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Schommelpeird Imperial Amber Ale. Getting so Schommelpeird right now, where are my shoes?

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OFFICIAL BEER OF WAREGEM KOERSE. Well of koerse.

The bottle says that this is the official beer of the largest horse race event in Belgium. That’s like being the official lager of the largest Magic: the Gathering tournament in Stockton. People play the hell out of that game there.

Schommelpeird, Imperial Amber, 12% abv (seriously) De Sruise Brothers

A: This beer looks like a dirty mucky lake water. It’s like if I just put Millerton Lake water in 33cl bottles. With all the Keystone and jetfuel in Millerton lake, this is likely what is tastes like by now. The carbonation is awesome and, not to knock the appearance but it is just strange, it levels out in strata and foams like there’s some serious political rally going on in there.

S: Holy sweet candy sugar sweet taffysmooch. It is brown sugar wrapped in caramel coated in marshmellow foam dipped in molted rock candy. Just incredibly sweet, like that unmarked Econoline van outside the preschool. There’s also some clove, banana, esters, and belgian spices, but no one thinks that shit is funny, and I can’t turn those into pedophile jokes, OR CAN I?

I kept waiting for this beer to warm up, get better, subjecting myself to this bizarre Nightmare on Ale Street.

T: Also like the Econoline, there’s no sweetness and things get bitter and disorienting pretty quickly. It tastes like an herbal brown ale, or a malty ESB, or, well there’s some serious penumbra and Venn Diagram orgy going on here, I am left completely shaded. There’s this stemmy herbal taste at the front that is not that tight, sub-tight even. I dont know how one is supposed to go about enjoying this, Struise I am disappoint.

M: This is rather thin for the huge candy/herbal/pennies flavor going on. I guess that’s good since the malt tastes similar to burnt yard trimmings, so I wouldn’t be stoked if they just went even more apeshit on those sort of residual sugars. A single Phish set is just fine, 33cl of Phish, just the right amount of jam band for me.

Not all epic battles appeal to the masses.

D: Not at all. Unless you are a coinstar machine of a Honduran gardener, then these tastes would be right at home up in your grillspot. I can’t get on board with this madness, it’s just all over the place, not exactly bad, just really confusing, like those complex Ben Stiller epics. I can’t recommend this, but it’s not like you will run across this “brewed-once” strange ass style anyway. So if you take an amber ale like your favorite old Fat Tire and fattened the shit out of it, you get a tire full of copper. Good to know. Currency crisis solved.

Narrative: “Ok, so here’s the pitch, so main male interest fall in love with Mila Kunis, but SHE IS EIGHT FEET TALL! We call it AmorISIMO!” Barry Merken’s movie pitches always did this. “Barry, wait what? You had us, we love it but, why does she have to be eight feet tall? What does that even add to the ‘surviving genocide’ subtext?” Barry capped the Steno chiseltip marker with frustration and began furiously erasing the entire pitch, “YOU KNOW WHAT FINE! Fine, let’s just make her the quirky, clearly hotter friend of the girl introduced in act one, how about that? Mix it up?” MGM was running out of time, they needed to push through another by-the-number romantic comedy or Ryan Reynolds would walk. “Barry, we loved the concept, it was essentially another Victoria love triangle set in lower east side Manhattan, we love it, just no giants.” Barry was the master of writing the exact same 82 minute movie, but his more recent efforts seemed to make very little sense. “Ok what about Reese Witherspoon is a baker, he is allergic to sugar but comes in every day to the bakery because HIS PENIS IS AN EXTENSION CORD.” The MGM board folded up their equipage and hastily exited the room. “OK FINE! NORMAL PENIS! FINE AND HOW ABOUT HE STOPS HER FROM MARRYING THE GUY WHO IS CLEARLY AN ASSHOLE IN THE FIRST 12 MINUTES OF THE MOVIE, but,” the investors turned and listened attentively, “but then, THAT GUY HAS AN EXTENSION CORD DICK!” Door slam.

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Amon Amarth Ragnarok Porter, One of the Only Reasons to Move Out of Indiana

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AAAmon, I worka 3 jobs mon, Oh, I'm sorry? In Living Color references not welcome here? Fine.

Amon Amarth Ragnarok, Porter 8.2% Abv

A: This has a deep watery coffee appearance to it with deep brown hues and a nice cool whip head with stained glass lacing. That shit cray.

S: It has an incredible hop presence which is basically to be expected from 3 Floyd’s they put hops in their children’s baby bottles. I dont get anything else, it’s pretty limited and not chocolatey or coffee as the appearance would suggest. Ho hum.

Looks like one thing, turns out to be another.

T: This tastes like a black ipa with a little bit of coffee to it. I call shenanigans, this isn’t a porter at all. Here I was, innocently hoodwinked into drinking what I thought would be an amazing chocolate funland, and I end up in the grass mowing down herbal goodness. It isn’t exactly bad, but I can’t help but feel like orphan dreams smashed on the rocks around December 25th.

M: The mouthfeel is thin and herbal with a lingering dryness (read: Just like a fucking IPA.) It doesn’t coat that well, which I guess is good since I dont feel like wiping pine cones off of my teeth, at least not when I was expecting on holding Gene Wilder’s hand into a magnificent candy paradise. This isn’t bad but it is just unexpected. I went to see Drive expecting a rom-com and, well, just go see that shit and you’ll understand.

Some things, despite their packaging, have underlying truths.

D: For a double IPA, this has a great drinkability and, even with the huge abv, this is plenty sessionable. However, I just feel so badly misled that I cant with an honest conscience tell you that I would seek this out and buy it again. These excuses from the Porter only go so far, it needs to come out of the hop closet and declare that it truly is. Embrace the cones.

Narrative: Chase Franci applied make up to his face assiduously and prepared for his big speech. “I can’t keep this up forever, come on Chance, just tell Mr. Walters the truth!” Just as he was uttering these thoughts to himself, Mr. Walters’s assistant burst in and announced “Mr. Walters will see you in 5 minutes, good luck.” The company internal minority promotion initiative seemed like a smart enough idea: promote diversity, engender a core nucleus of new ideas and add altering viewpoints to the corporate board. This would be all well and good but Chase was as white as the convergence of the UV spectrum. He pushed his make up materials into his briefcase and exited the corporate bathroom with a cool, calm poise as he strode down past the cubicles. Chase’s co-workers stared agape at the patently offensive racist makeup that he had just applied. Chase flicked a dab of shoepolish off of his lapel and smiled big, the look of an alter ego that was shooting up the corporate ladder. Chase strode into Mr. Walters’s office and declared “wazzzzupppppp!” Mr. Walters just sat there for a moment wondering, “what in the name of God did Chase think that he was doing? Surely he couldn’t have actually believed that blackening his face like a silent movie character would suffice to earn him a spot on the- actually, that is a pretty bold move.” Mr. Walters took out a corporate checkbook and immediately wrote him out a bonus before Chase could utter another cliched phrase. Mr. Walters smiled and handed chase a check, payment for being a complete fraud, “OH SNAP! THAT IS SOME SERIOUS CHEDDAR!” Chase exclaimed as his now-subordinates shook their heads in disbelief.

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Brooklyn Chocolate Stout, 10% abv, BX straight put a choc. gem on them.

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Brooklyn Chocolate Stout, mad wallear for this skully cap

While not swimming in the Hudson river, smashing glass bottles at abandoned train yards, or contemplating traveling to better places, people in Brooklyn make chocolate beers.

Brooklyn Chocolate Stout, 10% abv

A: Spoiler alert, this big stout has a deep black finish to it like a matte black that you see douchebags downgrade their Range Rovers with. The lacing is beautiful, it tells your future and, oh wait, whats that Brooklyn, sticky chocolate and schmeboygahs? I am listening.

S: This is very simple, it has a roasted barley and a deep chocolate finish to it. I hate it when beers are this direct but it is like a Madden character with all the points stacked on one attribute. In this game, this is an obese secretary who LOVES. CHOCOLATE. If this were an X-Man, its mutant ability would be reminding people to buy lotions from Bath and Body works and then visiting Godiva. BUT WILL SHE USE HER POWERS FOR GOOD OR EVIL?

I love stouts, I love chocolate. I mash on this beer not unlike an elated turtle.

T: This just continues with the simple oat and chocolate rigamarole with a deep silky finish. There is a bit of coffee but the main attraction here is clearly the chocolate, if this redundant ass review wasn’t evident. There’s some sweet hookah cocoa beans and a bit of tobacco but seriously, how else can I say this? It is like a negligent ass Willy Wonka creation.

M: Surprisingly, the mouthfeel is out faster than a dead beat father. It just imparts the chocolate like a drunk uncle, and then stumbles out the door with a silky oat finish. There’s a bit of coffee that dries it out at the end but wow, this really makes me want to try Black Ops if this beer is this good.

With 20 years on this, it will be even better, I aint even mad.

D: This is scary drinkable and amazing through and though. I hope that these are either expensive or sold in really small formats because, wow, I can’t believe how easy it is to put this away. Stouts this big usually have a huge drying effect or a filling expansive nature. NOT THIS ONE. This is that silent old standby busser that always shows up for its shifts and does a great job, no questions asked. Thank God I dont live in Brooklyn so I can avoid amazing inexpensive be- ah shit.

Narrative: Prilly looked out intently upon the icy vanilla slopes, past the polar bears enjoying Coca-Cola, past the ice cream mountain, and blinding white pillars of creamy goodness. This wasn’t the life he dreamed of and he knew it. Vanillalopolis was a humble community of artisans and yeomen farmers, however, something never felt quite right to Prilly. He longer for a deep, thick succor. That ambrosial decadence that could only be found in succulent cacoa beans. The ongoings of Vanillalopolis just seemed so pedestrian by contrast. He tossed a vanilla snowball at a passing marshmellow bunny and watched it scamper away, leaving flakes of pure white coconut. “Someday Prilly, for really,” he mused to himself. Just as he was raking the vanillacones from the recent harvest he struck deep into the ground and, up from the snow white soil came a bubbling crude. Mahongany gold, Alabama tea. He dipped an index infger into the gurgling pool and tasted that deep chocolatey decadence that he longer for. The news reports reported that the septic explosion was completely unforseeable and Prilly’s family received a substantial settlement from the Wrongful Death case.

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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