1981 Bellevue Gueuze, The Worst Thing I Have Ever Put Inside my Body

Not every trade is a success. Sometimes you go hard in the paint with a 4:1 and end up with a bottle of oxy sugarwater. Such are the trials and tribulations of a ticker deep in the game, rubbing dregs on gums, looking for the next big hit, a bump of a new discrete potation to keep the blood pumping in the shaft. This is the DDB game. Today’s review is the clearest example of abject failure and stands as statuary adorned with laurels to the worship of the demi-god of failed trades. Myrrh and frankincense roasting at the altar of failed bilateral exchanges, bile and rotten liquid hatefully bubbling in tiny green vessels for upwards of 33 years, awaiting their baleful release upon the unwilling palates of modern combatants. Horrible shit, top to bottom in today’s review, and it enjoys the prestige of dethroning THE WORST BEER THAT I PREVIOUSLY HAD EVER TASTED, ENGINEERED BY MIKKELLER

Lets lay prostrate and accept the whippings in today’s review, there will be goozies.

Abandon all hope ye who trade for these

Abandon all hope ye who trade for these

Formerly brewed at Belle-Vue
Style: Lambic Style – Gueuze
Sint-Pieters-Leeuw, Belgium
5.2% abv

A: Just look at this shit and ask yourself how much you hate your body. Do you harbor secret guilt for things you did in high school? To what extent do you revile your past actions and forthcoming shortcomings? The sum of these chambers must be excessive to want to put yourself though this one. The cap was not rusted, the bottle was in “perfect” condition in the way that Peter North is perfectly engineered for destroying vaginas. This pours a muddy, depressing pond-water/Skoal dip cup look to it. If you add water to Nestle Quik, you will be on this 1981 oxy game. The carb is there like an opening band for Gwar, you know shit is about to get violent and real very quickly. Only those who have endured a 4 Taco Bell item evening will know this look in the morning, those splattered viscous browns and siltbed khakis. The venom of soiled bedsheets and Fedex exchanges gone awry.

This beer is so horrible that it stays with you for life, redistributing its terror on a semi-regular basis

This beer is so horrible that it stays with you for life, redistributing its terror on a semi-regular basis

S: This might be the worst smell that I have ever encountered from anything set forth as beer. It ranks well in the top 10 worst smells and I have been to the LA Morgue. In fact the petulant fermldyhyde wafts up first, coming across as hugely astringent for a mild 5% abv romp in the chemical burn tank. Next comes the smell of rotting fruits in hot summer air, like wandering through orchards well after harvest, a deep gagging produce decay that sets the stage of a Land O Lakes nightmare. Butter, everywhere. Shameful butter engaging your pets in the most repressed discourse that you dont even tell your therapist about. The grease profile is like the kitchen of a Peruvian C-rated restaurant, hefty and coating the insides of your nose with a weight of undercooked pork belly. Finally the putrid green apple closer, like Jolly Ranchers that went through the laundry in a load of nothing but menstruated thongs. Decadent in its filth and profound in putrid depth.

T: For accuracy, I could only drink about 3 ounces of this, and I tried really. fucking. hard. The smells are transmuted into a tangible taste but further elaborate upon themselves like fucked up Brony fanfiction. It takes the model of things you want to appreciate and scrawls perverse diacetyl penises on the finest Baroque art. The initial taste is akin to the waft you get when your garbage disposal acts up, this filthy gurgling of old coffee bean acidity and ground up old bananas. The grease profile is slick in the mouth and this beer is not tart, not at all. There is a green apple butter pecan aspect that would be mildly acceptable if it wasn’t dipped in shortening and bacon runoffs. I can scarcely recognize this as a beer, it reminds me more of a fear inducing potion crafted by a second grader when left to his own devices under the kitchen sink. How can a beer beer both greasy and astingent? How does it hit the inner wall of the cervix with a filthy heat while still holding the crest of Planned Parenthood landfill? Burnt hair and unrolled condoms mixed with pruno from cellblock C cannot touch the depths of this misery. All this and I only had 3 ounces. I tried, I really did. I almost vomited, not in the hyperbolic DDB style, like a glaring autobiography of a hobby taken too far, gagging at each sip, flaying myself for a passion and the amusement of my readers. The purest dedication to this endeavor, pinnacle and zenith of all that is shame inducing actions.

the depths of the horror of this beer are derp altering.

the depths of the horror of this beer are derp altering.

M: This is greasy and heavy, then burns off like dirty diesel into a wafty buttered popcorn coating that lingers. The patient molest of your palate comes in waves, each more disturbing, no solace is provided as you are administering this unto yourself. The calm shame of your first masturbatory experiment coupled with a greasy facepalm that the longest 8th grade sick day cannot rival. These are the bottles that you hang your head and mumble the experience while avoiding eye contact. There is no acme of ticker pride, it is the crestfallen morning after where you realize you just impregnated a Samoan shemale, and this is your life here on out.

D: This is derivative, no words exist in English parlance to set forth how undrinkable this is. I cannot even bring myself to write a narrative about how horrible this beer is and recounting this experience is a mild PTSD experience where I lock my jaw and shake my head thinking how much a toll this horrible hobby has taken on me. I gave up Armand and Tomme, Loonz, and Zwazne glassware for this, just thinking of those bottles and looking at this pour, coating the insides of my tulip, mocking me, pressing its 33 year old cock against my bus window. I am mocked and I deserve it. Curiosity killed the cat and tickcuriosity raped my palate. A formidable changing experience on every level.

This beer is complete garbage pail discharge from the same era.

This beer is complete garbage pail discharge from the same era.

Narrative: I cannot contribute another 300 words after all of the foregoing. I did my best, but even I have my limits. Avoid at all costs, it will change you immesurably, like being jumped in by three rival gangs only to be rebuffed by each at the conclusion. It is without question the worst beer that I have ever tasted in my life, and I am forever marked as a result.


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

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.