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Westvleteren 8, The Baby Brother of the Best Beer in the World, AND THAT’S PRETTY OKAY.

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The baby borther of big bad Westy 12, the #1 (or 2?) ranked beer in the world, this lil guy still pulls his weight. AND IT IS ALSO A TOP 100 BEER.

Westy 8 All up in the mix, looking bashful with a modest ass bottle.

Westy 8, 8% abv, dubbel

A: Murky muddy brown with hazy golden notes at the edges, epic, epic carbonation, the head is relentless and lingers all the way down. It reminds me of those plants in Ursulas cave that taunt Arie- what? Nothing. I didn’t just reference the Little Mermaid, what were you talking about? God damnit, this is the second time that I have used that reference, highly dishonorable.

This beer was disturbingly difficult to land initially and was scary good. I wish there was a prolific Maine-based writer to document this horror story.

S: There’s very clean crisp esters that open up the nasal passage and impart this dryness with some sugars similar to a deep saison. It’s like the febreeze for an apothecary. Nice bit of herbal notes but a clarifying agent scours throughout.

T: It is overridingly gentle. The initial flavor doesn’t present itself overtly, it dapperly slides in and announces its presence with a mild plum note and then lovingly escorts your palate to the raisin notes. As a parting gift, your mouth is delivered a superb hop performance by the hop equivalent of Sidney Portier. The entire experience feels like I have been taught a soft lesson in Dubbels.

In the realm of successful dubbels, this Westy 8 delivers so hard.

M: It is incredibly light, at least I think so. It feels like I learned a lesson that I can’t quite place. The mouthfeel is so silky and smoothe it feels like I just bought a timeshare in Juarez and cant remember even listening to a sales pitch. The glass just empties itself hand over sip. That was a pun there, see how I did that? Ultimately, thin, somehow refreshing and not the candy overload that I was expecting.

D: I don’t understand how they did this. Seriously. I want to blame the water recipe or monks or. . .something. . .but my glass has emptied itself incredibly fast. It doesn’t make any sense. When it warms up, it is even more deadly. Thank god they don’t sell this in America. If the USA ever got this recipe it would be like if old slug worth got a hold of the plans for fizzy lifting drinks. Then we would all be regimented to cleaning the ceilings. Respectively.

Only people of the most discriminating taste and regal poise enjoy this beverage. Picture unrelated.

Narrative: Tuesday was pruning day, that afternoon, preserves and jams, later that evening, hypnotherapy for the residents. It was not an ideal job at the outset, running a bed and breakfast and all. However, after Father Methulsela gained his footing, he was the most gentle and skilled B&B operator in the Pacific Northwest. “The sheets? They smelled of lavender. We never saw him but there were fresh pastries almost every time we left the home. I swear he made that fig marmalade himself.” “Yeah honey, now that you mention it, I don’t remember ever seeing that crafty caretaker, God was he subtle.” The couple looked right and their cups were bussed, replaced with confectionaries and doilies. “See? Look at that, totally unnecessary and polite. It’s pleasant to the point of being, strange.” As he finished that sentence, his Honda CRV has just completed a transmission flush and radiator core recharge, free of charge. “SEE! SEE!”

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Péché Mortel (Imperial Stout Au Cafe), Stout Imperialism at Its Finest

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Alright time for some good old fashioned stout abuse, another top 100 beer, and more ways to write “this has a coffee taste” in fun and inventive ways.

Peche Mortel, Total Immortel.

Peche mortel, Brassiere, Imperial Stout 9.5% abv

A: The appearance has deep dark hues with no transparency, just a hateful oily darkness that abuses like a NASCAR loving husband. However, the coating relents a bit and there’s frothy mocha lacing that adheres to the glass longingly. Give up lacing, it is time to move on.

Satanic Cups of Coffee

S: There is a huge coffee aroma and burnt smoky notes preside with a bit of chocolate; it is clear that coffee is the main event here, and additional complexity is overwhelmed in this discussion. Not a word in from sweetness, edgewise or otherwise.

T: The nice bit of cocoa on the front is quickly chloroformed and dragged away by the coffee censors. There is a huge dryness from the hops and coffee overpower the sweet notes. This beer could use a bit more maltiness but it helps to keep the crispness of the coffee forward. I guess if you had a kick ass office, a negligent boss, or a drunk supervisor, this could pass as a morning beverage. DONT FORGET TO READ THE OSHA POSTERS.

This beer is a little too sweet, makes me question its intentions.

M: Again, the coffee and roasted notes just overwhelm and it makes it a bit of a one trick pony. Sadly you want more complexity, but what is there, is done fairly well, like a Gallagher comedy show. Except less racist.

D: Sadly, there’s just too much drying and acidity from the coffee notes to make this any form of a session beer. It has its place for three months of the year as a classy respite, but beyond that, it’s tough to really give it a direct nod of approval. This can be the ski lodge wench with fair skin that burns easily. The pale barista that serves you on a daily basis, provided the day is blustery and depressing as a gulag. That kind of barista.

It's like a childhood pleasure with a strange twist.

Narrative: She is wearing the green apron with the six pieces of flair again, it must be Thursday. Don’t look, damnit, you always look at her directly in the eyes before you are even to the register, idiot. Just examine the unhealthy, overpriced baked goods. Nice, now she’s not on to your schemes. Don’t order the same thing like you always do idiot. Naked Juice? No, she will think you are a pervert. Right, strike up a conversation about that captain entendre. Could you have put on a nicer shirt to go out to a café? You know she only comes home from school for winter session and this is the only time you have to see her each year. This year Reggie, this is your season, you will woo “What can I get you?” oh, think think, stack adjectives, describe something, she’s looking! “A frap, drip, uh vanilla soy…” “Latte?” “Yeah. That’s chill” “You want it chilled?” “No, I meant uh like, the adjective phrase, I mean, hot I want a hot latte.” Well, could that have gone any worse you idiot? “Adjective phrase?” why not just go slam your dick in a car door. Her breath smelled of redolent fresh coffee grounds and her eyes sparkled a deep mocha. Now it is all ruined. That is, until next winter session, when she returns, for your grasp. “What size?” “Oh uh, grasp, I mean, holdable, uh Vent…venti” Nevermind, you wont be grasping anything but coffee you needledick.

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Minnesota Town Hall Masala Mama IPA, Mama Beats Me With Hops.

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Masala Mama was an abusive mother. Also, she lived in a shoe.

Masala Mama, Minnesota Town Hall, IPA, 5.9%

A: This has a great amber to dark yellow character to it, almost making it appear like a pale ale at first. There is great carbonation despite a 5 day old growler. The lacing is relentless and obfuscates the rim of the glass.

I know this is on draft only, let's all calm down. I have this under control.

S: There are nice honey notes and a pleasant grassiness to it. It has a noteworthy, welcoming malty body to it for a beer this low in ABV. Overall, very inviting and floral.

T: There is some light sweetness at the outset with nice use of caramel notes that subsides into mild drying and slight orange peel finish. The taste comes and goes incredibly quickly and you hardly have time to contemplate it before it is gone. There is a slight juniper taste that finishes with an awesome crispness. It offers huge hops and low abv that assaults your conscience after you finish 64oz to yourself, AND IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN. Come on now.

I would like to try and joke about this amazing beer, but I can't just grin and beer it.

M: The carbonation on this is great and makes up for the strange maltiness of the beer. It certainly puts on airs and presents itself as a big boy when deep down it has ABV envy. Nice sweetness that lingers for just a bit and then demands to be tasted again.

D: Just incredibly drinkable from start to finish. This isn’t quite on the Live Oak level, but it still is a stunner in many aspects. You could give this beer to anyone and the hops are happily married to the caramel stickiness, so even diabetic PJ, the kid with the lazy eye, even he would enjoy this beer. I wish that this beer wasn’t so far away. I feel like a prison convict longing for it and another sweet conjugal visit, in my mouth. Wait, that didn’t sound-

Some pundits argue that this beer isn't worth the hype, to them, please see the above ironclad argument.

Narrative: “And according to the most recent census, you have…7 children…is that correct?” “Mmm yais.” the mucky little creatures ran to and fro within the 2 bedroom apartment. The ashtrays were in abundance and overflowing, pets seemed to maintain tenancy in common with the owners, and maintained the home with equal diligence. “And you…you don’t have any of them go to school?” “Eh…no….nooo….” Mother Masalita looked left and right longing for some sort of respite from the relentless questioning of the children services officer. “Wait now, what’s this here?” he pushed a panel on a dilapidated bookcase which revealed a room of radiant light and floral aromas. “Ohh, an indoor cannabis crop?” “eh no…es a secret room…secret.” he entered the tiny room and ducked covering his eyes to the shimmering light. The entire antechamber smelled of bluebell and fresh pastries, there were baking goods and an incredible garden. What appeared to be a negligent household defied all expectations. It was a complex front for a completely calming, loving place that embraced entrants like a warm blanket fresh from the dryer. “Well…that…that will be all I guess,” he clicked his pen and picked a rhododendron from one of the pots on his way out. Mama Masalita was one hell of an indoor botanist.

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Surly Furious IPA, THIS BEER MAKES ME SO MAD RIGHT NOW SRSLY GUIZE.

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THIS BEER MAKES ME FEEL CONTENT AND NOT FURIOUS ARGGHH FALSE ADVERTISSIONSDGOINDSGOIN-

Surly Furious

A: Orange radiance that calls more to a DIPA the way that the carbonation sloshes all over the sides like it owns the place. Nice big bubbles that dissipate fairly quickly.

S: There’s a huge pineapple citrus bouquet to this that doesn’t bring along the irksome herbal/pine qualities that some single IPAs try and push on you. I enjoyed the traditional grapefruit notes but there’s also this little sneaky pete of toffee that pokes its head in there for a moment as well. I wish he would stay but apparently, non-citrus notes are not invited to hang out.

Surly Furious here to save the day.

T: The first taste is a bit thin with a huge orangey orange to it, it subsides to a gentle bitterness and washes away clean and fast. There is no real lingering aftertaste, just a one two combo and a ninja roll out the side door leaving orange rind in the entry way. Luckily the inexpensive 16oz cans don’t leave you high and dry, you are sufficiently low and…uh…wet. I GUESS!

M: Again, this is not exceptionally thick or chewy and it is even thinner than many hef’s and lower ABV beers. It is interesting in how completely lopsided that the beer is with a huge flavor and relatively low ABV and mouthfeel. If this were an army man, it would be the dude who carries the metal detector. Not because it is a raging vagina, it just serves a niche purpose, and an awesome one at that.

Single IPAs can get you double twisted.

D: This is incredibly drinkable top to bottom. Well, it’s the same all the way through but you know what I am trying to…it’s…you can drink it ok? This is similar to the Masala Mama category where they need to up the serving sizes if for nothing else but my own self esteem. I could kill a 4 pack of this without reproach and glance menacingly around the room for someone to say something. Take a sip and if your glass isn’t empty in a forthright fashion, you are doing this beer wrong.

Single IPA, for this cheap, that is this good. Confus.

Narrative: “Professor Mailer, the subjects aren’t responding to the medication, hell, even the control groups are becoming more enraged,” the lab technician pleaded while gesturing towards graphs which can only be sure to contain sciences. “MONITOR THEIR FURY, it is the fury I seek, not the intermediate results.” Professor Mailer boomed as he slammed his protractor on the desk, sending science all over the place. The lab technicians poked in on the control group playing the Dam Level of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles for Nintendo and noted that the furious levels were through the roof. Next they monitored someone on hold with the DMV, the fury again was unparalleled. “Sir? According to these calculations, the furiousness of each group, even the control group has actually increased. Sir?” Professor Mailer insouciantly spun some sciences on his desk, in a sciencey fashion. “And the literature camp?” he impugned, “well sir, without even taking the medication, the group forced to read Mrs. Dalloway was, well, very, very, pissed.” “Excellent, proceed to phase two, up the dosage and administer Superman 64 to each group” he commanded with a refined poise.

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Maine Beer Company, Mean Old Tom, Uncle Thomas Was A Grouchy Jerk

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As you guys may know, Maine Beer Company has exceeded its allotment of fucking around and seems to have none to spare as of late. Zoe, Peeper, and Lunch rocked faces and now we take this new offering out for a spin. A weak vanilla stout to see if it has the legs to honor its environmental cause.

Mean Old Tom, Meanest Tom in the Whole Damn Tom, Meaner than a Junkyard Tom

Maine Beer Company, Mean Old Tom Stout, 6.5% abv

A: this has a distinct single stout look to it, a stripped down badass Lotus Elise sort of panache that makes you long for more horsepower, but secretly you’re confident you wont need it. It’s black, but not overpowering, like Don Cheadle, oh shit toeing the line with that simile. Nice white foam that generously cascades from the bottle conditioning. Also they donate 1% of all proceeds to a series of noble charities so I feel kinda like a dick sitting here and drinking this and not doing more but, donaters gonna donate.

Not a massive stout, but you appreciate the little charge it provides, attraction even.

S: The smell has a mild Peet’s coffee feel to it, but with a nice sticky vanilla aftersweetness to it. This could teach Urca’s vanilla trainwreck a thing or two about balance. It is gentle and reminds me of the old days, when Stouts were mild and gentle and not 15% anal rampagers and you didn’t have to eat an entire loaf of hawaiian rolls to prepare to taste them. Thems the days.

T: This beer is a gentle coffee pixie with a nice light touch of vanilla. The entire execution is in line with the whole Maine Beer Company profile wherein the beer is amazing but its like the hot girl in overalls with the ponytail. You know its amazing and beautiful, you’ve just been conditioned improperly. You feel me?

I want to go back in time and have this beer again, but, I am pretty sure my safety would not be assured.

M: It is thin and watery but not in a bad way. This is likely exactly how this beer should taste and I respect it for it. I can drink several and that’s an amazing quality. I think drinking a bunch of huge imperial stouts has made me a sad panda and now I have to pick up the piece. Jeez louise.

D: This is a normal stout, non imperial, non barrel aged and, whenever I have one of these beers these days it is like someone played a trick on me. I dont know where the rest of the beer went and, as a result of my own gluttony, this is incredible and I killed it fast, like it straight up owed me money. You know how it goes, drink a normal stout once, shame on me, etc.

I got this as an extra, I want more, but I feel like I am being ridiculed for my desires. This makes me self-conscious. Sheesh.

Narrative: Tom knew there was more than just this sticky old vanilla bean refinery. He has dreams, aspirations. He didn’t just want to be that asshole uncle to his bratty brother’s kids. But hey, that’s how they saw poor Tom. He thought Oracle stock was a solid gift for an 11 year old girl’s birthday party. That was just the composition of his character. The children disliked his creaky old apartment with the plastic wrapped furniture, but, those children have to learn the value of thrift. It arguably wasn’t his place to strike children that were not his own, but they had to learn not to overcook Pizza Pockets and it surely would not be at the expense of his new microwave. Maribel hated coupon cutting while Tom babysat them but, as they deftly learned, every day was certainly not Disneyland, despite expectations of same. The crimson asscheeks of relatives distanced them from Mean Old Tom, but, someday, a strange woman with incredibly low self esteem would put up with his behavior and help him assemble a model train town worthy of great distinction.

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New England Brewing Company Gandhi-bot Double IPA, Civilly Disobediently Disliking this DIPA.

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This gives complications to stoicism and fasting. I HOPE THE DOCILE TERMINATORS WIN.

This is a beer that gets a lot of hype from east coast kids. They savor the opportunity to hang their hat on a double IPA. Here we go-

New England Brewing Company Gandhi-Bot Double IPA 8.8% abv

A: It has a radiantly golden hue with a ridiculous amount of carbonation and thick white foam. It has crazy amount of lacing like soap scum, but in a cool ass way. It’s pretty sticky and glaring at the same time. It reminds me of a 14k pliny the elder, pliny the middleaged.

The feel of this beer is refreshing and familiar, completely unlike God's punchline pictured above.

S: Again, this is suspiciously Pliny in execution. The entire nose is that precariously pine and orange zest. I feel like I have seen this movie before like when I saw No Strings Attached and, that other movie, what is it, Birth of a Nation, back to back.

T: This is definitely the Honda to Pliny’s Acura. It has that same feel, with less maltiness. It has those same orange and grapefruit hops, but just ratcheted back. Everything is just muted a little bit, more water, more pine, it feels like they took this in a Lysol direction. It is still an exceptional offering but you almost have to be an asshole in a category this contested. For those of you keeping track, the top 5 DIPAs that you absolutely must try are: Ephraim, Citra, Heady Topper, Pliny, and Abner. This is not within those ranks. It is still good, but a good ipa a great ipa does not make.

I would like to speak to the original brewer of this recipe. That's what I thought.

M: this has some crystal and 2 row, simple hat tricks for the genre but lacks that punch and radical wow factor. It lays a little low in the mouthfeel and kinda opts for a gentle coating and simple hop profile that is still exemplary but feels like the Monkees to the Beat-ok ok ok ok enough sappy metaphors.

D: This is awesomely drinkable and outshines Pliny in this regard. It has a thinner profile and I want to hang out with it more. It seems like it listens to my stories more intently without butting in. Ultimately, I dislike this beer for the same reason that I don’t respect Chrysler. You can make your own shit, dont jock another brand. Katt Williams said it best “Yeah you think it looks like a Phantom, until a real Phantom pulls up.” And when I pull up Ephraim to this DIPA, the game just changes.

This beer kills normal Double IPAs but remains untested in the main tournament.

Narrative:

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Hill Farmstead The Birth of Tragedy, Apollonian vs Dionysian and Everyone getting Twisted

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Thus Spoke Aleathurstra

Ok so what’s the deal with this asshole? Well it’s the imperial version of an already badass porter, Twilight of the Idols. It is named after a Nietzsche work, it has bourbon, coffee, and a nice alcoholic heat to it. It’s like they read my diary.

Hill Farmstead Birth of Tragedy, 11% abv, Imperial Porter aged in bourbon barrels

A: The appearance has that classic imperial porter sheen to it, like the coat of an alcoholic panda bear. Black and slick in all the right places, it beckons to slippery asphalt and car crashes that New Englanders no doubt survived in obtaining this succulent potation. As a side note, my bottle had hardly any cabronation, wah wah, here comes the wahhhmbulance ready to pick some nits.

Ok ok, bourbon barrel aged porter, let's settle down.

S: This has a crazy powerful bouquet that smells like melted chocolate, toffee, boozy vanilla extract, and a mild hint of bourbon heat. There is a sweetness that is perfectly balanced by mild alcoholic heat, just like your old bus driver.

T: This is an incredible porter and I know that I ride this brewery’s jock like its jock will soon be discontinued, but it’s really that good. Top 5 porter and guess what, one of the other spots is held by, that’s right Barrel Aged Everett. I can’t get over this brewery, like the haughty 14 year old girl, who just wont accept that her 22 year old boyfriend wasn’t really in love with her. Ok so, it has a nice sweetness that enters and has a set allowing the alcohol waft to permeate and suddenly you forget that you are at a drive in, then a mild coffee pick me up before the bourbon mellows it all out. Just ridiculously pleasant, koala foot massage pleasant.

Just. Want. More Sick Porters.

M: It is thin, like a porter should be, no fat ass imperial stouts up in this mix. It is just light and coats just enough to be rewarding but then hammers its point home. The alcohol is like a stage director in all black watching every movement, making sure that the pilgrim chocolate kids dont miss their entry cues. Holy mixed metaphors.

D: This is incredibly drinkable, I am trying to tame myself from powering through the entire 500ml bottle with little success. It is thin, hot, and sweet, oh wait here’s a patently obvious female entendre. Nope, keeping it classy here. It is totally drinkable and I wish it came in sick sixers or at least tall boys to take up to the lake. PSYCHE. This beer is meant for hearths and post skiing discussions, luge comparisons and other highbrow Vermontean prose.

Do want more.

Narrative: “Existing within the framework entitles you to undeserved, awkward sexual interactions. That is the nature of a collegiate degree” the professor boomed to the teeming auditorium. His teaching methods were unorthodox but shattered the line between biology, psychology, and will to power. “You see, this is the only time that your biological willing will be in comport with the acquiescence with your biological counterpart.” Several students shifted in their chairs and looked left and right, largely Asians and Latter Day Saints. “The supple and demean curve hits its apex at precisely 20 years of age. It is at that age that alcohol enters a golden period of divine inspiration of inhibition where each person may assert the fulfillment of the Dionysian condition while still feeling confident in the missteps guided by the Apollonian age. You will have sex, it will be terrible, but it will be compulsory.” A scandinavian girl had seen enough and left promptly. “You see, all of dark willing is urging, and that is controlled ultimately by a tempering of the passions, and 20 years old is the exact age when both sides meet in a murky confrontation of rationalized bad decisions. It is in this moment that you will be the most alive, the most willing, and consequently the most powerful. You will never receive as much affection, as easily, as everlastingly as this year of your life my college juniors.” The student body began to look left and right with much trepidation and embarrassment. As much as his homework made little sense, the handjobs were rough and undeserved, the kisses pounding and syncopated. It would take the purchase of a Dodge Challenger and countless dates to recapture the ethos that was ejaculated into the air of that auditorium that day. “Only then, will you all become ubermensch. Now, go make out.” Class dismissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Coastal Fog Brewing India Pale Ale, The Bay Area Rolls out something more lackluster than Silicon Valley children.

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Coastal Fog usually tastes like Parliaments and salt, now it tastes like escort spit.

Ok so, this is the lowest rated IPA in the beer community and is (in)famous for being the only IPA in the worst 50 beers category. Today I wrangle this gentle flower and get its pistil and stamen all up in my face.

Coastal Fog India Pale Ale, 5.2% ABV

A: The appearance is nothing too offensive, but also nothing exceptionally wrong either. It has a muted copper and penny look to it like oh, I dont know, an ESB. Does that make you happy? You want labels. FINE. There’s your label, translucent lake water, now go find it in Behr and do you child’s nursery in it. Also, the lacing and carbonation is great, its like the lake after a sick Eliminator goes through straight up eliminating.

Worst IPA Ever? Go on. I am listening.

S: The hop profile is not usual for a single IPA but it isn’t really that bad either. It has a huge wateriness to it, but that might be intentional for a casual fun IPA. Who knows. It has a mild turbinado sugar like a watered down belgian dubbel and finally some hops that are a bit like unraked yard trimmings. it isn’t really that bad, like how Blossom was ok, but if you compare this beer to a real show like Breaking Bad, it’s going to seem shitty by comparison. WHOA.

T: The taste is really thin and watery with an initial sweet honey note to it like if you did a 3:1 water ratio with Hopslam (3oz water 1oz Hopslam) but it has a nice little redeeming pine at the end. Like when you walk into a bathroom and it clearly smells like deuce, but then someone has a forest Glade plug in to let you know that they were at least trying.

M: Ok so, if you missed it, it is watery. Sessionable as hell and almost to the point where I wonder how much crystal and 2 row that they actually used. It comes off almost more like an English Mild in a way, but oh well, haters gonna hate. I feel like the threadbare old white cop who learned something from my renegade partner that, I shouldn’t just judge IPAs on the face of things, and never to touch an IPA’s radio when he is being all sassy.

This beer is not going through any phases, this is exactly how it really tastes. No need to age this.

D: Well, this is kinda drinkable, I GUESS. Furthermore, it is pretty thin and doesn’t really dry out the gumline. It doesn’t really bother me, but I dont really get excited drinking it either. The ho’s and hum’s cascade effortlessly. However, this beer is cheap. I think I got a bomber for $2.99 so there’s that. But then Lagunitas doesn’t taste like bidet water and it is about the same price so, oh well. Is it as bad as everyone says? Not hardly. It’s not even the worst IPA that I have ever had. I think anything by Hermitage is far worse. It enjoys a fate worse than awful, the purgatory of “oh? I forget, no dont get that.”

Coastal Fog did not do the cooking by the book.

Narrative: Clive Worthington was the smoothest loan restructuring agent in the tricounty area, but you wouldn’t see his phone ringing anytime soon. Sure, people loved having their mortgage rates adjusted, and Clive cut through the red tape with the slickest of ease. Once it was over, Clive was left with a series of pink carbon copies and an empty heart. Who ever calls the old loan structure specialist? No one. Real Estate agents get invited to housewarming parties, but old Clive just stares out the window at the children making obscene snow sculptures and wonders what love feels like. He has his model trains at home, his botanical garden, and of course his Ziggy comics, but no one would ask old Clive to a wedding, or even a funeral. He was ultimately not a bad guy, just a guy who was there when things were bad. The opposite of a fairweather friend really. Clive smiled as a child was pushed into a snow vagina and nodded his head knowing that he would die alone. The child climbed out of the crude snow crevasse and shouted to his mother when he noticed that old man Worthington was watching them with no pants on again.

1

The Bruery Humulus Lager, More Clouds Than an E40 Picnic

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Humulus Cumulus Lupulus Dupulus.

A: This beer has a nice cloudy yellow with inviting murkiness to it. It looks like a filthy lemonade with great carbonation. The lacing is minimal but the head is like a clou- no, I will not go there, it’s painfully apparent.

S: The nose is plentiful with lemons and zest with sweet biscuit and citrus hops. There’s a bit of grapefruit that feels like a single IPA, but it doesn’t override. It has more of a crispness to the smell.

Too many of these and some awkward iSituations could go down.

T: The taste is super refreshing with a mellow hop character that rounds out the sweet cornbread notes. It almost reminds me of a mellowed out Gumballhead with more of an acidic character. I feel that this is superior for Gumballhead, for the sheer complexity and balance that it attains.

M The mouthfeel is middle of the road but incredibly refreshing with a great hop resonance that serves as a gateway drug to any person with an IPA aversion. I know the Bruery said that they would never brew an IPA, but this is pretty close, by all accounts.

Solid beer, no mystery here.

D: This is incredibly drinkable because it creates this revolving door wherein you drink it, love the refreshing nature and the hops dry the palate at the end. The result is a moebius strip of refreshment that is ultimately rewarding. The drink ability is huge just hug, right up there with Alpine Hoppy Birthday and Live Oak Hefeweizen. The big league D squad, if you will, although you probably wont.

Narrative: The Celtis bush looked longingly across the yard to the supple humulus fields blooming with careless abandon. What was so different between the two pedigrees really? Was not the Celtis bush blessed with hearty, chloro- efficiency? The children frolicked and hid amongst the verdant leaves of the fragrant humulus bush, but not the old cantankerous hackberry. Everything was going fine until stupid old Pliny made a distinction between the two. It was all downhill for the loveable hackberry at that point. I guess being violently toxic didn’t help. “Oh, here comes a child, he. . .oh he’s counting, PERHAPS THE HACKBERRY SHALL NOW BECOME THE BASE FOR THESE TAG EXPLOITS!” Not within 4 minutes did little Jerry begin to wheeze and scratch himself violently. Two branches were ripped off and made into makeshift guns, later into circus whips for the children’s imaginary animal menagerie. “GOD DAMN YOU HUMULUS BUSH!” The neighboring female humulus bush smiled coyly and self replicated in front of the poor Celtis, no need for any pesky seeds or male intervention here. Stick vinuous tears soaked the fertile ground, poor Hackberry would live to see another day as a critical ingredient in Propecia. Then the joke will be on Humulus indeed. Two sides of the same floral coin.