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Shipyard, Pumpkin Head, 5% abv

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Shipyard doing it, mid-range.

All Hail the Pumpkin King

Alright, Autumn week continues with all its autumnal splendor. Give Gramma a kiss for me.

Shipyard Pumpkinhead, Pumpkin Ale, 5% abv

A: Mellow gold with absolute transparency, nice fizzy carbonation that dissipates immediately. It appears like apple juice through and through.

S: The nose is easily the best part of this beer, it is like having your face smashed in a jack o lantern full of cinnamon. There’s a bit of clove and nutmeg and a honey finish. Reminds me of lovingly pushing elderly people into piles of leaves. Oh autumn.

T: The taste is similar to the nose but more watery and muted. It has a nice sweet introduction and a cornbread sweetness with a nice pumpkin pie finish. Nothing to complain about here, it is exactly as represented.

M: This is about as thin as an adjunct lager. However, the mouthfeel doesn’t feel like an adjunct lager, it feels like there was actually some legit pumpkins up in the mix during the mashing. However, the watery finish almost commands a 6 pack serving size. I can barely finish this review and it is already almost gone.

D: See infra. This is crisp, light little adjunct lagery pumpkin ale that has a limited arsenal of parlor tricks. It isn’t bad by any means, it is just limited in scope. I will say, however, that my girlfriend and my dog thoroughly enjoyed it.

Narrative: Not all mutants end up as super heroes. That is a grave misconception that is entertained by lovers of lore and those who deny simple medical facts. “Well this isn’t easy for me to say this to you Skylar, so I will just say it,” Dr. Tabby wiped his glasses on his jacket and hesitated for a moment. “your orbital and suture bones have, well they-” Skylar shifted on the wax paper and leaned forward intently, “GOD DAMNIT! YOUR HEAD IS A PUMPKIN! IT’s just…pumpkin. I am so sorry.” Skyler notted his massive produce cranial reflectively. Deep down he always knew it would come to this, a mild concussion at Le Crosse practice and then the old “your head is actually a pumpkin” speech. “Save your MEDICAL JARGON DOCTOR, just, tell me, am I gonna make it?” Doctor Tabby smiled a wry smile and stated softly “with great power comes great responsibility my boy” and he nodded enticingly. “Yes, but, my skull, a good part of my skull has become a pumpkin, I mean how do I deal with this in my life?” “Ah, I see what you are saying: ‘I have a massive pumpkin head, do I use this for good or evil?’” “No that’s not at all what I was asking, am I in danger, can I die from thi-” Dr. Tabby folded his arms behind his back and looked out the window onto the elementary school, strangely placed next door. “You see those children, there Skylar? Each a normal child with a perfectly normal bone skull. Not a single one of them extraordinary in any way, that is to say, not a pumpkin cranium amongst the lot.” Skylar shed a single pumpkin tear that dripped a viscous orange liquid to his lapel. “I KNOW WHAT I MUST DO!” Skylar declared, jumping up to action, and, the subsequent police report brought many a smile to the local children and horror to the faces of produce farmers alike in the tri-state area.

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Surly Darkness, 10.3% Imperial Stout, Charlie Murphy: DARKNESS

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It's like Baudelaire hooking up with Minnie Mouse, so dark, so dirty.

What perfect beer for the day after Halloween, DIA DE LOS MUERTOS, than Darkness, an inherently evil stout

Surly, 2010 Darkness, Imperial Stout, 10.3% abv

A: This has a deep black, 1970’s exploitation film sort of darkness to it. There is a bit of shiny resplendence but it is as inky as a frightened squid through and through. It lives up to its name, dark as satan’s magic, like post-Milton Satan, really dark. Also the carbonation is like 5% tint baller, thick, and mocha.

S: It has the smell of deep dark melted raisins, melted dark chocolate, roasted coffee, figs and a vanilla sweetness. It’s like that movie Problem Child, sweet, but dark and disturbing at the same time.

T: This beer has a fantastic sweetness at the outset similar to maple syrup with cocoa and chocolate tastes throughout. The alcohol is well hidden and presents a nice oakiness on the finish. It’s like being whipped with black licorice, but at a pagan Steinbeck festival, deep, sweet, and bothersome.

M: The mouthfeel has a great maltiness and depth that just delivers on so many levels. It coats initially like Behr paint, the nursery mocha color of negligent parents. It lingers when you cleanse the palate and gives a nice tobacco taste. It’s like kissing the smoky old chocolate mixer at the Godiva factory, with his sweet Guatemalan mouth.

D: This is thick, rich, and dark; the Lamar Odom of the stout world. While in most instances, a beer this ambitious suffers but, I have a tough time knocking this because the sweetness is there, the coffee is there, and it washes away clean. This tawdry barista is good for the long haul.

Narrative: “Dear Warren, I have longingly written to you every day, please, just let me know if the flame, that burned so brightly when we embraced each other underneath the Bakersfield moonlight at the water park, still smolders within your breast.” The rain pounded the window sill and Kaitlyn cried soft alligator tears that rolled down her cheeks and the Energy Star windows of her track home. The winters in Bakersfield had a biting cold that was paralleled only by the winter wonderland that was Stockton. “Dear Kaitlyn, I am not sure if our summer romance was a fleeting apparition in your mind, but I still think back to the warm buzzing of the Kern County air, and coughing mildly at the humidity and pollution. I still miss the sweet taste of your Dr. Pepper chaptick. My letters go unanswered, please answer me sweet muse.” Barreling down the streets of California avenue was a Post Service truck painted matte black, its occupant maintained a hateful twisted smile. Bags and bags of correspondence were ignited before the authorities caught onto his exploits. The Dark Courier knew no boundaries. “Dear Kaitlynn, I heard of a tragic fire in Bakersfield and double homicide on Cedar ave, near our favorite water park, please respond to let me know that all is well.”

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The Bruery, 100% Bourbon Barrel Aged Autumn Maple, 13% abv

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Autumn Never Seemed so Good

This is Autumn for People Escaping Autumns Past.

Happy Halloween, enjoy this homage to coping with fall.

The Bruery 100% Bourbon Barrel Aged Autumn Maple, Brown Ale/Vegetable Beer 13% abv.

A: This beer has a creamy deep amber tone to it with some delicate lacing that is frothing and tiny. Just like the polluted Ohio river that you enjoyed so much as a child. The carbonation maintains throughout and generates some nice sticky lacing. It makes one abundantly thankful, ba dum tish.

S: This beer has to have been made by Willy Wonka, in summation, the schnozberries smell, well you know. This is pumpkin pie in a glass. I am not being glib, this is seriously like a shot of nutmeg, allspice, cinnamon, coriander, pie crust, biscuity goodness in a glass. I realize this beer is made with yams, but it is intense and overpowering in a good way. At the back end a boozy bourbon note dominates and makes it feel like, the end of Thanksgiving, when people say what they feel. You know, that part of Thanksgiving. Oh Nana.

T: This has a nice frothy maltiness at the outset with pumpkin, yam, and honey tone to it. The oakiness sets in at the back end like a watchful chaperone and nods to the bourbon warmth that rounds things out to a nice warmth. There is a faint hit of vanilla but with all the spices going on, you are lucky to leave with your wallet and your pallet’s dignity.

M: This has a mid-range frothiness that isn’t overly expansive and generates a nice coating. The tastes are so complex that you are left bewildered by the onslaught too much to think about the details. It’s like the screenplay to Inception where there’s just lots of cerebral nonsense taking place and you don’t question the basics.

D: This is hot, sticky, boozy, spicy, and strange: but I want more of it. This is thick, too thick to session but delicious enough to have several servings of. Paradoxes abound when you decide to drink pumpkin pies in a glass. Live on the edge, watch The Perfect Storm by yourself and try not to cry. That kind of shit.

Narrative: At the heart of it, Smilestrine Grimstare was a shitty Grim Reaper. It’s not that he was bad at claiming souls, on an administratively level, he was incredible at collecting and sorting souls. The problem was those damn 3 autumn months that just warmed his black heart. How many times had he showed up at the Thanksgiving dinner with a hateful disposition, ready to rip the life from grandpa, when he smelt that sweet biscuity pumpkin pie. No, Smilestrine was not a heartless reaper, he just loved the holiday’s too much for that. Once his vengeful scepter was about to claim the life of a child in a cancer ward, that pile of leaves was left there almost intentionally. His robe dragged playfully through the maple, pine, and ash landscape, leaving leaf angels in his wake. “Blow out your candles Great Uncle Earl! That’s 103 Halloweens on the face of this Earth!” the family exclaimed as Mr. Grimstare knocked his head back and savored the burnt hickory scents. Death could wait with pies this succulent.

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Oud Beersel Oude Geuze, FOR REAL DOG, YOU ODE.

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I can imagine everyone is all hung over from Halloween skankiness, so here’s an acrimonious acerbic review for you candy mongers.

Oud Beersel Geuze, 6% abv

A: pours with yellowish to copper color, mild clarity, two finger head with hardly any lacing. head is thin and white. Just look above lazy ass, I Ansel Adams’ed it all up for you. However, this feels a bit too classy, or like I am not quite ode enough to drink it.

Just seeing this makes me feel ode.

S: very tart and fruity smell, tannin almost white wine effects. Crisp granny smith apple, pears, and wet hay funk. Grand Hay Funk Railroad.

T: bittering effect with a very lambic white grape, some cidery apple notes on the finish, essentially a one two punch of sour then crisp apple
finish. Nice dryness that delivers on several tart levels.

It is almost as sweet as the classy people who make things like this, but more intoxicating.

M: it feels more carbonated, then the fast dissipation burns out, mouthfeel is light and almost of a highbrow spritzer countenance. you could serve this to a sorority girl in lieu of a champagne and feel your heart strain at the lost palate. Like a sassy gay friend, it does double duty for differing tastes.

D: this ultimately depends on if you like these beers, fun to show people for the “Wow this is beer factor,” for me, doesnt have much of a place beyond maybe Valentines Day or a holiday get together. not feminine enough to serve as a pink label product but not sophisticated enough to take the place of heavy hitters like Supplication and Temptation. I can still down it regularly though, and it has a nice price point and availability so. nom nom nom.

nom geuze

nomnom geuze...wait. you ode.

Narrative: What’s that you say?” as you cooly present this pale green bottle of Geuze. You gingerly pop the cork and lithely give it a spin on your rich mahogany table and this school nurse is fascinated by this tiny bottle of champagne you have produced. “No no, this isnt martinellis, this is a BEER” her offputting discountenance is almost lost until you redouble with “AN EXPENSIVE BEER” and your audience has been won. Instinctively you will utter the words SOUR, BELGIUM, and GUEZE, and you will notice the faint sight of her loss of interest, producing a grape smell.

“PLEASE, it just, I…I love beer and…I think I love you too” her ears perk up at the potential for some serious discussion. “I love the bubbly effervesence, the sweetness, the refreshing feeling I get” “YES?!” she anticipates “oh no, from this…this beer. you didnt? oh jeez, this is awkward. take another sip, maybe you just dont get it”

“I GET IT, you LOVE YOUR GEUZE, why dont you SUCK THIS GEUZE if you LOVE IT SO MUCH”

you will proceed to suck down all of your Geuze friends. and like it.

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Luscious, Russian Imperial Stout, The Alchemist, Vermont Gets Twisted Like a Bag of Ropes

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As Tender As A Tennyson Novel, But DARKER THAN DEMI MOORE'S RAGE

Vermont has been killing it lately. It seems like I can’t go anywhere without hearing about that damn state and its environmental citizens. Protip: Dont move there, just enjoy their beer.

This is the OTHER beer, that was saved from the flood that destroyed the brewery last month. This is the OTHER 700 bottle release that was saved. Unlike the Heretic, this beer is amazing, not a soggy sack of Honduran yard clippings.

A: This beer has a slick deep angry pallor that pours BP thick. Deep black inkiness with mahogany coating on the glass. The head looks amazing with dark cocoa bubbles like frothed chocolate milk. The Quik rabbit was not fucking around when he whipped up with batch, the kids are on one. I mean, just scroll up, there it is, what more can I say, it is an evil libation, fit for despots and overlords alike.

S: This is out of this world complex and amazing. I love the cocoa and chocolate notes up front, supported by some nicely acidic coffee at the back. The waft of subtle vanilla and toffee alcohol makes this all too inviting. It is dark but alcoholic at the same time, like Seal when he isn’t busy copping kisses from roses.

T: It packs all of the foregoing into a multilevel experience that I have to delve into like strata. The sweetness is swift and supported by a great coffee acidic dryness. The sweetness returns in an alcoholic waft that is like if chocolate rain, parabola, and GI Rare had a love child. It has the sweetness from one, the nice coffee notes from the other, and a prickly warmth from the latter. Alcoholic, dark, and brooding, this beer is like Michael Lohan’s parenting skills, only this didnt end up a complete disaster.

M: Great coating without being overly expansive. The taste just lingers and you can truly sip on this judiciously. It gets even better when it warms up, just outrageous top to bottom. I just want to get my mouth all on it. INCOMING SEXIST STATEMENT: both sexes will equally enjoy this statement. I mean that in a genial sense that it has universal appeal beyond the ambit of what is usually deemed an off-putting style. Not just for lumberjacks and beef jerk connoisseurs, this beer is approachable. You know what I mean, I dont want to come off all like I am up in this club:

D: This is an incredible beer. Of course, it has to be one of the only 700 bottles saved from that jerk Irene. Thank god I obtained 2 bottles, this is something that I will savor later on in life, like when I pass the postal exam or break 200 in a game of bowling, you know. Life Monuments. Problem is, I want more of this and my desire remains unslagged. Right when I finish this beer, it feels like this:

Narrative: Raven Simone cast her leather satchel upon the smooth teak floor and fell languidly into her baroque throne. “Another day within this miserable sphere of tween affairs,” she ruminated to herself as her necromage servant poured her a tepid snifter of what appeared to be the life force of a 9 year old child. “How long Levinicus? How long must I endure this curse? The cumulus nimbus clouds of misfortune forever obscuring my greatness with Nick! and ABC Family side projects,” she sipped deeply, “never to come to true recognition?” She looked into her cloudy gazing orb as it recalled flashes from her tawdry past. Raven knew the gravity of the deal that she signed with the Lord of Darkness to obtain the contract for Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper. It stayed with her like a deep oily wound. The terms of her Faustian agreement bound her to tween programming indefinitely, sweet but deeply dark. To buy further time from the underlords, she was the Commander of that dark cadre Cheetah Girls, wholly misunderstanding that she would not be transmutated into a cheetah woman at all. “RAVEN! MAKE UP! TIME FOR THE FOOD FIGHT SCENE!” her dark lord beckoned, a call to fulfill the bilateral contract of evil. She exhaled deeply, swirled her glass and began preparing for the malevolent groin shots that would ensue.

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Russian River, Pliny the Elder, 8% abv Double IPA

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Old ass Pliny

Geriatric Pliny, "For real dog, you ode." - Soulja Boy

Pliny the Elder, Double IPA, 8% ABV

A: This has a hazy straw appearance with tiny bubbles that dance and capitulate times past. It has moderate lacing but that special carbonation that recollects Hello Kitty perfume and locks on diaries. A certain friendliness is embued in its loving gold appearance. It is not 24k in nature, but its adjuncts result in a harder, less malleable experience.

S: There, of course, how could I forget, exists, smells of grapefruit, pine, lemon rind, and citric comma overuse. After so many dates and crestfallen experiences, the number of the Elder becomes a solid staple in your phone, even those moments of weakness, at 2 a.m., when you could just go to sleep, his elderly voice beckons, imparting amazing grassy knowledge.

T: A single taste is like dipping your toe into the river of styx and viewing the scope of past accomplishments and future failures. You get strong notes of tangelo, then apricot, some grapefruit rounds it out with a gentle lull into a juniper bush. You brush a few cones from his threadbare skin and embrace your elder lovingly.

M: The mouthfeel is light but imparts a tart lasting wisdom that lingers an herbal dryness that expands with time. It feels like wading through thick grassy kudzu with a celerity that imparts a lasting knowledge. How you wish you could order more, or warn your old friend of the looming danger that Pompeii holds. Hindsight is 20/20 and such is the case with your elder. Goldfish crackers strewn about your apartment are a testament to same.

D: This is incredibly drinkable beer and your hold on the hem of his robe is none the less tenacious at the final imparting words. You swallow deep and know that your friend will visit you under any circumstances but this apparition must be seen in moderation, for his message is almost always rationed. Not unlike Ebeneer Scrooge your Bob Cratchet fades into the abyss, until the next bottle is cracked. His spirit invoked anew.

Narrative: You shake from your dream in a moist pallor. It seemed so real at the time. You look left and right and see relics of lost friends strewn left and right. /get yearbook. You feel compelled to revisit the past anew. /view photo albums. You feel almost compelled by a higher force to keep returning to these fading memories of grapefruit orchards. /Stop nostalgia. Try as you might you cannot forget the times spent dri- /seriously stop, do something else. You elect to rummage through old shoe boxes that waft of herbal succor. /C:close program.exe

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Heretic, The Alchemist, Double IPA, More Offensive than Dr. Pepper 10 Commercials

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Heretic The Alchemy needs to Convery this to Hop Gold

Heretics, Converting Double IPAs to Bitter Barleywines, without a Eucharist.

Heretic, Double IPA, 9.99% ABV, The Alchemist

Ok so, I will make this a nice concise little freeform endeavor because this doesn’t warrant some Birth of a Nation pre-amble.

This beer is disappointing, as a DIPA, as a Barleywine. Just all in all it comes out the bottle all piney and grassy, not giving a shit. Honey badger in a bottle.

It is even more sadder(er) because of the story behind it. This was one of 700 bottles saved from the flood that destroyed the Alchemist brewery when that asshole Irene hurricane gave all the Vermont vegans an unnecessary bath. I was expecting that Heady Topper gold. This is some pinecone pyrite. It’s all malty and pissed off. Furthermore, it is rare, so rarity always boosts the taste right? Not this time. This tastes eerily like Hoptimum from Sierra Nevada or one of those super stemmy IPAs.

No stems no seeds no sticks.

After I tried it my face was all like this:

nooooo

Bad Hops are Bad

So sure, I had some regrets, I was not unlike Kanye’s illustrious girl, oh wait, what should I have ordered?

fish fillet. not McHopswich.

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Andechser Dopplebock Dunkel, Doppelbock 7.1% abv, Teach Me How to Dunkel.

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My neck, my sack, my dopple and my boch.

Oh shit, another top 100 beer? Guess it must be the waxing moon.

Andechser Dopplebock Dunkel, Doppelbock 7.1% abv

A: The beer pours a translucent deep caramel color with a huge amount of carbonation that maintains a generous head and sticks to the sides of the glass. It looks like a root beer float in many ways. Take this to a 6th grade slumber party and you will be the life of the PARTY, and shortly asked to leave.

S: This has a great smell of sweet clove, banana esters, Belgian spice, and mild milk chocolate. The cocoa and dates make it feel like a tame Belgian quad in many ways. It handles your nose like the gentlest of returns cashiers at Target, making sure that you are satisfied through and through.

T: This beer delivers a very mild cocoa front with some clove that melds into a banana and apple sweetness. The whole experience is just tame but understated like the calm poise of a regal mother in law from Connecticut. You know there’s a lot going on there, but it doesn’t get all up in your face about it.

M: The mouthfeel is both creamy and thin at the same time, PARADOXES ABOUND. The actual water seems very hard in that it has a crisp clean finish but the carbonation and slickness coats in a quick way. The drinker is left with a satisfying sheen like when you get out of a gnar gnar moshpit, dirty, yet, cleansed.

D: This beer shines in pulling off a crazy hat trick of imparting a ton of flavor, masking the moderate abv, and washing away incredibly quickly in a refreshing manner. It’s not like bears are MEANT for unicycles, but when you see the two combined, no objections resound. Tl;dr – lots flavor, good drink.

Narrative: :::BRRRVRRRMMMM::: Another full-sized 2.0L Bavarian truck rushed by unnoticing of the small German boy’s plight. Hans Geinlich’s caramel apple stand was not going so well. The modest price of 1 euro was not off-putting, nor was his fashionable marketing strategy of precariously reaching his arm out to motorists passing by. “Und zen, you schould be trying ze apples!” he shouted as a gaudy BMW roared past at 200 km/h. It was the location. He had an amazing caramel apple, sublime even. It was a manifestation of Gluck’s finest symphony within an ambrosial treat, but selling them in a remote stretch of the Autobahn did no one any favors. He once almost caused a 12 car pile up when a driver screeched to a halt to sample his wares, damn near flipping a series of tiny French hatchbacks behind him. “Und zen, zey cink zat I am ze jokes wit ze apples!” he sobbed mournfully and sat on a charred tire. Someday Hans would realize his dreams and create a Bavarian chocolate factory with a marketing gimmic involving golden tickets, but for the time being, it was roadside apple sales for this likeable little Prussian.

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Hill Farmstead, Ephraim, Double IPA, Granpa is Getting Touchy Feely

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The Best Imperial IPA, Ever. Ever. This is Mall Madness Good.

Hill Farmstead Ephraim, 10.5% abv, Imperial IPA

A: This beer exudes an amazing golden profile straight out of the bottle. I don’t want to reach for an Alad- ok it feels like a hop genie. The pour reveals a petulant ghost that traveled 3000 miles to meet my mouth and isn’t too disturbed by the prospect. Nice lacing, the glass looks as baroque as the day will allow with marshmellow foam everywhere. The rim feels like a late 90s rave/foam party. You know the drill.

S: This must feel what old Sutter felt like when he discovered gold at his mill, except replace gold with amazing hop assault to my dome piece. It initially hissed when I opened the growler and a hop cloud literally escaped like Patrick Swayze and nestled an herbal dissonance on my couch. Ok, not literally. But it smelled a lot like husking limes, apricots, tangerines, and lemons: WHICH I DO OFTEN.

T: Things get real in the field once it touches your lips. This beer is fantastic and, wait for it, is likely the best DIPA that I have ever had. I know this betrays my Pliny roots and the west coast in general but it just cannot be denied or overstated. The hops start out in a sweet/tart note then the deceptacons gather and a huge herbal robot assembles all up in my grill. HE BEGS FOR AMISTAD. The herbal wafts expand like I am all into home growing except my mouth is the botanical garden, and there is only consumption.

M: This beer has an amazing character that I would liken to a Subaru STI, an incredible speed and efficiency to it that just whips me about effortlessly, takes my money, and leaves me wanting more. The coating is minimal but perfectly balanced for the style. It somehow doesn’t fall into the old trap of east coast IPAs where there foolishly seek balance. This is just crazy from beginning to end.

D: I can’t even seriously address this section without hyperbole. Live Oak Hef and this beer need to go head to head for the most ridiculously drinkable beer ever made. I will judge Live Oak Hef the winner but only for its galleon speed and not the man-o-war impressive notes that this beer imparts. In sum, this beer is incredible and the growler barely made its way to the Stone Sour Fest where it was met with mild nods of approval and summarily dispatched. For a beer so apparently lackluster, its 64oz were torn limb from limb. My handkerchief remained damp throughout the proceedings.

Narrative: “If you know not for the elusive Ephramus, it is because he is of the forest, never to be held.” The camp counselor told the youth, staring into their entranced faces. “Many years ago, I was visited, if only for fleeting moments, down by the lake, by Ephramus.” One child whose front two teeth were clearly missing whistled annoying “geesy, tells us more counshelors Morrish!” Counselor Morris lowered his brow severely, “if you ever see the Ephramus ghost, you must flee immediately, for it will consume your heart and spirit as easily as I consume this Fruit by the Foot.” Demonstratively, he consumed 3 feet of fruit roll up, much to the dismay of the children. Suddenly, Ephramus approached the campfire and moaned waning, “Ooooohhh Morrisssss you could have invoked me more ofteeeennnn but you refused to payyy Fed Exxxxxxx” Counselor Morris fell to his knees with careless abandon, sobbing. He knew that he gave up his love for his bitter distrust of shipping systems. Ephramus never crossed the streams.

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Zombie Dust, 3 Floyd’s, It’s like 7th grade, only drunker

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Oh shit Pale Ales just got real

Umbrella Corp's Finest Brew, from Raccoon City Brew Co.

3 Floyd’s Zombie Dust, 6.2% Pale Ale

A: There’s not a lot of pale in this pale ale, its more a mellow deep gold, the type you buy from Target, let’s call it a locket for a 6th grade amorous affair. Wait, got a little Corneille on you there, but for cereal, it is radiant and at the same time dull. A precise but bent blade with a nice fluffy head for dicing through mixed metaphors. It disappears and you wonder where it went like that show My Brother and Me. Seriously.

S: If this is a pale ale, then I don’t know what I will do when the zombies actually come because apparently shit is about to get hoppy very quickly. The bouquet is redolent of trillium and ivy, deep grassy notes, citrus candles from bath and body works, and grammies’ bathroom. There’s a ton of citra and galaxy hops going on, which makes me wonder if this can follow through with a taste haymaker. Sure that UFC fighter at the bar can make pretty eyes with his sweet cauliflower ears but, what will he do with his jagged dental-insurance-free smile?

T: Well the citrus is still there and the grapefruit is still very pleasant, but in a more Savage Garden listening level. I don’t get an intense alcoholic waft or a drying hoppy censure but wow, it just tastes incredibly and has such a refreshing waft to it. The juiciness just sits and stews for a moment on the palate and makes this beer seem far bigger than the britches index would dictate. I have to exercise active restraint not to swallow this entire glass with my fraternity number being called overhead like a resplendent debasing glottal fricative. SHOUTING AND LOUD NOISES.

M: It is strange because this allegedly isn’t an IPA, ok fine, I will grant you that, it is light and fun, like times with Husky Scampers in the woodshed, but it feels like it knows something that I do not. There’s just way, way too much flavor taking place for the simplicity of the canvas presented. It is minimalist like a 1960’s Carrera 911, but performs so well. It is fitting that the serving size is a 6 pack because I could see myself powering through this like an undead army.

D: If this is what we are supposed to drink when the zombie apocalypse comes, then humanity is basically in the palm of Raccoon City and Umbrella Corp. To say that this is drinkable is a wild understatement. This beer exists as a thin, wispy flavor delivery apparatus of German engineering. Not a single part of this hop buffalo is wasted and these zombie native americans also are enamored with shiny things, namely the sweet succor of perfectly executed hops. The question everyone will be asking: Does this take the crown from Hoppy Birthday, the best Pale Ale ever made? Not quite, now now, quiet down. It is good, fantastic even, but there is a mild Gose saltiness in the finish and it just doesn’t have the brightness that a Hoppy Birthday growler has. I will allow you all to file out to confront your Midwestern pals with this grave news. AND THE PUNS KEEP ON COMIN-

Narrative: The shells kept slipping out of Avery’s hands while she crouched in the desolate remains of what used to be the West Side Pavilions shopping center. “God has it only been 23 days?” she wondered to herself as she taped two bullpup clips together and deftly loaded them into her P2000. “It seems like just yesterday I was a mild mannered Korean girl studying for some irrelevant AP tests and now, here I am, killing the undead and fighting off the hopocalypse.” Some would later opine that the Bud-Miller-Coors triumvirate caused the mass hysteria and outbreak but, truthfully, it was the hop growers. Avery stared out of the slats of what used to be an Orange Julius, “shit, the vines, they’re moving like kudzu towards the northwest parking lot,” and spun a .45 magnum round in classic fashion. Those scientists who had sought to save the world with their ivory tower of alpha acids had now created hops so potent, people were completely unaware that they were becoming drunk, undead even. They roamed the earth, ravaging Taco Bells and Del Tacos, mostly. When those were depleted, even loud Linkin Park music could not stop their ravenous hunger. The hops had caused this, and the hops would end this. “AVERY!” her stringent father called from the balcony of the food court in some apparent type of boiled-down reconciliation. After 90 minutes of interaction, her harsh abrasive botanist father became a rounded character, realized that she needed her own space, and together, through their differences, music and botany or some shit, realized how to poison the hop plant and save everyone. But she still had to practice violin and go to UC Irvine. Or some shit.