Fantôme Pissenlit saison, DRINKIN, PISSEN, GETTING LIT. Painful.

Ok, so this beer is another ghost asshole from Fantome, they make saisons and that’s about it. It’s like Cheech Marin’s character in From Dusk Til Dawn, but its…er…saisons for them. Sloppy saisons, wet saisons, you get the drill.

Fantome bottles aren't the same without that menacing ghost on them, hell, Bill Murray, even Ghostface Killah would have sufficed.

Fantome Pissenlit, 8% abv

A: Radiant bright yellow hue with a huge cumulus ass head that fantome always imparts (the secret ingredient is ghost.) It kinda reminds me of pineapple Fanta, if anyone has had that obscure soda. There you go.

This beer winner, but something is a bit lost in translation.

S: This has the classic ghostly funk, but this time it seems a bit ratcheted back, a poised charlatan ghost who stinks of freshly cut grass and foggy rhododendrons. You know the type, giving out the same fake cell phone and name.

T: This is fantome all the way with a nice funkiness up front that imparts pears in a huge way, nice red apple (not like in a diacetyl hater way) and finishes with a kinda tart white grape sort of finish. It’s all pretty simple, like the cast of My So Called Life, BUT SO DEEP IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

Fantome always puts out beers that feel classy, yet primal at the same time, spoiler: Boo Radley is putting shit in the tree. Take that cat.

M: This is really thin and crisp, like biting into an anjou pear and then kissing a Bolivian farmer. Refreshing but kinda dirty. It washes away quickly with a lil gift of tannin flavor and mild hops at the end, waving good bye while your stepdad tells your palate to stop being such a pussy.

D: This is ghost beer to the max, for 8% you could drill this like a BP disaster. I think the interplay of the juicy notes, the floral spices and thin mouthfeel make this thing really sessionable for those Scrooge McDrinkers out there just straight popping phantasm libations all up in this bitch.

Fantome beers always look majestic and beautiful and then just destroy you. This is no exception.

Narrative: Anabel had been having an affair with the director of Human Resources, well, sort of. She loved him in a casual, throwaway sort of fashion, that is until he suddenly passed in a tragic car accident with a truck full of Honduran gardeners. Police were astounded at the record 13 fatalities, 12 of whom were riding in a B2000 truck. Now Anabel satiated her need by making sweet love to Phil Billingsley’s ghost in the copier room. It is not what you are thinking, Anabel didn’t just rub one out while thinking of a ghost, she actually made love to Phil’s ghost. She would channel him afterhours in the HR boardroom and lure his incorporeal body to the copier room, which, seemed kinda unnecessay since he could clip through walls and all, I digress. His incessant moaning and clanking chains got in the way at first, but eventually she found them charming. The part she could not understand was how he kept talking about Christmas and how her life would end up. She wasn’t prepared for that kind of commitment. It wasn’t until 4 weeks into these fantastic trysts that she realized that she, you guessed it, was fucking the ghost of Ebeneezer Scrooge. Not to look a ghost horse in the gift hole, she carried on this affair, until the copier maintenance man interrupted a seance one night. OH SHIT BUT ANABEL WAS REALLY THE GHOST THE WHOLE TIME. The narrator will allow you leave to get your mind unfucked from that sick Nabokov twist there.