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Three Floyd’s Zombie Dust, The Worlds Ballerest Pale Ale Gets the Chris Redfield Treatment, T-Virus Steeze

Pale ales have been largely passed over in this bustling world of DIPAs and O-ring fingering. Everyone wants to push that malt bill, get them mosaic hops, pound out some resinous tones and fuckall to sessionability and balance. It is like when Norwegian Black Metal lost its credibility and it was just all about 24th fret shredding. We all remember when that happened. But what about the old acorn penis pale ale? Sure it isn’t as big, but it has finesse and can go for long sessions. If you are expecting an asian penis reference, I will defer, the hop cone parallel is low hanging buds. A well done pale ale is amazing, more so than DIPAs in many ways. If you have ever rubbed Hoppy Birthday on your nips, you will know what I mean. Let’s fuck an undead woman in today’s review, so you can lose your -1 virginity once and for all.

If you posted this as your Walking Dead beer, I approve, but I kinda dont.  SO CONFLICTED.

If you posted this as your Walking Dead beer, I approve, but I kinda dont. SO CONFLICTED.

Three Floyds Brewing Co. & Brewpub
Indiana, United States
Style | ABV
American Pale Ale (APA) | 6.40% ABV

A: For a pale ale, I was expecting some sort of foamy splishy splashy affair, but this is kinda menacing, deep gold tones like those elaborate medals that dictators in Africa always rock. The carbonation is nice and subsides gently in a “pillowy cloud of douchey metaphors.” You get lil archipelagos of lacing and fuck yes I just spelled that without spell check. I dont really want it to be this dark, but, it’s kinda like when Kefka blew up the world, you know that Locke and Sabin will pull through this shit, even if you have to catch fish for 15 minutes.

the label is creepy, this beer is scary drinkable, but in the end you want to give it a hug and tell it everything will be ok

the label is creepy, this beer is scary drinkable, but in the end you want to give it a hug and tell it everything will be ok

S: God damn, this is like the Donkey Kong Jr. version of Kern River Citra. Seriously, it has mango, peach, dandelions, a light tree sap on the very end but just feels warm and inviting like a shot of fernet branca in your favorite whorehouse while away on a work trip in Amsterdam. You know the type.

T: This is more akin to hopslam at the outset with the janky cloying honey front but then the citra hops push that shit aside and it almost reminds me of that balance that Two Hearted has for a moment but then shit goes more Sculpinerer and finishes with a deeper orange rind zest. This is all painted on the canvas of an incredibly delicate resolution. If you have ever watched shrimping videos online, there’s a certain aplomb and gentleness to fucking someone’s feet that is difficult to look down upon. This is easily one of the best pale ales I have ever tasted, if not the best.

Drinking powerful ass pale ales will prepare you for some impending dystopian apocalypse.

Drinking powerful ass pale ales will prepare you for some impending dystopian apocalypse.

M: This is light and crackly at the outset and leaves streaking of tree sap resin, but in a saucy playful way on the backend and there is some light aserose aspects on the swallow. This is so god damn light but have in the vapors I feel like I am in a Eugene O’Neill play straight waving my face, getting the vapors and wiping my forehead from the execution. Shit is bomb.edu.

D: It would be an aggressive understatement to try and capture the drinkability of this beer. It was bottled 8 days ago and I currently have 40 bottles in my fridge with zero fucks given. Maybe I will give them out at Churchills Finest Hour, maybe I will buttchug some, who knows. Your rectum is the limit with a beer this clean and sessionable. I know DINT, whereever he is, will tell me that I am a shar pei dick for suggesting that a 6%+ beer is sessionable, but for serious, it is. I know we aren’t shooting darts at the pub and eating beans on toast, but if you need to bang a girl from the midwest, this beer will help you get in those Mudd Jeans I am sure they are still wearing. Midwest chicks probably still wear those wonky ass rhinestone BEBE tank tops flossing so hard. Alas I digress.

oh shit I just drank 6 of these on accident? Ruh-roh.

oh shit I just drank 6 of these on accident? Ruh-roh.

Narrative: Three hours, Chris had three fucking hours to mix this vjolt, pour it in the plant, harvest the hop cones, run up to the observatory, get fucking attacked by crows and finish mixing up his zombie elixir. Who even made this fucking mansion? Some doors require that you place symbols in completely different rooms and gems in moose heads. It seems like if you were living here on a regular basis that would get tedious. Annoyed Chris clutched his resinous v jolt vial and headed for the lauter tun, all he had to do was play Moonlight Sonata on the piano to access the lab. The real estate agent must have been less than forthright when she was showing off this Victorian mansion. Earlier Chris was attempting to get some grain from the storehouse and apparently one of the features of this 18th century gem was a sliding ceiling that would kill someone if they removed a broken shotgun from the parlor. It didn’t make sense, but soon Chris would have a sticky icky potable to sip on. If only he could get his hands on a dank Jill sammich he would be all set.

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Avery Uncle Jacob’s Stout, A Stout that Socks You 215 years Beyond the Grave

Avery beers have been divisive for me, sometimes it is a tart delight, other times it is a dramatic wine substitute. This is a nice foray into the world of their hellish huge beers in the same lineage as Mephistopheles, The Beast, Grand Cru, etc. I enjoyed one of those three, so we shall see how this 17.42% abv giant socks me in the face in today’s review.

The Left Hand glass is appropriate because this beer straight slapped me across the face.

Avery Brewing Company
Colorado, United States
American Double / Imperial Stout | 17.42% ABV

Let’s let the label speak for itself:

In the quest to create a collection of barrel-aged beers to be reproduced annually, Avery Brewing Company is releasing Uncle Jacob’s Stout, the second member of its Annual Barrel Series. The collection began with Rumpkin rum barrel-aged pumpkin ale in the fall of 2011, and now continues with this 17.4% ABV stout that was aged in first-use Bourbon barrels for 6 months. While the Avery Barrel-Aged Series features one-time-only batches, such as the recent Muscat d’Amour and Récolte Sauvage, the Annual Barrel Series features a selection of cellarable barrel-aged beers that fans can return to and get to know every year.

In other words, get ready to get socked in the liver.

A: This is jet black, Joan Jett black and this beer loves rock and/or roll. The lacing is minimal largely due to the huge slick sheeting imparted by the massive ABV. It settles to an inky blackness almost instantly but I wouldn’t expect my tank class to be nimble.

This beer will beat you ass, but you won’t feel embarrassed about it at all, well maybe a little.

S: The smell of this beer isn’t too menacing and almost comes across as something at half the alcohol content. There’s some gentle chocolate and brownie batter smell that subsides into some nice light char similar to a sweet Cohiba cigar. The bourbon has that oaky vanilla aspect similar to single barrel Buffalo Trace, but at 684 cases you know they used Rebel Yell or some shit that Eclipse nerds go apeshit for. Smells good, but this is the eye of the storm.

T: The sweetness of the bourbon rolls onto the sweet zones like tight sickles prickling the entire way back in a crackly chocolate pop rocks sensation. The light char can barely hold back the massive kraken that is the bourbon and sweet malts profile. Even the baker’s chocolate looks pissed, furiously rolling out baked macaroon shurikens and tossing them down the back of my throat.

Maybe it is the 17.4% abv, or maybe I am just too immature for this shit. Or both.

M: This is as hot as a New Mexico meth lab and scorches the insides just the same. The chocolate and coffee notes haunt like specters of mouths past, letting me know that this 12oz bottle should have been shared but, oh well, too late for those prodigious moments, off to 17.42% assaults. The chocolate octagon takes it out on your liver and Uncle Jacob stares on knowingly from a bourbon barrel altar, thumbing through the maltronomicon.

D: This is a tough call, at the outset I want to pull the simple “too hot, too big” red flag like all the haters but, I don’t think deserves that treatment. Sure it is a behemoth to wrangle and puts you back in 6th grade pretty quickly, the 16 bit RPGs are busted out after a single bottle. Sure you CAN drink a single bottle, but you certainly SHOULDN’T. I mean, sure I did, but do you want to be like me? Buying clothes at the LA Morgue and running a website that talks shit on beer nerds and hipsters? Well, I guess it isn’t so bad.

I guess this is similar to being put at peace, it is tantamount to self administered anesthesia.

Narrative: “This is a cop out but, I can’t formulate a reasonable response to this beer. My chest feels like E.T. punched my sternum and my mouth is like a 5th grade sleepover chocolate binge. I was gonna write this dystopian steampunk novella about a chocolate harbinger that steals bourbon souls, or some shit, but after a couple beers and then this haymaker, the creative juices are frozen in my head. I homebrewed something of a similar strength that was aged on Willet oak and it gave me this same heat in my chest and light residual headaches. Maybe I am just a cooze, maybe I could have just framed it as a first person narrative from some dialogue mouthpiece but oh well, here we are-” Thomas Jacobs thought to himself in his 8th grade algebra class, thinking of the 6’er of Coronas he had hidden under his bed.