I won the fuck out of this trade. I sent a couple of bottles of my homebrewed persimmon Lambic Pediobear and got this amazing beer in return. Etan hooked me up huge with this one, super serious.
For the uninitiated, working through geuze blenders, actual brewers, barrel houses, and De (x=whateverthefuck) is a difficult process. Sometimes you end up with dank shit, other times it is Timmerman’s disguised waiting to spring that $22 trap on your wallet. Most people don’t fuck around and stick to the old 3F, Tilquin, Loonz, but sometimes you put your dick in the oude gueuze glory hole and get some acrimonious treat.
The Mega Blend Geuze is a blend of young and old Lambic from eight HORAL members (3 Fonteinen, Boon, De Cam, De Troch, Hanssens, Lindemans, Oud Beersel and Timmermans). The beer was specially produced for the occasion of the 7th edition of the Tour de Geuze, and again in the 2011 installment. I know what you are worried about, “I swear to fuck Lindemans better not ruin this shit for me, I am having a Pi Phi over tonight to watch the Notebook.” Well let’s see if this shit goes Mega on the Dr. Wily tip.
Brewed by Brouwerij F. Boon
Style: Lambic – Gueuze
A: This has that classic radiant orange to it and certainly is greater than the sum of its parts because I have seen some shitty looking De Cam (flat as a sack of placenta) and some even worse Hanssens (murkier than a Kyle XY subplot.) The look makes me believe that those 3F boys had a hand in this with Boon but, appearances can be deceiving. The carb is nice but not some massive gusher, the lacing is largely abated by the acidity but it is still elegant.
S: This is musky and gives the smell of oranges, lemon rind, acidity couples with rainy day bicycle seat funk. There is a certain wet compost aspect to this like dewy leaves along with the grapefruit and ph1 madness taking place. This will put your olfactory on the ground faster than Diddy’s bodyguard gets ripped out of a Maybach. That fast.
T: Again this is a strange Voltron of all these geuzezes, you get the muskiness imparted that smacks of deep age and light oxidation, some gentle persimmon sweetness that is quickly pushed out of the way to embrace tangelo, kumquat, tart tiny apricots, and a kind of green apple finish. Put your brewer master bible down you limpdicked diacetyl asshole, no one is talking to you.
M: This is incredibly dry like a super oaked chardonnay and just rips the fuck out of your jawline. If yo have ever undergone ZOOM whitening, you will know the depths of this jimmy rustling. There is a bit of a brackish finish that welcomes the next punishing sip, and I am down for the pound like Jason Collins, oh shit, too soon for those jokes? Alright, pretend I reference Rob Kardashian being a fat entitled Armenian fuck or something.
D: This is exceptionally drinkable despite its acrimonious character. I put up with the hard times because the good times are so good, like fucking a Suicide Girl, you know in the end you may lose your friends and parents respect, but you keep hitting it. I would recommend this to anyone who isn’t a complete pussy, which rules out a large segment of the beer community, those who are left are either lumberjacks or don’t even drink gueuze so it will be a tough sell. Here’s a test to see if you should drink this beer, lean forward to your compute screen, if your tits are currently supported by the desk, you need to do some p90 and leave this shit alone.
Narrative: David Yost looked out over the Baltimore skyline and slipped his middle-aged face into the tight fitting azure helmet. Throughout the early-90’s children knew him only as the sophisticated blue ranger. He was mercilessly harassed by producers, but they obviously did not know who they were fucking with. Beneath the cool demeanor was a man capable of evoking a mechanical triceratops and conjuring the imagination of millions. Perhaps his perpetually matching garb and needlessly science driven banter was too much for some, but FOX could fuck right off. David slid down a drain pipe and worked his way stealthily amongst the west end projects. The feel of the cool vinyl on his skin was liberating and let him know that, despite his age, he was still a hero to many. His depth and complexity was laudable beyond the mere zord that he contributed the critical mass. Upon witnessing a hand to hand drug transaction David Yost kicked a Baltimore youth in the stomach with a swift roundhouse. The 16 year-old dropped on his Jnco jeans and David felt like he was battling Putties again, only this time with a real purpose. The vials of crack cocaine scattered and some Southpole clad youth could not believe that a white man in a blue costume was kicking the shit out of drug dealers with poise and careful dignity. As the thugs scattered David removed his helmet and bit into a ripe kumquat from the local bodega. The memory of his fallen Yellow Ranger, Thuy Tran, resonating like acid in his heart.