This is a Bruery Reserve Society exclusive, so the expectations are already high when you had to whore yourself out to Johns on craigslist to scrape together the sheckles for this expensive club, well here were are. It’s an apricot sour, what does that mean? It is an acceptable alternative to Jamba Juice, plain and simple.

The Bruery Filmishmish, for those times when you feel like getting your fill of some mishmish. Ba dum mishmish.

The Bruery, Filmishmish 5.8% abv, Apricot Sour

A: Well, cant fault them for this one, it is a huge bright radiant beer like Ithaca Brute, all radioactive and causing birth defects but in a TIGHT ASS SOUR WAY. It’s like cool high voltage power lines that cause birth defects but you can GRIND THEM. Anyway, not a lot of lacing and carbonation is a lackluster affair like a Diane Keaton movie but you are expecting other great things so you chill out. It is a murky golden radiance and my main squeeze was all like “THAT LOOKS GOOD” and she said that about Hill Farmstead Flora, so she has a serious EYE for beers, just not a tongue for them.

There's a certain debilitating aspect to this beer, but you put up with it for the warm regards and delicious effects.

S: There is a deep wet hay musk with some fresh yard clipping smells and then of course that harsh La Bamba acidity from hoduran tears mixed with Apricots. It’s a communion to pay exorbitant prices for sour beer and bow in solemn reverence for migrant fruit harvesters, except it is inherently insensitive and modern ethical theory has no ready panacea. The label says “tart and fruity with notes of oak and grandma’s homemade jam” but it doesn’t note that g’ma was from the antebellum southern Bolivia, that changes things real quick.

T: The taste is very tart and acidic like an unfocused energy drink, instead of melted skittles however you are treated to a drying peach/apricot dryness. It is no Fou Foune but it is still on point, you get the juice and the citrus pithy acrimonious schpeal, but it doesn’t overstay its welcome. It is a chill old girlfriend who you high five and watch a couple episodes of Cash Cab with and dont call again, but things are still chill. Also your ex-girlfriend is an apricot in this scenario, I hope that is cool.

This beer takes the time worn Fou Foune and Fantasia Model of sours and flips the script to GOD MODE JUICE LEVELS.

M: The mouthfeel is light and watery and then guess what, ACID CITY recent survey indicates your upper intestine is the only resident. The taxes imposed are severe thereto. It finishes with a huge acerbic finish that lingers without a drop of herbs, wood or oak, just straight up acid that somehow works. It’s like a first date where he backhandedly berates you the entire time but somehow balances it out with coy references to Faulkner so you’re down with it, ok, only me? Moving on.

D: This causes huge ulcers and a caustic destruction of the stomach lining, but that being said it is also delicious fruit goodness for people who might not know what an apricot looks like. So for those people, this might be a juice substitute, and more power to them. It has a huge overpowering acidity that you want to embrace but, like a Filipino baby, it is just to offputting that you cant engage it for long periods. You know what I am talking about Niko, yes, I am talking about you Niko.

It may not be what bitches are into, but, then again, far be it for me to speculate as to what bitches are into.

Narrative: Steven Acriberg was born an only child and learned quickly the petulant ropes of vying for the attention of others. It did not necessary need to be positive, just a cold glance in his direction or a suspecting glance down the brow from a neighbor: it made him feel whole. Steven would often sit on the opulent porch peeling peaches and crushing them in his fist and feeling the juices run into his hang nails and watch the neighbors closely. Every person near him was a calfskin tome of secrets and ideas to be reaped. He watched an unfamiliar Edsel chug down the fresh asphalt of his block and he scampered over and placed a note, crudely scrawled, on the windshield “I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING.” It was oblique enough to raise suspicion but vague enough to make the general public avoid him. He was a dour, hateful little man, but he kept everyone lively and aware. His sour countenance came to the penultimate climax when his parents began having clandestine discussions with the locals, turning Steven’s game upon its head. At age 15 he slept with a Derringer under his pillow and fear for the sanctity of his acidic, bitter life.