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New Glarus Laughing Fox. The Midwest is no Laughing Matter.

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Go ahead, laugh at the fox. It only shows your own insecurities.

New Glarus Laughing Fox, Kristal Weizen, 4.5% abv

Alright, enough beating up on other states, time to enjoy winter in Wisconsi- ok fine, on with the review.

A: Well I get the weizen, there’s a deep gold hue like those peddlers in those rich diverse ethnic markets in Milwaukee [FN1 never been there.] It has a rich foamy frothy carbonation that is astounding. Literally, I polished my monocle and pulled a double take at the soapy overflow. Been polishing my monocle quite a bit recently.

S: This has a great cinnamon, clove, banana and belgian trappist ester finish to it. Smells like nana’s blanket that she cools pies upon. New Glarus burned me so bad with the Wisconsin Red and Tart that that Berliner Weiss and R+D Geuze brought me back to neutral, this might just win me over.

This beer makes me feel like I am the butt of an intelligent joke that I just don't apprehend.

T: This is difficult to describe because it’s like describing the absence of a quality to prove its existence, the old History channel/John Locke/every epistemologist way of things. I hope you are very perceptive because the banana and clo- its gone. That fast. This makes the taste of Rolling Rock seem resonant by contrast. I feel like posting a Craigslist missed encounters ad because the half second is so sweet. But, then again, my inbox is already full of so many penis .gifs, I will refrain.

M: Well, imagine the evanescent taste and- yup the mouthfeel is gone. Are you even drinking beer? It’s an exercise in rationalism, its like ding an sich, I dont know if this beer really exists because it is a ghost and I have almost no faculty to apprehend it. Grasping at the watery malt phantom is frustrating and perhaps brilliant marketing because the glass just menacingly drains. I am like the reverse version of Mickey Mouse in Fantasia, you know when he, wait what?

It aspires to greatness, but, something is off.

D: I guess extremely? This depends on if you enjoy your beers seen and not heard [FN2 tasted.] You could seem like a complete champion drinking a case of these at a party, providing you take your old cranberry pills first. Just, lots of urine, that’s basically what I am getting at here. The sweet lil honey ester kiss is like a 5th grade smooch and then, boom gone, and you’re left with empty beer bottles, just like 5th grade. Cursive is hard.

Narrative: It wasn’t that Devin Manning had a disinterest in the corporeal world. I mean sure, he wanted to pass on into the aether, but his attention span was so limited that “fulling his higher purgatorial obligations” just seemed so daunting. “Charles? Come try this pie for me, mmm careful!” Devin would swoop over and inhabit Charles’s mouth for a moment, and then rush away to investigate what was just purchased at Sharper Image. “GOD DAMNIT DEVIN,” phastasmagorial overseer translord of ward IV, aka Ghost Boss, boomed through the house. “Devin, fulfill their palates with flavor, you’re clearly not trying. Do you even give a shit about heaven? Do you want to meet Beatrice?” Devin just gave a weak mealymouthed reply and pushed chinese checkers balls around idly. “Ahhhh, I dont care if this family dont got enough sense to use coriander or boost protein dishes with boullion stock, WHAT’S THAT MY OLD BUSINESS!” Ghost Boss looked down his will o’ the wispy brow and stated solemly, “Devin, you are a flavor ghost of the lower order, you give people with very little taste a fleeting glimpse at greater things, you are fulfilling a debt for listening to Semisonic and the Spin Doctors. You see you lived a life completely devoid of any real taste.” Devin stopped listening and began rifling through a nearby drawer of Dubstep cds. “GOD DAMNIT THESE PEOPLE HAVE NO TASTE.”

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Cherry Adam from the Wood, Up to No Good. Oregon is a Republic of Hoarders

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Popping that Ch-, ok nevermind.

Ok, North Carolina week is put on hiatus, since SOME PEOPLE IN OREGON THINK IT IS OK NOT TO SHARE.

Cherry Adam from the Wood, Old Ale, 10% ABV

A: The appearance has a nice deep ruby and dark brown hue that just doesn’t have a single fuck to spare with regards to carbonation. This beer is like that curmudgeonous guy at the party who just chills and talks shit on people, and cant be riled even for a supplicant game of flip cup. No head.

S: This has a deep boozy smell that stings the nostrils like Sex Panther. The cherry comes through in a muted and grenadine sort of way but it is a welcome reprieve from the Old Ale deep sticky maltiness and old timey stories. There’s dark fruit, oak, and vanilla at the end but no one listens to them, just an annoying little cadre of background assholes.

Cherry Adam in the flesh would look something like this, nerdy, into fruit flavors, complex, but ultimately will resort to alcoholism.

T: The taste has a ton going on, vanilla, oak, deep malts, pitted fruits, figs, and guess what? Fucking cherries. Cherries jubilee but coated with bourbon and set on fire. This is like a complex dessert cooked by a FIDM student that burned them and scorched them with alcohol while watching Sex and the City. It is complicated, but that doesn’t make it necessarily good, it just has longer stories to tell about its childhood, just like all the best dates you ever went on.

M: The mouthfeel has a nice warmth to it and would be at home in the old skilodge for drunks too seeped in cherry love to hit the slopes. Nice hot coating and oaky dryness make this beer shine in a world not yet created, one for alcoholic fruit lovers. One can dream.

Cherry Adam off the top ropes

D: This is just too hot and beats you over the head with a barrage of complex flavors that exceeds the scope of my appreciation. MY APPRECIATION SCOPE REMAINS UNCALIBRATED. I was able to finish the whole 12oz bottle but, I wasn’t all sad looking out a rainsoaked window pane wondering when that Fedex truck would bring me another one. Drinking it has cool bragging rights to that extensive circle of no one, so there’s always that. Try it at a club, work it into her story about being “not religious but spiritual” and see how it goes over. “OH SPEAKING OF CHERRY ADAM I HAD THE BOURBON BARREL AGED VERSION ONCE.” You can’t get less than zero girls, you can’t owe people chicks. But you can drink zero Cherry Adam, which is not a Coca-Cola product.

Narrative: “Gunnar! Get your lunch and permission slip, you’re gonna be late!” Cathy called to her second-born as he grasped the paper sack with a savage zeal and peeled out the doorway, still smelling of Taster’s Strudels. “Oh if they only knew,” Cathy thought to herself and watched the bus noisily speed away. She put on her Northface jacket, a fashion staple of hip east-coast mothers, and hurried to her Dodge Stratus to complete her daily ritual. “What would they think if they knew this was how I spent my days?” she tapped her fingers nervously and looked across the parking lot, disappointed. “Shit, they still haven’t set up, WHAT TAKES THOSE CRATES SO DAMN LONG!?” she took a pull of vanilla brandy and watched longingly as the Puerto Rican men unloaded the cases containing her sweet succor. “Felipe! Hola hola, un caja de cereza por favor!” he began to go for a box of beer. “NO FELIPE! CEREZA! CHERRIES FOR GOD’S SAKE!” she ejaculated with tense anticipation. This was the height of her day, getting lit and hitting the Farmer’s Market first thing, to land a sick stash of pitted goodness. She hustled back to the idling car with her case of cherries, rubbing the errant juice along her gumline. The children would come home and find spoons burnt with carmelized cherries, and empty cartons, but never uncover Cathy’s sweet, dark, pitted secret. So pitted.

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Olde Rabbit’s Foot, North Carolina Changes the Game, Kinda I GUESS.

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No Rabbits Were Harmed in the Making of this Shitty Joke.

NORTH CAROLINA WEEK IS UPON US. For no particular reason, those old Tarheels dont get the cred they deserve so, here goes nothing.

Olde Rabbits Foot, Imperial Stout, 10.13% abv

This beer is a blend between Duck Rabbit, Foothill, and Olde Hickory, the portmanteau is the name OH SHIT JUST USED PORTMANTEAU IN A LEGITIMATE WAY.

A: The beer pours with a slick deep black inky cola look to it. Epigrams and entendres aside, the head is my favorite part. The thick whipped mocha head looks like a barista was all up in this bitch. Nice lacing with dotted Polynesian islands on the glass. Samoan people will love this beer if they ever discover North Carolina. Doubtful.

S: There’s an intense milk chocolate and frosting sweetness with almost no bitter from roasted malts. This isn’t a dessert beer, but it could be served at Red Robin with a Cookie Bramblecake or whateverthefuck.

At first when I thought about drinking all NC brews, I was all like dis. then I was it was pretty chill. super chill, even.

T: The taste maintains the sweetness and adds a bit of anise (that’s GED+ talk for licorice) and finishes with a coffee flavor that would make sense since people from North Carolina, bus drivers, truckers alike could drink this with their 3400 calorie breakfasts.

M: The mouthfeel has a nice prickly heat from the bourbon but it doesn’t get all up in your business and tell you how to do your job. It lets you wear the amount of flair that you desire, nice maltiness that isn’t too expansive and is respectful throughout the proceedings. The coffee doesn’t dry out the gumline too much and the result is a sweet booziness that you can doff your cap to in the street while pitching pennies. that sorta shit.

In North Carolina, even the turtles are wasted for a majority of their lives.

D: This is a swift nimble North Carolina aboriginal stout, poised and refined from a land of latent racism and excellent college basketball. Too bad most of the population is probably merking Natty Ice they could- well actually I think the bottle run on this was like 2500 or something so, I dont care if they missed out on it.

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Foothills Baltic Porter, North Carolina is Known for Its Nautical Engineering

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It makes me feel all like Peter the Great, except not a giant savage asshole.

Foothills Baltic Porter, 9% abv

Gold Medal Winner, BEST FUCKING PORTER SO JUST MOVE ON AND DELETE YOUR OLD PORTER’S NUMBER YOU SLUT.

A: This looks like a Porter but with some serious fortitude, not of that cross-over Imperial Stout madness its a big crazy thin porter through and through. The carbonation looks like a haunted ass house, or that last level of Contra. Either way. Deep dark browns, not black, not overly malty, just enough whoppers.

S: The coffee and deep bakers chocolate is present with a strange sweetness finish that seems to accompany in a red wine sort of way. It’s how I would imagine a sassy nana’s mouth to taste.

Thakns a lot North Carolina for making this brewery only. Now these kids never get to have it.

T: The taste delivers things in that gentle southernly Foothill sort of way. It presents a nice tray of chocolate delights, gives a sweet cup of antebellum coffee, coaxes your mane and assures you of simpler times and gives you a gentle exit, feeling fulfilled.

M: The mouthfeel is distinctively porter with a nice clean watery body that delivers a huge flavor without overloading that malty elements. I got this as an extra and it was amazing, especially since Porters are usually the weird artsy twin of the Imperial Stout who usually are all lame and drama nerds. you know the drill. SOCKING NERDS.

Which Porter Should I Take.

D: The drinkability is outrageous and you can put this away like Magic: The Gathering cards when a hot girl comes over. So fast. This is remarkable for the sheer complexity and huge body that it imparts but washes away clean instantly. It’s like some David Blaine ass porter up in this mix.

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Surly Five, Wild Ale, 8.2% Abv, Baby When The Lights Go Out…It is Dark

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This beer delivers more than the average forgotten boy band, only more sour.

Well with all the holiday bitterness coming, I figured I would give you some sour delights to placate your cravings for old boy bands.

Surly Five, Anniversary Wild Ale, 8.2%

A: This is a deep dark ruby red with some mild browns at the center, the lacing leaves something to be desired NAMELY MORE LACING. This isn’t granma’s foyer up in this bitch, no cosies, doilies, lacing, or webbing. The lack of carbonation is saddening.

The lack of lacing is more depressing than Sarah McLaughlin commercials

EDIT: The second pour had more foamy goodness, quite unlike those depressing commercials.

S: There is a distinct waft of cherry, tart currants, nail polish remover, and deep merlot. There’s a backend of wet hay and 3rd grade classroom on a rainy day. You know the drill, soaked dirty children.

T: The taste is distinctly tart, with a sour cherry flavor that fades into a red wine tannic finish. The dryness is compensated by a nice clean finish. It feels like a baby Consecration, but a solid Nissan Altima of the sour world. Although I have to say, I am a bit skeptical due to how readily the gentleman who provided me with this amazing beer was ready to part with it. A scholar and a gentleman indeed.

The tartness and limited availability make me suspicious. Just a little too...delicious...

M: The motuhfeel is crisp and swift and leaves a tart jelly jam sourness upon exit. It drinks very well and hides the alcohol like a miserly eastern European. Sometimes the tartness becomes annoying like basically anything with Taylor Lautner in it, but this is pretty tolerable.

D: For the tartness, alcohol, and deep complexity, it is surprisingly gentle. Big old acidic Lenny holds my hand gently while I tell him about the sour cherry rabbits and demonstrate my knowledge of 9th grade English curriculum. Overall, I would buy it again, but I cant, so I dont think I would trade for it again. Not cheap but, there’s just too much beer out there. White people problems.

Gave Surly Five to my cat, it imploded like a Gushers commercial with PURE SOUR RAGE.

Narrative: The POV camera premise just seemed wildly degrading to Tony Wachowski, TRU TV or not. “Alright Wachowski, you’re a loose cannon, and we all know about your rage,” Tony’s captain boomed from his podium during what was probably a morning briefing, I dont know. “So we are putting you on traffic duty, the commissioner is BREATHING DOWN MY ASS ABOUT LAST WEEK!” Tony shifted in his seat. The truth was, he didn’t have rage, and the incident was a series of missteps and unfortunate coincidences. “Hey uh sir, like I told yas, that fruit truck-” “FUCKING FRUIT TRUCK NOTHING WACHOWSKI, you are on meter duty.” I mean really, it would make even the finest officer bitter. Tony could still see that group of five year olds, covered in sticky, smashed cherries. “Sir, can I at least have my firearm back?” “GOD DAMNIT TONY, you are lucky I let you have your REGULAR ARMS.” Ultimately, no one would have predicted that merely tossing a Burt’s Bees chapstick container out the window would have blown out the tread of the fruit cargo freighter, overturn and kill several children, drowning them in sour fruit on the way to the preserves factory. “OH I AM SORRY TONY, the rest of us will wait while you SNACK ON SOME CHERRIES! NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE.” Tony would never use chapstick again.

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Dont Spit Into the Wind, Dont Mess Around with Hill Farmstead Jim

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Big Jim IPA

You Dont Tug On Superman's Cape and You Don't Mess Around With Jim

Don’t pull the mask off the old lone ranger. Seriously.

OH WAIT 11/11/11 at 11:11, GIVE ME A KISS AND MAKE A WISH!

Hill Farmstead Jim, 7.5% Black IPA, aged in Merlot Barrels

A: Hey guys, guess what color this black IPA is? If you said fuschia, you are, absolutely wrong. It is a slick “baby stout” sort of blackness. It’s that sort of gentle blackness that Milton attempted to both embrace and ward away. The head is off white and has a nice contrast the evil darkness below just like JOHN MILTON OH SHIT DID YOU SEE WHAT JUST TOOK PLACE THERE?

S: This is an IPA, through and through. The pine and grass reach out like a bath and body works candle, the citrus notes grapple and strike me like those weird weeds in Ursula’s cave. You know, those weeds…

I love this brewery but this beer tries to have too many fucking specialties. Just be a paladin.

T: The taste is strange, is isn’t quite herbal, it swiftly moves and changes several times while you taste it. It gets a bit of oakiness, then almost a grape or a cinnamon, then returns to its normal pinecone roots and finishes sweet. I have no idea how to approach this changeling. It goes tobacco, carnival, woods, carnival. Which I guess each of those makes sense together. Oh 5th grade.

M: The wine notes at the outset make this a blustering, confusing beer. You get a big wine note that turns into herbs, into a sweetness. The entire experience washes clean, but your conscience remains besmirched. It’s like your old uncle, whom you remember so fondly but now he’s back from the military and gives extra long hugs and is more serious. I don’t know whether to embrace the gravity of this project or to ask for my old friend back.

I dont like it, but I cannot escape its grasp.

D: This is like a Japanese game show in that it is intense, varied, and makes no sense. I don’t know how long you can watch that kinds of craziness but this is just too busy for my taste buds. If they sold this in 6 packs I would see it as a sort of Sartorial punch line rather than a beverage purchase. I don’t know what to make of myself after having tasted this. Maybe I could have been an optometrist, after Jim, who knows.

Narrative: “And you FINAL WISHHHH?” the genie hissed at Clarence Hyrbo amiably. “Well, I mean, I already got this swell wheatgrass farm for my grandfather” he surveyed the verdant pastures and the genie nodded approvingly. “And shucks, I already have this swell Merlot vinery for my grammy,” he ejaculated as the wine fields arose in front of him with sticky sweet grapes, ripe for harvest. The genie rubbed his ethereal palms and hovered entreatingly, “well?” he importuned. Clarence looked left and looked right, and only saw two wasted paradigms of wishes spoiled on human greed. He felt ashamed. His cell phone rang a sweet Creed ringtone and he wondered how to set this all right. “Genie?” Clarence softly uttered, “yes Clarence?” the genie responded gently. “Well, I see now that, every time someone gets a wish, it usually just ends with ironic consequences, like a grandmother overdosing on merlot, or artery problems due to wheatgrass,” the genie nodded solemnly “such is the Genie Code, to provide wishes only with disastrous consequences and life changing realizations but, you’ve hardly even tried yours out yet.” Clarence surverey the fields and firmly stated “GENIE! I want something that will make everyone happy, something that no one will die from, and no one will hate me for.” The genie waved his hands over the South Carolina countryside and the grapes and wheat grass disappeared. In wave after wave, tobacco fields rolled over the verdant pastures. “NOW EVERYONE WILL REMEMBER ME FAVORABLY!” Clarence called and ran all the way to the Charleston homestead which was recently founded

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Bruery Burly Gourd, oh my gourd, it’s so burly

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This has a nice welcoming baby stout look to it. Lacing that is like a lazy eastern European government, not too oppressive. It smells like a nutmeg bomb went off and the taste is like a watered down punkin pie.

You want to believe Immortals is gonna be good but you have to face the truth, there’s some high moments and a lot of filler. it’s like Thanksgiving leftovers, but nostalgic and tasty.

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Math Nerds Get Stoked: Exponential Hoppiness, Puns Abound.

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Flipping the Hoppy Factorial Script. Reducing Polynomials All Up in your Dome Piece.

As if there weren’t enough nerds already into beer, Pythagoream theorum barleywine.

Alpine Exponential Hoppiness, 11.314% abv, Triple IPA

A: nice apple juice color with a bit more darkness, lacing looks like Indian tapestry, nice cumulus head to it. Sick Sierpinski triangle triangle sort of head.

S: Amazing juiciness to the nose with cantaloupe, orange rind, grapefruit, freshly cut grass. A great hybrid between citrus and herbal dryness. It’s like you splashed Andre all over a whole foods. Sick cuvee bro.

Oh wait, a triple IPA with a huge hoppy character, hold on let me call science.

T: There is a faint tart note at the outset, a huge pinecone middle to it, and a mellow orange taste at the end. It looks like a parabola of taste values, graphed over a 3 second interval. AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THE INVERSE!

M: The mouthfeel is incredibly light and clean. This is definitely not a malt bomb and it is incredibly accomplished as a result. It makes me rap the keys on this keyboard balefully at the frustrating “brewery only” distribution of this beer. This ranks in the top 5 IPAs that I have ever had. It gently rubs shoulders with Ephraim and Dreadnaught with the utmost respect.

I want more of this but it comes out once a year. Halp.

D: If the other sections didn’t clench the “A” review, this certainly nails it on all fronts. This is more drinkable than any lager or “refreshing” wheat beer that I have ever had and it just performs on every level. The alcohol is a lurking ninja that strikes steadily removing your faculties one by one in artful ways. Bottle limits and unavailability are the natural predators of this base level of the beer food chain. That metaphor really didn’t put the applesauce on the pork chops so let me directly state that this is amazing and the average person is lucky that this treacherous beer remains elusive.

This beer is amazing. Darkwing Duck Amazing. Not Launchpad McQuack amazing.

Narrative: “Well well well, Mr. Jensen what do we have here in the bed of this raggedy old Toyota Tacoma? Let’s see, 1000w bulb, 32 temperature controlled pots, nitric fixated soil blends, and a series of 4 multiage fans. Quite the project we have here hm?” Spencer Jensen felt a single bead of sweat percolate on his brow. “It’s just. . .not what it looks like?” “Oh I am sure, looks like someone is about to become a botany major hm? A little science fair experiment?” Spencer blocked the door to his cellar and stammered out a series of incomprehensible excuses. “You see, my mom she enjoys gardening, but no, I mean well we all are starting a fruit garden but the soil, it isn’t quite ri-” Officer Worthington pushed past Spencer and proceeded down the cellar steps. “Oh yeah, great place for a fruit garden down here in this insulated ro-” The flashlight dragged across the floor to a massive lupus hop cone that appeared be aspirating. “WHAT THE-” A single centennial hop vine lashed across the room and entwined Officer Worthington, overpowering him. “NO EXPO! NO! LET HIM GO!” Sticky hop oils filled the room and dripped all over the officer’s clothing, making him smell like a 7th grade TOOL fan. “BURGGHHHHERHRH” Expo pulled the body into the center of the cone, grinding him into a sticky herbaceous pulp. Spencer Jensen had quite the secret to keep indeed.

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Smuttynose Barleywine, tuck a napkin in your shirt just straight barleywhining like that

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This is pretty legit, but nothing to get all stoked on. You can leave the stoke safety on. There’s some caramel malt, some booziness, and light maple oaky flavor. It’s like sure, a regular Subaru impreza is nice but, it won’t make a FIDM or OTIS girl all jazzed. You need Duke Ellington for that shit.

It’s a reliable, easy to handle, boozy mess, like dating a coed from the SEC schools. Just don’t set your sights too high, lens crafters up in the cut like what.

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Mikkeller Black Hole, scotch whisky barrel aged, the worst beer of the year. A winrar is this.

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This beer is horrible, avoid at all costs. Finally a beer to adequately represent this website. Do not drink this beer.

It tastes like giving a smooch to your drunk old highlander grandpa. The bubbles are a vile scorching oak taste like popov and nair on your mouth. It’s a scorching oral douche that has no place outside of the hateful island from whence it came.

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Seriously, I can safely say that, with the aroma, taste, and mouthfeel of this abomination, it doesn’t matter what style that this beer is, it is a chimera of testicle assaults. Ok, so I open it up, it smells like peat, dirt, home depot fertilizer, a rented van, Okla-, well, just horrible. It looks nice enough until she opens her mouth, just petulant candor and despicable things. The foam alone tastes like someone took a swig of Cutty Sark while smoking a cigar and spit it in your mouth.

I can’t underscore this enough, do not pay the $12.99 for this 12oz bottle, dont let anyone buy this for you, this is seriously the absolute worst beer that I have ever tasted.

My face was all like this after only 5oz.