like Ithaca Brute, all radioactive and causing birth defects but in a TIGHT ASS SOUR WAY. It’s like cool high voltage power lines that cause birth defects but you can GRIND THEM. Anyway, not a lot of lacing and carbonation is a lackluster affair like a Diane Keaton movie but you are expecting other great things so you chill out. It is a murky golden radiance and my main squeeze was all like “THAT LOOKS GOOD” and she said that about Hill Farmstead Flora, so she has a serious EYE for beers, just not a tongue for them.

There's a certain debilitating aspect to this beer, but you put up with it for the warm regards and delicious effects.

S: There is a deep wet hay musk with some fresh yard clipping smells and then of course that harsh La Bamba acidity from hoduran tears mixed with Apricots. It’s a communion to pay exorbitant prices for sour beer and bow in solemn reverence for migrant fruit harvesters, except it is inherently insensitive and modern ethical theory has no ready panacea. The label says “tart and fruity with notes of oak and grandma’s homemade jam” but it doesn’t note that g’ma was from the antebellum southern Bolivia, that changes things real quick.

T: The taste is very tart and acidic like an unfocused energy drink, instead of melted skittles however you are treated to a drying peach/apricot dryness. It is no Fou Foune but it is still on point, you get the juice and the citrus pithy acrimonious schpeal, but it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It is a chill old girlfriend who you high five and watch a couple episodes of Cash Cab with and dont call again, but things are still chill. Also your ex-girlfriend is an apricot in this scenario, I hope that is cool.

This beer takes the time worn Fou Foune and Fantasia Model of sours and flips the script to GOD MODE JUICE LEVELS.

M: The mouthfeel is light and watery and then guess what, ACID CITY recent survey indicates your upper intestine is the only resident. The taxes imposed are severe thereto. It finishes with a huge acerbic finish that lingers without a drop of herbs, wood or oak, just straight up acid that somehow works. It’s like a first date where he backhandedly berates you the entire time but somehow balances it out with coy references to Faulkner so you’re down with it, ok, only me? Moving on.

D: This causes huge ulcers and a caustic destruction of the stomach lining, but that being said it is also delicious fruit goodness for people who might not know what an apricot looks like. So for those people, this might be a juice substitute, and more power to them. It has a huge overpowering acidity that you want to embrace but, like a Filipino baby, it is just to offputting that you cant engage it for long periods. You know what I am talking about Niko, yes, I am talking about you Niko.

It may not be what bitches are into, but, then again, far be it for me to speculate as to what bitches are into.

Narrative: Steven Acriberg was born an only child and learned quickly the petulant ropes of vying for the attention of others. It did not necessary need to be positive, just a cold glance in his direction or a suspecting glance down the brow from a neighbor: it made him feel whole. Steven would often sit on the opulent porch peeling peaches and crushing them in his fist and feeling the juices run into his hang nails and watch the neighbors closely. Every person near him was a calfskin tome of secrets and ideas to be reaped. He watched an unfamiliar Edsel chug down the fresh asphalt of his block and he scampered over and placed a note, crudely scrawled, on the windshield “I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.” It was oblique enough to raise suspicion but vague enough to make the general public avoid him. He was a dour, hateful little man, but he kept everyone lively and aware. His sour countenance came to the penultimate climax when his parents began having clandestine discussions with the locals, turning Steven’s game upon its head. At age 15 he slept with a Derringer under his pillow and fear for the sanctity of his acidic, bitter life.

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Boulevard Brewing Company, Rye on Rye, HOT STICKY RYE ON RYE ACTION, alcohol was involved.

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Initially I did not seek out the Boulevard lineup because I really didn’t know what they were exactly, I just knew that they were from the midwest, traded mid-range, and weren’t on the top 100. Oh how I have learned from my transgressions. Their brett saison was a mouthgasm and this is like huffing exhaust from a Maybach: classy and destructive.

Sometimes it feels like this should be a pay site with all this hot Rye on Rye action going on.

Boulevard Rye on Rye, 11% abv, Rye Beer

Bottle #1767 of 12148, LOSES POINTS FOR LACK OF ULTRA RARE.

Ok so they took an amazing Rye Beer and then put it into barrels of Templeton Rye whiskey and aged it until we got this raucous potation, ready to scrap with the best of Affliction t-shirts.

A: The appearance is a deep murky amber with ruby tones and a translucence that light passes changed like an aurora borealis. The carbonation is absurd and gets nimbus status real quick and takes 3 minutes to stratify into porous catacombs where the aromas go to die. Looks like bayou bubble bath for neglected children.

This beer feels classic, yes impure, like being beaten with a Dinoriders toy, but you secretly like it.

S: There is a waft of whiskey, mild heat, prunes, figs, toffee and melted brown sugar similar to bananas fosters. It’s like getting a hug from your postman, professional but not so seccretly alcoholic.

T: This is really impressive and unique. It straddles right between a big quad and a bourbon barrel barleywine but remains unique but imparting that characteristic crackly rye finish. It dries the gumline at first but imparts deep pitted fruits and deep peppery notes that would keep even the flattest, most uninspiring midwest states entertained. I think California would never make something like this, because the moment someone was close they would fall in love with a hipster chick or an earthquake would happen or a celebrity would walk by or they would get hit on the head with a book of cliches. The taste has a faint floral note but it is impressive in how distinct it is but shares the penumbra of tons of different styles. You could even tell someone this was an old ale with the waft of booziness and WOULDN’T THEY LOOK LIKE SHIT WHEN YOU REVEALED IT WAS A RYE BEER.

Whenever I trade for something, it is a gamble, the verdict is MOAR.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and light like spraying caramel binaca into your mouth. If you were born in the 90’s you probably dont know what Binaca, but trust me, it was so cash. It washes clean and imparts some drying effects with mild oakiness but I enjoy the complexity through and through. The booziness could be ratcheted back a bit, but then it is rye beer in a rye whiskey barrel so what was I expecting? Not some velvet smoothe experience, it tastes like a kiss from a University of Kentucky undergrad.

D: This is very boozy, hot, oaky, and reeks of acetone. It is also delicious. This ambivalence creates this push pull mechanism where you dont want to stop drinking but your palate and liver whisper silent pleas to stop the abuse. You can get a new liver, but trading for bottles of Rye on Rye is almost harder, I have PPO insurance SO I MIGHT AS WELL. Basically, its a bit prickly but worth the ride, like the end of Splash Mountain, except instead of singing bears, it is more like police sirens. Cutty.

It took me an entire bottle to decide how I feel about this and I can decidedly say: feelings. Rye feelings.

Narrative: Secale was always the snubbed cereal sister. She looked longingly through the window of the local department store and stared at the simple enzymes and pleasing chains of glucose and always looked at herself and thought “why me?” Every eligible substrate within the tri-ribosome county knew that she was prude and nearly impossible to postulate the “Lock and Key” hypothesis with, if we are speaking crudely. Rye held her head up high and Ms. Secale powered on. Perhaps it was a penchant for racism, as Secale was primarily found in Turkey, and her people stretched along the fertile crescent and the “pure” crops of corns and rice simply edged her out of all competition. Secale sobbed angrily into her long-leafed stalks and cursed her base heritage. Who would ever love a coarse grain like her? A gentle southern gentleman in an alabaster suit took her in his palm and caressed her intentions into a fanciful Pinnochio universe not unlike J. Worthington Foulfellow. Before she knew it, Secale was impressed to a life of hard alcoholism and then enslaved to a barrel. After years of hard fermentation she emerged a hateful shell of feminine herbal grace, her only desire, to burn and scorn the XY chromosomal order. Such is the hateful story of the Rye upon Rye, as true today as when it was written.

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Maine Beer Company, Lunch India Pale Ale, Tapping the Maine Vein

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Happy Valentines’ Day. I bet you were expecting some chocolate beer, or a beer made from flowers, or the tears of a brackish spinster. Too bad, curveball from out of nowhere, WORLD CLASS IPA. No variations on a theme or significance, OR IS THERE? I don’t know Flaubert, let’s see what you are capable of, dig deeper, the hops lie below. Total eclipse of the hop.

Try to forget all those hateful stereotypes about people from Maine and keep an open mind.

Maine Beer Company, Lunch IPA, 7% abv

Bottled 1/24/12, consumed on 2/13/12, HOW IS THAT FOR FRESHNESS, HATERS?

A: The look of this beer isn’t offputting but I dont want to put a ring on it either. it has great soapy carbonation and head like the Put Em on the Glass video, sudsy and inviting. The color is a bit low on the SRM and you know I want that HIGHER. All in all, not the prettiest beer but, your palate would probably be down, stop fronting.

Sometimes you are in the mood for something dark and serious, but then you change your mind, this beer is...yeah...this is much better....

S: This is one floral and amazing smelling beer, it has notes of orange juice, apricot, pineapple, and sweet mango. There is almost no herb or that stupid offputting basil smell from high alpha acid hops, its just knocking the boots all night long all up in my nose holes.

T: It isn’t as juicy or as sweet as I was anticipating but wow it has a fantastic crossover taste that lies somewhere between orange rind and aserose pine needles. It is interesting because the first taste is very muted, you almost dont get anything in the sweet zones until you move it to the back of your palate and then it opens up like a jack in the box. Hop cone trojan horse. The resistance put up by my tastebuds lies somewhere between soft linen and balsa wood. I guess the question arises: Is it better than Blind Pig? It is more aggressive and muted in execution but in terms of sessionability, no.

This is an incredible IPA, srsly. SRSLY.

M: The mouthfeel is watery and clean, the soapy bubbles do all the work for you. The mild hop oils linger for a little bit but are swiftly swept up by dutiful conifer groundskeepers, I bet you just imagined the pine trees with moustaches you racist. I guess the next question is, is this as good as Sculpin? I wish I could be a hype machine and say yes due to rarity, however, this is one instance where I think pound for pound Sculpin is A BIGGER FISH. Simple puns, we are doing them now. This has a longer lingering taste but Sculpin has a great juiciness that I appreciate more. This is certainly more drinkable, however, I feel the juiciness of Sculpin carries the day. Don’t even bring Alpine into this mix, shit will go off the hinges chains and heezy real quickly.

D: This is exceptionally drinkable and you dont need a lot of it, not due to ABV, but to to the simple palate to weight ratio. For such a gentle soul it just hit a resonant chord, A minor I believe, and just rides the pine and herbs out. The citrus minor has a mixolydian backseat role but this is still exceptional. It’s like making out with a really hot girl that has a permanent retainer, there’s aspects you would change, but it’s still enjoyable through and through.

There are certain things that the South is capable of, making incredible IPAs does not seem to fall within that suite of skills.

Narrative: Shel Vintius was not your average graveyard keeper. Well first and foremost, he called his plot an Herbortician Field. This was a rarely used, but niche service in contemporary society. You see, Shel was beat savagely with weeping willow switches as a child and developed an odd communion with the flora. The stinging bark was a panacea for his painful reality. “Oh yeah, just toss the saplings taproots bottom forward in the ebony case.” The affluent patrons sobbed demonstratively as Shel prepared the funeral for the plants. So much of love is predicated on cognition. So much of the human condition is invested in reciprocation and the semblance of a bilateral affection. Plants were not capable of this but Shel didn’t allow that to sway his opinion. He stroked the cold bark of the still living birch sapling and brushed his knuckles against the backs of the budding roots. He could still feel the beat of turgot pressure within the cell walls. “Gone too soon, hardly able to produce meiological pollen preparation, so chilling.” The family stood awkwardly watching this scene take place, the sign “Plant Recycling Plant Recycling Plant” was both misleading, and incredibly clear.

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Upland Brewing Gilgamesh Flanders Red Sour, Mesopotamian Hot Shit

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This beer had a 2000 bottle run all the way out in Indiana, so I hit up my homie Cam on his two-way and then found out no one has two way pagers, so I chirped his Nextel, and, you see where this is going, antiquated technology jokes and shit. Anyway, he picked these up and shipped them to me so we can get chocolate wasted. That shit cray.

Upland Brewing, Gilgamesh 10.5% abv sour Flanders Red Ale

If you think I will drop some Spencer references or pander to some cliche Enkidu punchlines you can fuck right off.

A: The appearance has a ruddy brownish amber aspect to it with fine microbubbles and generous lacing. It looks like a murky pond water that you know has some single mom bodies hidden in it but, who’s gonna get in there, you know. Oh and it is mildly flirty, you get this beer’s number but you know she wont text you back.

Keep talking shit on sour beers. See what happens.

S: The smell has a sweet vinegar smell to it with cherry, ripe strawberry, mild oak and a faint vanilla. Very pleasant like an aromatic candle from bath and body works.

T: The sweetness initially sets in with a great cherry and grenadine flavor and the sour notes are not too overpowering, it maintains an incredible balance. There is a light note of tannins and grape skin and the bourbon is almost non-existent.

Some people drop feelings all like, why you review rare sours and shit, of 99 problems, that is not one.

M: The mouthfeel is crisp and incredibly light and is exceptionally refreshing. I had to look this beast up and it is unbelievable at a crisp 10.5% abv. Holy hell this is so delicious and it tastes like biting into a ripe fuji apple. Amazing fruit character and the bourbon dryness imparts itself when it warms. Shit gets popping off like a Lil B video real quick.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and absolutely frightening how drinkable this is. If you told me it was a 5% lambic I would be all like “that’s chill, you gonna finish those fries?” and we’d mash out on food and secretly get wasted on this baller ass beer. It just washes away clean and doesn’t impart an overly overpowering alcoholic waft or dryness. In sum, this is about as good as Flanders Reds get in my opinion. The sweetness just beckons like a Wonka factory and then you get inside and OH SHIT, it’s a distillery instead. Surprises abound.

I didn't expect much from this brew and then my face was all like-

Narrative: The life of an ice sculptor was a hard one and Michael Chambers accepted his fate with a stern mandible. The variability and volitility of the the raw material presented a dynamic canvas that knew the scope and change only held by a street artist. The goal of art is to make man like God within the ambit of creation, and Michael carved the fuck out of ice. Sometimes he would straddle that block with a pick and get to flexing on the shavings, ruminating on how his life had come to this point. “Jay Z often referenced the fact that there were no clouds within his stones, well, you wont see oxidation impurities in my stones either!” Michael quipped to the ice woman he had carved in his walk-in sub zero studio. Not a single nip was left flaccid at his gallery opening, temperature or otherwise. His recreation of Rodan’s thinker was deemed insubstantial unlit HE LIT THAT SHIT ON FIRE. He was an underappreciated genius who took a mediocre genre to new heights. His installation piece involved dropping a solid ice block off of a North Dakota mountain, just when the critics had dismissed his efforts, in the center of the block was a frozen cure for tuberculosis. Mystical at heart, but fantastic in execution, Michael generated icegasms.

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Kuhnhenn Bourbon Barrel Barley Wine, Michigan Doesn’t Mess Around With Cold Winters, 15.1% abv

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This beer has a huge following from all of those crazy barleywine kids that always get jazzed about anything that gets tossed in a top notch bourbon barrel. PSH. Actually the venn diagram of my life is subsumed by a good penumbra of that diagram, for those visually inclined. I LIKE THIS STYLE. I hope I like this too, seems pretty legit.

Don't adjust your monitor, this beer is flatter than the plot arch in an M. Night Shamylan movie. The twist is you wake up with no credit card.

Kuhnhenn Bourbon Barrel Barley Wine, Barleywine 15.1% abv, 2010 vintage

A: It looks like iced tea. That’s it. Like it seriously looks like the free drink you get at the Old Spaghetti Factory. The lacing is nominal like a hug from a stripper after cash has changed hands. It sits there tepid and sad, wondering where its mother barleywine is, longing for the warm comfort of the barrel it loved. No lacing, not jack shit.

When you fuck with the barley, you get the wine.

S: Oh well, shit. All the hating I just did comes full circle immediately after smelling this. It is brown sugar, sweet macaroon, toffee, mild clove, maple syrup and fresh waffle. It smells incredible. It is like a decadent alcoholic dessert to take in. The lackluster appearance is a complete wash at this point. Just amazing.

T: It doesn’t go as sweet as the nose would suggest and hits initially with a warming flat metallic note that quickly changes its tune into a candy bitterness like a caramel coated leaf and then warms gently into a bourbon den of iniquity. After the first few sips, it becomes apparent that this is meant to be shared, even in a 12oz format. At the end there’s a huge oakiness like that woody finish that I hate from Hair of the Dog and encountered with the 4th Dimentia. It is definitely an intentional stylistic decision and I just dont think that I am on board.

This beer reminds me of something old, angry, irascible, and hateful.

M: This has a mild slick watery coating that marches through and burns shit like General Sherman. Railroad rails are tied around trees. Nothing is spared and your antebellum palate is destroyed toe to tip. It reminds me of in Civilization where you could develop a single unit to completely leevel the entire Babylonian civilization, this is that little beer that is a nuke underneath.

D: Well, read that last paragraph and ask yourself if you would be down to put up with that. I am letting it warm and the bitter beginning with the fireball finish makes this a clip cloppy recalcitrant colt that will not be tamed. I tug at the malty horsebit but it will not be broken, this alcholic beast is a dominator.

After just 12oz of this you wont know what exactly happened, but you might like it that way.

Narrative: Jayden ground his teeth and surveyed the recess playground. “Pussies, each and every one of them, part and parcel” he noted to Jeffrey who was busy counting the Lunchables spoils. Jayden was an anomaly lab child created by a hopeful lesbian love union, the results were not as desired. Jayden grew uninhibited without the constraints of a plcental wall and was a statuesque 5′ tall at age 9 and had the cerebral capacity of a zygote fed pure synthetic nutrition. They had developed the super bully. Having two mothers fed his insecurities and his rage. It wasn’t so much the teasing from the other children, for they regarded him as a stoic golem, not to be pestered. He was upset with the draconian North Dakota laws, which forbade domestic partnerships. Bullying was his craft and vent. “OH OH OH, hey, Golding, come here one more time, your Yu Gi Oh deck, is fucking mine.” It was a troublesome existence, but he financed a civil rights group with his hateful conduct. It was the irony of a filthy hand washing a calloused hand. He flipped a salami piece into his gullet and ground it with his new permanent teeth. “Hunter is a complete fag” he quipped without the mildest sense of irony.

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Churchill’s Finest Hour Imperial Stout, Good Old Winston Churchill Beer, Solid Old Lion

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In honor of a certain beer release, I thought I would review this old gem, one of what, 200 bottles released? This is a gem that I was lucky enough to try and I thought I would roll out my 2011 impressions before the brand spanking new recruits land.

One of the only British people to ever live to have not only no overbite, but an underbite.

Churchill’s Finest Hour, Imperial Stout 11% abv

A: As to be expected, this beer has an oily thick blackness like the trails of a frightened squid. It sticks to the glass and drags its fingers wantingly to the depths below. Also coffee brown head with nice lacing, but mostly poltergeists and petulant ghouls are left wanting.

This beer was all strong, thick and dark. Picture unrelated.

S: There is a great deep dark fruit coming from the wafts. It feels like high brow huffing to inhale this beer. There are licorice notes and some burnt chocolate. It’s like someone burned down the Chocolate factory only to replace it with a distillery.

T: There is a nice thick “black” caramel taste, were that even to exist. It follows with a fully presentable chocolate palate that dominates the palate with minor bits of mocha and toasted almond burning through on the tail end.

I will give you a hint for what type of people don't enjoy or get to drink this beer. Picture very related.

M: This coats very well but, it feels like it is fighting in a league where it is simply out classed. The stickiness is nice but the flavors aren’t so impressive as to warrant searching high and low for this beast. I feel that rarity has boosted the curb appeal of this old chestnut. It seems like after 2 weeks of summer camp, when anything shy of a size 12 gets a second look from angst ridden adolescents.

D: Sadly, this beer does not perform well in this category either. The bourbon notes impart a dryness that makes it totally inapplicable for all of my Integra modification days in the hot sun. It also makes it unworthy of chilly times fixing my lift kit on my truck simply due to its unavailability. There is simply much cigar gnashing and grinding of top hats in the acquisition and execution of this old lion.

Yeah, that's how we roll, sipping on rare stouts. Call the fucking police, see what they have to say about that shit.

Narrative: He stared fatefully out the window of the palatial estate. The sky lit up with rosy fingers of dawn and the trails of fire bombing from the night before. His cigar embers seemed to fall with the same careless regard that had afflicted all of those around him, a man, reduced to the headstone of a nation. “WILLIAM FOR FUCKS SAKE ARE YOU EVEN ON YOUR BREAK?” He snapped back to reality, the year is 2134 and in this advanced time, William Zerkov is an accomplished actor living in the pre-modern equivalent of a “frontier village.” It was his charge to play the role of, well, that would seem to belabor the point. “AND BEFORE THE NEXT SECREENING WILL YOU AT LEAST GET ANOTHER CIGAR, COME ON NOW WILLIAM!” He clenched his proud jowls, for no one could portray a pre-post historical figure not unlike him.