Ultra raer stout only $50, such a bargains for making the drain cleaning. Got those yankee candle tones, indian restaurant, escort spit and liquid shame.
Ultra raer stout only $50, such a bargains for making the drain cleaning. Got those yankee candle tones, indian restaurant, escort spit and liquid shame.
What were you doing in 2007? Probably looking at specs for the first iPhone, optimizing your shitty MySpace page, maybe pressing CDR copies for your generic post-hardcore band that you forced your friends to listen to. Meanwhile, this bottle was waiting, waiting for you to stop being a complete pussy. By most accounts, this bottle is extinct. It is reviews like this that alienate the fuck out of my casual readerbase and ensure that they stay fuck away and let the adults have a discussion, while they drink Ten FIDY or whatever normal people drink these days.
This is a beast, a monster. This beer puts the pussy in a sarcophagus. I know, on paper it is like “Alright, a Belgian Strong Ale from 2007, this sounds like a fucking horrible idea.” Stay with me now. This goes beyond busting malty wheelies for the sake of rareness, it is revisiting a page from that FFF pedigree from days pays. Time to show the betas what being alpha is all about. On a beer site. About sugar water.
Three Floyds Brewing Co. & Brewpub
Indiana, United States
Belgian Strong Pale Ale | 15.00% ABV
A: BPA clocking in at 15%? This sounds like the best idea since Hess brewed that 12% abv pale ale. The carb on this geriatric gem is minimal and pours out with this golden viscosity just sheeting for days and leaving that clear sheen on the glass like tears on Drake’s face. The honey glows this dulcet amber and pangs of ambrosial sweetness. It kinda looks like aged regular ass Behemoth does with some years on it, but a surprisingly attractive beer.
S: The olfactory profile on this is a bizarre mishmash moshpit of titties being groped, plums, a weird cherry quad aspect, but then honey/mild oxy paper/and a crazy floral finish to it. It reminds me of a blend of tripel and quad in execution and the slightest agitation gets it to stand up wicked pissed, tossing esters to and fro like shurikens.
T: This is a sticky syrupy bomb that has a similar slickness and saccharine opener in line with huge wheatwines like SYXX and 2012 White Chocolate. The belgian candi sugar is up in the mix, there is a tart lemon bar pastry stuck in the middle, the swallow kicks up jammy fig and bruised peaches as the whole mob runs down your gullet trashing shit like Monsanto protesters. It is a riot, the unbeatable high, the whole experience, despite 6 year in the bottle to learn its lesson and mellow out, has not learned a fucking thing. This is the type of asshole who would pants the yard duty teacher. This beer says fuck Benzino and still gets the cover of the Source. The alcohol waft is present but integrated surprisingly well. None of the oxy on the nose is present here, or it might have gotten the merciless shit kicked out of it by the foregoing mob.
M: Again, this is sticky icky honey, put that sugar on my tongue. This coats massively like the fair-skinned version of Dark Lord, back in the days when Dark Lord was relevant beyond duping new traders into brewery only release offloading. For all the hell that critics love to drop on Southern Tier, this is a far most viscous beetus bomb than their Backburner series, but it also is a lot more nuanced and delicious. The abv warms but doesn’t come across in a fusel waft upon exhale, it just sits there stamping hands and allowing entry into the malty gangbang into your mouth.
D: This is not exceptionally drinkable, less so when it starts to get warm and open up. You ever have one of those friends who fucking starts crying every time you guys get really hammered? Serve him this. The SRM is deceptive as shit and then you can take all the Vine videos you want while he talks about how hard it is to make a woman climax. It is ironic that an old beer that is supposed to make you feel Alpha ends up making you feel beta as fuck. Drinking 800 calories in a single bottle: not alpha. Hypertension is only alpha if you got it from doing too many drugs or being a WWE veteran or something. Sticky sweet potations: not alpha, unless you are in a rap video, then enjoy all the Prosecco you want, I guess. This beer makes you feel like a pussy, but in a good way, that “needlepoint next to the hearth” sort of way. I am ok with that that kinda vajeen.
Narrative: Alphonous Konig had trained religiously for the upcoming North American Alpha Male championships and nothing would rob him of the title this year. His torn negligee tank top dragged blithely over this shredded deltoids, furrowed like wanting pumpkins. He had memorized decades of NASCAR trivia and could even call other contestants out if they had a limited understanding of rebuilding carbeurators. He purged his home of every single pillow in preparation of the event and deleted every person out of his phone with a BMI higher than 10. He didn’t need those negative influences in his life, even if his mom did call him constantly. It wouldn’t kill her to work on those obliques. After completing an advanced course in Club and Lounge Rhetoric, he felt fully equipped to demean and manipulate women into his graces. Alphonous lost last year when it was revealed that he once agreed to a couples costume, to the judge’s dismay. This year his hulking frame and vascularity would demonstrate his loud mouthed, uncompromising, short sighted, demeaning, HGH driven egomaniacal self, with top honors.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I think we already know how I feel about the BASE BEER for this beer. However, the vanilla bourbon version was amazing. Another top 100 bites the dust. Let’s see how this bourbon banger holds up and how far it strays from that sticky sweet base beer in its roots.
Three Floyds Brewing Co. & Brewpub
Indiana, United States
Russian Imperial Stout | 15.00% ABV
A: As dark as Satan’s magic, a thick black darkness with a dark khaki head to it, everything about this just proclaims obscure undoing. The head takes forever to subside and the murky depths below allow no light to pass through, not even at the edges or bottom. Oil. I don’t remember the base beer being this thick but it starts to lean towards the Abyss and Huna levels.
S: theres the expected coffee and toffee but also a tiramisu smell or a rye bread in there as well, complex in the overlapping smells, but the alcohol is well integrated. God damn, I could smell this beer until it was oxidized and flat, holding the limp corpse of the beer that used to be. It was like when Sugar Ray’s “FLY” came out, WHAT A GREAT SONG, you just couldn’t get enough of it. Except this beer is actually good and Mark McGrath is a jizz waffle.
T: The mild sweetness from the base beer sets in first with a gentle macaroon and vanilla that is so gully so hood. Next up is light oak char bitterness and toasty smokiness, next a coffee and toffee finish rounds out the taste. Very aggressive in every aspect, but so balanced and in onctrol, it’s like getting your ass beat by a series of different martial arts in a matter of seconds. The middle chocolate dryness is aggressive and I would liken this to bourbon barrel Plead the 5th in a big way.The alcohol is the first to come but the complex sweet and roast start pounding on your tongue just as hard. it’s over in 5 seconds but with serious residual taste. Just like every single Craiglist date that you have been on.
M: It coats like cough syrup, if you drank this at 8 am, it would be with you almost until lunchtime, also if you drank this at 8 am you have issues that I cant wrap my head around. Very thick, chewy, like liquid chocolate that you can just feel making residence in your gumline like those mucinex characters, only brown, and with presspots of coffee. really over the top. Then add in a third layer of
D: In some respects, very drinkable, its a warming, thorough drink that hits so many notes youd appreciate it regardless, however, anyone who has more than 2 of these is a liar, or has demons that we cant comprehend. It is aggressive, but gentle, absurd, yet refined. You want to introduce your Vietnamese girlfriend to your parents, but her bourbon barrel face tattoo might be too extreme for them. BUT THAT IS JUST HOW YOU LIKE IT.
Narrative: The threadbare pallor of the bone throne was welcoming, and cool to the touch. “The vassals are ready my liege” he spoke through baited smoky breath, thick with mist. “SEND THEM IN” proclaimed the necromancer as he wet his undead throat with a…ok I just…I can’t
“you can’t what?”
“Just keep with the script”
He exhaled, knowing he true intent, a soul as black as murky depths, the production assistant with hatred flowing through his veins, encouraged and strenthened with every fetched latte, piercing darkness with every pejorative hurled his way. “I just..the script”
“OH YOU JUST? WHY DONT YOU JUST STICK TO YOUR JOB” the director ejaculated with scarring epithets. “SOON MY DARK MASTER SOON” he clutched an amethyst pendant and embraced the darkening of his soul. The third coming of the Kentucky Pazuuzu Bourbon God would soon be upon humanity, and only this one dude at Panera would be spared from the 9 snarling jaws of relentless masticatio- “COME ON! They are BAGELS, not ROCKET SCIENCE!”
You know when Three Floyd’s puts something in a barrel you are in for either an amazing treat, or something you hype up to your friends to convince yourself that giving up a Chocolate Rain was worth it. Don’t worry FFF, you guys nailed it with this one and I loved this bourbon club banger. Some people might not be able to roll with this and they clutch their King Henry’s and enjoy all their stout notes in their barleywines but forget all that, let’s sip some Owde Engwish 800 in today’s review.
Three Floyds Brewing Co. / Brewery & Pub
Indiana, United States
English Barleywine | 12.20% ABV
A: This has a nice turbid shine to it like a liquefied caramello with some Werther’s original gloss on the surface. The outside is candy and it smell sweet, AR-15 is on the passenger seat. The carbonation leaves something to be desired but, Megan Fox has weird toe thumbs, you gotta let some things slide.
S: The smell is amazing and presents itself like a surly toy class breed with charred brown sugar, fuji apple, vanilla, bourbon, hot hot heat, toasted marshmallow, and some sticky sweet caramel rounds out the experience. If you’ve ever kissed a 7th grader with braces, you’ll know what I am talking about. If you did that recently, maybe you are on the wrong website.
T: The taste brings the heater in the two seater and lights up the bitter and the sweet zones. The amps all go to 11. You get a hot bourbon aspect that I thoroughly enjoyed, you also get some bonus vanilla, creme brulee, oak, and candy apples. Girls debate how many bathing suits to bring to Vegas, guys debate how many bottles of BA Barleywine is enough. Neither question is ever answered adequately.
M: The mouthfeel is incredibly dry and scorching in a fully entertaining way. It’s like going to an All That Remains show where it is over the top metal with scorching hot licks that you can’t get enough of. For those unacquainted with this style it is like when Sega Genesis came out it was like seeing fucking burst processing for the first time. I got my bursts processed so hard. This is hot and dry, like euphemism simile quip punchline.
D: This is a tough beast to wrangle but I, in the minority opinion, would really enjoy taking a bomber of this to myself. Most people will get barleywine toxic shock syndrome and complain that it is too big, too confrontational, but fuck all that, what were you expecting with a Three Floyd’s Barrel Aged Barleywine? This isn’t some Ryan Seacrest jaunt in the park, this is a malt balls to the wall massacre. You can either love it or leave it. I LOVE GETTING MY MALT CUBES STEPPED ON.
Narrative: Sophia Jergens was a solid clutch shooter for the women’s water polo team. Some argued that it was her gangly appendages, her lanky fingers, or her outturned hips that allowed her to tread water; regardless, she came through when her team needed it. The locker room sessions were overly awkward. She had a slight hunch to her shoulders, and the rest of the team was markedly beautiful. “Ayn den I was shooitin de bawl aye was!” she drolled in her cockney accent that irritated coach and fan alike. She was a brash, uncouth, rough individual in a league of panache and finesse. “Oye me legs be gold panning the wayter like whales’ baleen it is! Ain’t trimmed the kudzu back in many a score!” she attempted to pun with her disgusting stubbly legs. Sure, she was a bit too offputting for her team, but she came through in the clutch, where it mattered.
This is the worst Three Floyd’s beer that I have ever had. That isn’t to say that this is a bad beer, it’s just that Three Floyd’s is so consistently good that, when I stumbled upon this style that I already do not enjoy, it was made even more clear. So let’s get loose with it and let Bruce Bruce hit it in today’s review.
Three Floyd’s Robert the Bruce
Scotch Ale, 6.5% abv
A: There is a murky deep mahogany that almost comes off as black but the light reveals the deep almond hues. There is little carbonation, and not much lacing. Sorry to wake you up BRUCE, sorry for bothering your WITH MY FRIENDSHIP.
S: There is some oakiness, some turbinado sugar, a tiny waft of whisky notes and overall a very mild disposition on the nose. The inoffensive light caramel is gentle and understated, not the flavor bombs that 3 Floyd’s usually drops on their consumers. Maybe the subtlety is in the taste?
T: Wrong again. The taste mirrors the smell and imparts a woody taste with some smokiness and overall just malts for days. This is not exceptionally chewy but the malt complexity makes you wonder what the grain bill on this beer looks like. It almost has a cigar smoke tobacco taste to it, which I am assuming is smoked chocolate malts or something to that effect. The hops are there in a very faint way, if only to make this beer taste like it isn’t just completely charred.
M: The mouthfeel isn’t sticky and for all the flavors that the malts impart, it isn’t that chewy or expansive. The thing you are overridingly left with is a bittering from charred malts that tastes similar to well done ribs. The oaky notes underscore this and make the beer even more drying instead of sticky in its finish.
D: I didn’t really enjoy this beer. This is the first beer from 3 Floyd’s that I have ever had that I did not enjoy. It is acceptable for the style but I feel as though they were treading outside of their element, with lackluster results. It isn’t a bad beer by any means but, I certainly wouldn’t seek it out beyond testing it out as an extra. You can do worse for this style, but you can do a lot better overall.
Narrative: “Bob, BOB, this is a break room, not a god damn comfort inn, put the OSHA posters up and get back to work.” Robert knew that something was amiss. His avid Christianity seemed to have missed a mark in his previous life, he awoke confused just hours ago within Pizza Party Land, as an assistant manager. “Fie, but canna ye know as to waere mae family bae?” he questioned imploringly and looked around dazed from the new shock of this reincarnation. Just moments ago he was leading his men on a Holy War, reuniting Scotland and declaring his people’s independence, now he was taking a ten. “Your family? God damnit Bob, just clock back in and restock the token machines in Gametopia, we are short staffed today and I don’t have time for your games,” Sheila sternly commented and walked away speaking into a walkie talkie. “Aye, tis a strange betiding, praeth as to wha ere aye be.” At his core, Robert the Bruce was misinformed of the tenants of christian doctrine. When his heart was reburied in Melrose Abbey, his body was reassigned to a compatible spiritual equivalent core. “Too kains,” Robert muttered and thumbed the medallions like Spanish doubloons. From national hero to assistant manager in the matter of centuries, just another day in the life of a god damn Bruce.
Oh shit, the Voltron of baller ass beers,l a blend of: Black Albert, Darkness, Dark Lord, and Beer Geek Brunch. I will let you ruminate on the potential for a moment. Alright. Let’s get this show on the road.
Three Floyds Baller Stout, Russian Imperial Stout, 13.8% abv
A: It has a bit of a wateriness to the pour that doesn’t really blow me away given the all start lineup of dark potations blended. The Darklord alone should be enough to consume the world, but it isn’t necessarily bad as a result. For the composition of those 4 beasts to create something with the coating of gentle Czar Jack, the result is anomalous. The carbonation is fantastic and clings to the glass with Ellis Island desperation. The color of the foam is dead on Dockers’ khakis, my favorite Mervyn’s foam selection.
S: The smell has a nice coffee roast with a bit of an oakiness popping in here and there, however, the wheelies are popped by the chocolate and sweetness. I can only assume that Darklord and Darkness teamed up to whip the other two rapscallions into shape. The brownie batter smell lingers until a nice espresso element sutures the wound and the smell is done. Pretty impressive really, don’t know what haters hate.
T: The sweetness has a great interplay with the coffee element and the result is a bitter upfront port character that is not altogether chocolate, but not just roasted malts either. It is funny how each beer contributed a different element to the final product, there’s the obvious sweetness from the Darklord that is faint, a nice coffee from Beer Geek Brunch, some roasted malts from Darkness, and a nice charred oakiness from Black Albert. No falacy by composition here, just a solid stout, BALLER EVEN.
M: The mouthfeel is surprisingly light given the composition of the 4 knuckleheads involved. Notwithstanding, I feel that it is a more original product as a result. I don’t enjoy this more than any one of the parts involved, but it’s kinda like a janky ass Voltron. It might even be Go-Bot status. But even the sorriest Transformer like Nightscream or Cosmos is still a Transformer, that’s pretty bad ass.
D: The individual beers involved, Black Albert excepted, aren’t exceptionally drinkable, but strangely, this beer is splishy splashy and drinkable. The coating isn’t intense and as a result the synthetic oil burns cooler. I don’t know who was submarining the efforts to make this thinner and easier to drink but, I would say that this is the greatest aspect of the synergy between the elements. I don’t know that I will put this in my water bottle before I get into some sick ass MMA, but it’s pretty breezy and enjoyable for a gigantic stout. This beer has me feeling all like a Newport Slims advertisement up in this mix.
Narrative: Metroplex was a shitty Transformer and he knew it. Sure, Transformed he was a bad ass robot that would make Gundam quiver. But he “disguised” himself as an entire city block. The rest of the Decepticons just kinda sighed robot sighs and shrugged their massive robotic shoulders when Metroplex would dissassemble himself into a Jiffylube, Chick-Fil-A, Planned Parenthood, and Ju Jitsu Studio. “Starscream, please can you just, tell him it is painfully obvious, no one is fooled, literally not even the blind Transformer Brailzor is fooled by his transformation.” Deep down Metroplex had feelings too. He knew that the disguise was shitty and inoperable. The Planned Parenthood was always closed and the Ju Jitsu studio just had a guy who watched a ton of Affliction tapes but, deep down he had spirit. The elements that composted his false city were bad ass in their own right, even if assembled it was an underwhelming display of power. “So then Megatron was all like Metroplex? More like METROSEX! Oh, oh, didn’t see you standing there Metro, uh, we were just-” Metroplex ran to the lower chambers of the elaborate robot facility and buried his face in his iridium pillow. “THEY DON’T GET YOU! NO ONE GETS YOU!” he cried his autotuned sobs into his comforter while his My Chemical Robomance poster looked on ruefully.
This is a fav. amongst the midwest kids who like their barleywines big, boozy, and slutty. Finally a barleywine more epickz than the Soulja Boy v. Ice T conflict.
Here, enjoy some Zozo Behemoth music while you read this:
Three Floyds Behemoth Barleywine, 10.5% abv
A: The appearance looks like a malty double ipa with a faint gold but notes of deep honey. There’s some wispy lacing and hydrophilic foaminess, and, like a Lewis Black set, it burns itself out pretty quickly and mellows.
S: The smell is that of a malty east coast IPA, oh how they love those balanced profiles. This seems like a quintessential American Barleywine, which is basically to say that it smells like a “triple” IPA. I know that category is still in vogue but that is basically what is going on here. There’s a huge sweetness and honey backing to the nose with a really mild vanilla but seriously, it’s citrus hops through and through, C-word hops: Chinook, Cascade, Cetc.
T: The taste has a sweet malty beginning like an unglazed cinnamon roll that quickly turns bitter and rolls into conifer Christmas tree sale extravaganza. The label promised “caramel malt notes” which admittedly are accounted for, but that’s like saying that a car has a powerful v8 engine and fail to mention that it is connected to a motorhome. I am not saying this is a bad beer, but it just has too much emotional baggage to be worth dealing with its massive malty rack. You weigh your options.
M: The mouthfeel is sticky and sweet that maintains that same clinginess analogy from the last section, but this time it imparts a lasting sticky pine sap taste along the gumline that reminds me of when I would taste my hands after climbing trees. Whatever, you had a childhood once too, stop looking at me like I’m some deviant tree taster.
D: I guess this could range from “yeah fucking right” to “wow, that’s 10.5% abv? I will have another.” I guess it all comes down to how little you care for your liver or seeing the sun rise. If you want to see those majestic ruby pillars caress the sky and coax a new day of illumination, then stick to lagers, this will drill you like a BP exec. Except this beer won’t apologize. Overall I would say it is unbalanced, hoppy, aggressive and might get better with age, just like BUCKY O’ HARE (first Bucky O’ Hare site reference.)
Narrative: Behe Mot was just an archaic monster trying to adapt to a changing world of sin. He rented a modest condo in Ithaca to embrace his bulging grotesque frame, and draped himself in clothes from Charlotte Rousse so no one would think twice. The truth was that terrorizing the vices out of people was a whole different game since the Book of Job. It was the pulpit of irony that Behe Mot was originally created as a scourge for questioning God because, as he stood in line for the Cinnabon, he himself questioned the existence of a God. The extra dollar for nuts and frosting seems hateful and punitive in a way the Hebrews never envisioned. For the mountains bear food for him, and all the beasts of the field play there, but no one is down to fuck old Behe Mot. At least leviathan would land some of that sweet sea tang, poor Mr. Mot had a life of fatal obscurity, for only God could release him from the hell that was an upstate New York food court.
Dreadnaught IPA, Three Floyds, 9.5% abv
A: It has a bright cloudy tangerine and orange haziness to it, lots of foam with huge carbonation. The lacing is thin but the whole presentation is great. It is a top 100 gem and I want to to be not as good as it is, but damnit, it’s another non-California DIPA that just owns.
S: It reeks of huge grapefruit and tangelo notes, some mild orange rind dryness, and almost zero herbal aspects to it. I have given this to sceptical west coast friends and after their facial reconstructions from hop assault, they were into it. Albeit horribly scarred.
T: The taste almost directly mirrors the smell, which is surprisingly rare in IPAs this big and complex. It has that great juiciness of Sculpin, orange notes, a strange tartness similar to grapefruit or unripe tangerines. This is incredibly refreshing and the abv sneaks in like a Trojan horse. THAT’S NOT THE ONLY TROJAN THAT SNEAKS IN IN THE MIDWES- just kidding they don’t use birth control, you’ve seen their kids right? Ok cool.
M: The mouthfeel is a bit bigger than the standard DIPA but it doesn’t toe into that disappointing maharaja range with excessive coating and chewing. This beer has an exceptional balance, but then beats your ass with hop cones. A strange note that needs commenting upon is how good the bubbles feel. They somehow hit an exceptional attenuation/carbonation level. Three Floyds consistently delivers exceptional products and this one delivers. Not trying to sound all tough, FINE I LIKE THE BUBBLES OK.
D: This is clearly exceptionally drinkable but the lack of availability, price point, and high-ish abv seems to draw away from the universal applicability of this beer. It is a world class but it as far as the epic DIPA class goes it is certainly not best in show. Overall, a great beer and the Midwest has a viable answer to the west coast giants.
Narratives: Shire Grassmuggins was not an exceptional piece of feudalism. It got exceptional amounts of rain and had incredible turnip yields, given the time and labor constrictions. Serfdom never exactly produced the most diligent workers, but, as far as 13th century economies went, Grassmuggins was a solid performer in a bull market. The workers were diligent and took religious holidays often, but the field was almost conscious of its need for crop rotation. The crude tools yielded amazing produce but the soil called out for minor improvements. The wind through the reeds seemed to scream to the peasants for basic nitrates through fertilization. Alas, this shire must let its latent glory remain unknown to other regio