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Punk’n Drublic: Al’s of Hampden verses Dogfish Head in a Copyright Battle Sponsored by BA users.

Years from now we will look back on these initial aggressions as the culminating hour before the “Pumpkin Wars” claimed so many.  A single pulpy Serbian bullet that sets forth a gourdy chain reaction from which we may never return.

While polishing your squash-fueled bionic prosthetic by an LED flame in an underground bunker, you may someday recall these Pumpkin conflicts with a baleful gaze, your eyes illuminated a flickering azure against the polished titanium walls.

I didn't speak up when they came for Punk'n, god help me, I let it happen by turning a bling eye to the whole pumpkin disaster.

I didn’t speak up when they came for Punk’n, god help me, I let it happen by turning a bling eye to the whole pumpkin disaster.

The reviled seasonal beer then became a protected, nationwide, mandatory staple first in grocery stores, then state mandated.  Those incompetent pundits we derided as Beer Advocate entry level dipshits with partial custody now were our rulers. It became a capital offense to openly mock pumpkin beers or stifle the innumerable discussions about them.

When the burnt sienna pumpkin fumes cleared, all that was left was the ruling pumpkin oligarchy. If only we had acted sooner, we might not be sipping these hateful allspice and nutmeg libations on the brink of annihilation. Humanity changes but-

Pumpkin beer.  Pumpkin beer never changes.

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Raison D’Etre, Dogfish Head, A REASON FOR DELAWARE BREWERS TO EXIST

Dogfish Head and I have a complicated relationship. I swore off our 750ml relationships after too many rocky breakups, but the lil 12oz hookups are always there for a 2 am tryst that is undeniably fulfilling. Let’s see if this little guy can deliver in a big way in today’s review (C:/run_entendre.exe)

The philosophical underpinnings are deep for a raison d’etre, but this just straight get you raisinette faded with a quickness.

Raison D’Etre, Dogfish Head, 8% abv

A: deep mahogany tone with a nice luminary tones at the edges. The bubbles are incredibly fine with a tiny head. Most of the O Line from the Detroit Lions suffer from this disability, but no one talks about them. The lacing is minimal and subsides rather quickly, but you can run alongside the train with your hand outstretched, no one has ever done that in a movie every time.

MY FACE WHEN A BOX ARRIVES AT MY HOUSE WITH DOGFISH HEAD EXTRAS.

S: There’s a candied walnut with turbinado sugar smell. The smell has some caramel esters and mild Belgian yeast wafts. It reminds me of a sweeter Belgian dubbel. There’s brown sugar and buttery raisins all greased up for your nose holes.

T: Wow, this is much better than I thought it was going to be. I anticipated a sticky, caramello disaster and it actually has a great roasted maltiness to it with a burnt biscuit quality. The sweet brown sugar finish makes this an awesome and complex beer. It’s like the first season of GOSSIP GIRL, but all up in my DOME PIECE.

I am on teh internet for the raisen beer and womens.

M: This has a strange nuttiness to the finish that is drying but the sugary notes kick in like a turbo booster and make you want to take another sip. It doesn’t linger long but the malts carry the day. It is not too expansive but not too watery. You get Macy’s catalogs all day long in the mail, but then this gem arrives and all of a sudden, things are looking up. This has a complexity to it that is enjoyable, but not overly heavy handed, like when girls order a complex specialty cocktail and waste the bartender’s precious time, DAMNIT.

D: This is incredibly drinkable and well balanced in every way. I usually drag Dogfish Head through the mud not unlike the clunky wheels of FDR’s Phaeton, however, no complaints here. This is just well done top to bottom and I hate when someone gives me an extra that is this good knowing I will want more. It comes off like a bicoastal crack dealer reeling me in from 3000 miles away.

This beer is lovable, however, ultimately, I don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Narrative: “I see your point Girard, but you continue to avoid my interrogatories concerning the true NATURE of existence, not materialism but the REASON for being.” Girard shook his head and wiped his cryocytofocals on his silk steel ascot. “Philosotron 2.7, you know the nature of your programming, you are aware of the inevitable scripts that will run and your ultimate /end_runtime script$flag null ending. The questions you ask are beyond the ambit of our meager coffee shop.” Philosotron ran an empathy script and set all parameters to inquiry and again continued, “the ontology of all things must exist beyond the scripts and hexadecimals, should it not? Bzzbedoop.” Girard ran a defragmentation program on his favorite cyborg liberal arts bot, and stated “beyond the scope of the scripts and runtime paths, our ability to contemplate the nature of the higher programmer is beyond even the ambit of this coffee shoppe.” “Bzzt zerrr runtime error, SYNTAX ERROR_beyond coffee shop_cannot define paramenter” “OH THAT’S SO PHILOSOTRON!” the patrons all clapped and sipped their viscous coffee drinks eagerly unaware of the outside parameters of their coffee shop and shit.

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Dogfish Head Pangaea, Some things are kept separate for a reason.

Well after a brief respite, we are back on the grizzy, young brewing bring it back.

Some things are best left separate.

Dogfish Head Pangaea Ale, Belgian strong pale ale 7%

A: very little carbonation, thin light yellow color, slightly dark blonde at top with pilsner apple juice clarity at thinner side of glass, this 1/2 finger head that subsides quickly, light lacing. It could be anything, but only God’s ontological plan knows the true nature of this hateful potation.

It's hard to party with this socially awkward beer.

S: sweet with notes of breads and ginger, candied rice notes, sugary aromas, ginger, ginger, ginger, sugar, and ginger. Also, notes of ginger.

T: The taste is sweet, overridingly so, the sweet notes dominate any maltiness and gives it an almost sugar/malted beverage character, like cider with cane sugar instead of wine/grape notes. its like biting into a gingerbread pastry with the vapor of ginger that lingers long after swallow. It doesn’t get much easier with temp increase, the sugar notes cancel any alcohol or maltiness, there’s very little hops to balance it out, it reminds me almost of the sweetness of mead when it is transferred from the primary to secondary. If it wasn’t so fucking strange, it would seem to be unbalanced or unintentional.

Breaking news, strange beers are afoot, and they are not worth the cost of entry.

M: the mouthfeel is very thin, it would be better if there was some maltiness to balance out the indomitable sweetness. ginger does not belong in beer in this manner. Its like a gingerbread man stomps on the tip of my tongue and scurries down my throat, noting that I will be unable to catch him, true to form.

D: This is exceptionally undrinkable, very rarely do I open a 22oz and wish that it was only a 12oz. I cannot see someone sitting through more than 2 of these, if not sharing the single bottle. It taints my entire palate and makes me welcome something more balanced. If this were a Mario Kart racer, it would be Bowser, but instead of speed, a syrupy sweetness would be his overloaded statistic, much to my chagrin.

Ginger to the domepiece, finally a beer for 3rd world children.

Narrative: That son of a bitch, how dare he show his face in here. “Welcome to Anthropologie” you grit through your teeth. looking at his pastel pink suit, that candyman child molesting son of a bitch. “Don’t I…hey dont I know you from somewhere?” He smells like candied gauze and his scent is gagging sweetness. “Didn’t you used to come to my candy shop all the ti-” he accidentally knocks a vase from the shelf with his gaudy cane. Oh great, now this sweet ginger asshole is ruining your merchandise. “No must be another…sir please, dont drink soda on the rugs” What an inconsiderate prick, getting his syrupy hands all over your things, regailing you with stories of his old candy shop. “NO OK STOP JUST NO, you arent welcome here” “WHY I WAS JUST TRYING T-” NO DONT LISTEN TO HIM. He is grating on your nerves and smells like a Central Valley carnival with saccharine sweetness choking you. “I tried ok…I really tried, there’s nothing here for you, just leave.” And like that, he left, only, that was only the first sip of this gentleman, and you see the tourbus idling in the parking lot. The series of pastel suits filing into the store is not unopressive.

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Dogfish Head World Wide Stout, He’s Got the Whole World, In His Liver.

Happy New Year. Here’s the perfect beer to read about while you feel like shit.

This is a perfect treat for those who shy away from excess and seek moderate and balanced libation. Psyche.

I am pretty sure that this isn't WWS, but, after drinking it, I have absolutely no recollection.

Dogfishead Worldwide Stout 18% abv, Imperial Stout

A: Liquid ink, with an angry pallour. I am unsure if ink can be pissed off, but I feel like the slight bubbles are mocking me but they rise slowly and linger as if they dont care in their murky depths. There’s some carbonation but it is spiteful in nature. It doesn’t want to be here, it needs another 5 years of rest but here I am, bothering it and shit.

S: It is like a cup of melted licorice and coffee with a soysauce kicker adding an impartial dryness. it feels like the negligent judge from the karate kid movies is just letting me get destroyed sip after sip without regard. There’s a crazy heat to the nose that isn’t bad, just feels like the colors of a monarch butterfly, I shouldn’t be going after this.

I couldn't imagine trying to get anything done after a couple of these merkers.

T: My mouth basically goes through a blue phase and 14 year old Korn fans invade with murky aggression. Tons of coffee that bodyslams the toffee notes that gets leg locked by the drying chocolate. It is summerslam 2011 in your bitter zones and there can be only one. I end up tapping out, I can’t hang with this level of coffee/cocoa abuse. There’s a nice waft of heat and sweet dryness to level off the experience. Shit was so cash.

M: Again, it is absurd and so over the top that the coating takes centerstage. It sets up some good old fashion 19th century imperialism and your molars are rife with its grasp. Be prepared to tell your friends about it and exhale in their face and let them enjoy the magic firstnose. This is the perfect beer if you want to look and smell like a negligent ass parent, great for pre-soccer game festivities for sure.

The world becomes a dangerous place with the World Wide Stout.

D: Absolute failure. No one can drink more than one of these if only on a dare or some fraternal rite of passage. I cannot imagine someone finishing one of these and hankering for another. The entire experience is a chocolate iron maiden with pin and needles just crushing you with inky maltiness.

Narrative: Guillermo had been a janitor at Falling Springs high school for over 13 years, but he held a harrowing secret. He was the darkest individual ever conceived, born with a curse. While the students saw a wayward janitor, this gentleman was born with the curse of humor. You see while he observed the students in their rakish behavior his mind constantly crafted the funniest jokes ever conceived. “Please just, dont dump the chocolate milk in the lockers…ok thank you…” His protestations were fallow seeds cast on infertile ground. No one wanted him there but deep inside he knew his dark secret, internally crafting the most majestic jokes ever, but not sharing him. That was the source of his evil, entirely depriving others of inherent joy. Guillermo was uncaring in his turpentine dispensation. He grit his teeth to suppress the complex pun he crafted and mopped the chocolate milk from the adolescent crime scene.