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