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Lost Abbey Veritas 007, Secret Agent Wild Ale, Busting Tart Spy Missions All Up in your Face

I feel like I have been wrestling with Lost Abbey lately and constantly looking in my rearview mirror, but one thing that I know is, aside from Duck Duck Gooze, this is probably my favorite sour that they have ever made and, spoiler alert, it is damn good. If landing this beer wasn’t such a kick in the taint, I would seek it out all the time. Let’s get this sourgasm going on today’s review.

Again, I forget if this is V009 or V007, you dont care, just close that Brazzers tab for a second and pay attention.

Veritas 007, Lost Abbey
American Wild Ale, 7% abv

A: This beer has a radiant glow to it and makes me suspect that Witches Wit or some golden was the base beer but, absent some searching on Alta Vista or AOL, the world may never know. Pathetic crackly carobnation and non-commital lacing make this beer ineligible for Jdate. Not sure where the tremblant red colors came from but, hey, belly up to the bar non-standard coloring, even a crazy off pink hue is welcome in these parts.

I can only assume that this beer will get more bad ass over time. If that is even possible.

S: This has that funky Jolly Pumpkin signature wet bandaids with sobbed upon cardboard smell to it. Sure there’s wheat and a tart finish but the trials of a broken breakdancer are the soul of the enterprise. Also, cherries and that aggressive raspberry that ruins everyone’s game and takes over shit rapaciously.

T: This has an incredibly expansive character with cherry and raspberry at the forefront. It mellow a bit, I was told but that is like saying that the kid with ADD is doing a little bit less shitty at math. This is still incredibly tart like a cider rampage but with more dryness. Somehow, skittles got invited to this bruja and decided that archetypical tart fruits would follow up the swallow. This is orgasm in a cup for a 6 year old palate. That, no I mean, it is what a 6 year old would really enjo-, shit nevermind, next category.

This beer is bizarre yet strangely refined.

M: This is super drying and light but refreshing. It would be more refreshing if I wasn’t so stressed out about drinking it at all. I can’t fault it for its existence. Sometime when I drink a rare beer, that comes through consciously and I am aware of it, denaturing the experience. I once drank ISO:FT and loved it, and then when someone told me what it was I bemoaned my fast gulps and distention to detail. This is a fantastic beer and the mouthfeel just served a self-destructive function. It was gone so quickly, said the Lotto winner, sobbing into a 4 seated jet ski.

D: See supra, this is beyond drinkable and, if I didn’t lack the temerity to seek this out, I would do so. Someone give me another bottle and I will write them a short story, just for a chance to indulge on this epic treat again. It is within the ambit of the best 10 sours that I have ever tried. It is like in Cold Mountain where Nicole Kidman falls in love with Jude Law after only giving him lemonade like once, WHAT? I didn’t even see that movie, I MEANT THE BEER WAS PRETTY LEGIT. That’s all.

Great in the morning, great as a nightcap, doesn’t matter, this beer is amazing, when Veritas is on a bagel you can drink V007 any time.

Narrative: The structure of Horatio Alger works and rom-coms had led poor Devin Terpin to believe that it was possible to transcend class structure immediately, if love and a 90 minute resolution was involved. “Repeat again Devin, ’And henceforth, the mandate shall remain tattered dicta’” instructed Ethyl Balmington, his social correctional instructor. “Hens for, this man-date is a tatted dick.” Devin stumbled out warily. Ms. Balmington shook her head reproachfully. “Devin, if you ever hope to attend this Laguna Nigel wedding, you need to work on your diction and content.” Devin sighed and kicked a patch of wild raspberries before him. “Wait, Devin, what is that?” he glanced down and the plant seemed to pulse at his distinctive Riverside dialect. “THIS STRAIN OF FLORA, it is highly combustible with your 909 prototype upbringing!” Ms. Balmington an experienced amateur florist snatched his Metal Mulisha bandana and ground some tart berries into a fine paste. “Now swallow this.” “OBVI!” Devin cried out and made his fraternal sign and downed the berries not unlike the sickest bro. These will take effect in approximately 90 minutes, and all of your romantic problems will be solved. “That sounds like the reprieve of some petulant candor, to say the least!” Devin retorted, astonished. His lifted Silverado changed into a Pumpkin Carriage, then it was on some sick twanky deuces, then it was a bagged pumpkin carriage, which, was pretty cutty irrespective of circumstance. A mere 90 minutes had passed and Devin joked with a pun based upon a portmanteau of Portugese and conversational Greek to one of the guests. “WELL I NEVER!” she cried out while polishing her monocle. “AND I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!” the reverend shouted and credits began to roll, over the expanse of the life of the sickest bro. The berries were poisonous.

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Pelican Brewery Mother of All Storms, Would You Kiss Your Mother With a Barleywine Mouth Like That?

Here’s a beer that I have had, oh, let’s call it 6 times and the picture you see below is the most coherent image that I have of this beast. That should tell you something right away. First and foremost, I love this beer, I love this style and it seriously goes head to head with Kuhnhenn, Arctic Devil and…ugh…KING HERNY GRUMBLEGRUMBLE. Anyway, this amazing beer is a treat, so let’s peep it out on today’s review to SEE HOW WIDE THE WINGSPAN IS ON THIS..er..MARK WAHLBERG HAS A STORM COMING. Just read it.

Actually it doesn’t look as bad as I remember, maybe it was my raging headache after merking this beast. Big pours, we do them.

Mother of All Storms, Barleywine, 13.5 abv.
Oregon all up in the mix, Pelican Brewery

A: There is an almost bourbon note to it. A mild agitation evidences a some small bubbles but it is clear that this beer is above you, much in the way that Hemingway never seemed to mind the banalities of a normal life. You rock it back and forth and all you see is a wafty character that coats with a scary liquid refusal.

At first I was hesitant, but I ultimately found the ravaging brashness to be a warmth.

S: There are deep bourbon notes that resound like falling down a mineshaft and hit every peat note on the way down. I don’t want to overstate the wood and bourbon but, wow, this is beer but it feels like a proper gentleman’s drink. This was made in Oregon but its spirit takes its summer vacations in the hateful south. It enjoys conifers in the summer and spraying down protesting hops with fire hoses in the winter. Too far? Ok, let’s stop turning barley wines into social commentary. This has a great heat on it and I don’t even want to age it because I like it for it’s bumbly angry presence. It rounds out this delicious dinner party with a fuck up that you can point out that is incredibly enjoyable.

T: There is a huge panoply of raisins, figs, mild dates and nice waftiness just like envelops like sweet caramel candy. I enjoy this immensely and the retraction from the huge fruits on the finish makes it all the more enjoyable, wait for it-

The sip to shiteating grin ratio with this beer nears 1:1, also, Ginger child murders local dog, film at 11.

M: AS A RESULT THIS IS THE BEST BARLEYWINE THAT I HAVE EVER HAD. I know I know, this dethroned Abacus, no big deal, you hate Barleywines. Wait a second though, I like the following LESS: Hellshire, Old Dipsea 2009, Bigfoot, etc. This is hands down the most balanced and amazing barley wine I have ever had. I just want to sip on this and watch a Ryan Reynol- CLINT EASTWOOD MOVIE.

D: This is not exceptionally drinkable and, you know what? GOOD. This isn’t here for your consumption, this is like a Terrence Malick movie, it is deliberate, slow, deep and amazing. If you drink this alone you are a jerk. Plain and simple. This has such a great resounding spirit to it that begs to be split on a balcony and horrible philosophy discussions will ensure. It is just wafty, boozy, complex and amazing. The thin mouth almost makes me feel like “give me a cigar.” But then I realized that I don’t live in the gilded age, so put out the robusto Grover Cleveland.

Forget shaken baby syndrome, give your kids this beer, watch how amazing they turn out.

Narrative: All of the brackish land lovers said that this take was too ambitious. Sure, there was a school of marlin right off the coast heading for warmer currents, but, for gods sake, did you look at the meterology reports? They didn’t want to end up like the crew of the S.S. Stone Tea, rest in peace, who lost every member in this modern age refusing to deliver tea by protocol. No; no. There was a much more insidious secret that no crew member beyond the first mate could be made aware of. This marlin galleon was commanded by none other than a pelican. To be fair, he was a completely able captain with a curse placed upon him by a Portland witch who converted his form to the omnipresent visage of fertility, well knowing that he was impotent. That, my friends, is a story for another day. Sure there was a cool pressure from one direction and another front with conflicting warm pressures and, wait, who is manning the sextant? Oh that’s right, a pelican. Their cargo of 1200 barrels of bourbon and figs might never make it to port but one thing was certain, with this capta- BGLUB GLUB:::GURBLE::COPYRIGHTGURBLE