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Founder’s Devil Dancer Triple IPA, Dance with the Devil in the (TI) Pale (Ale) Moonlight

Triple IPAs. Ah, another controversial class of beers that no one seems to know what to do with. Is it a DIPA that is boozier? Maybe just a misclassified American Barleywine? Who gives a shit. Just pop your hoptops and let’s figure out what kind of demons the people in Michigan are escaping to need this powerful potation.

I couldn’t find the pic that I had of this beer so I drew you a recreation in MS Paint. Enjoy.

Founder’s Devil Dancer, Triple IPA, 12% abv

A: This has incredibly minimal carbonation, no middle body, and very faint lacing. It looks deep amber, almost red. It just sits there and folds its malty arms unimpressed with the Belgian tulip I have lovingly provided. Triple IPAs are like housecats, they don’t need your approval and there will eventually be piss on something in your bedroom.

Triple IPAs are like mashing out on greens so hard.

S: The smell has a malty hop presence with an intense sweetness that almost mows over the grassiness present in the back end. It’s like that kid in Geometry that has a heart of gold but covers it up with a Limp Bizkit t-shirt and a jerky frown; ONLY IN REVERSE. The hops are in an epic struggle with the boozy waft, but ultimately the hops win out.

T: This is wrong on two fronts: it is far too strong on the alpha acids at the outset and tastes like pennies rolled in the Vermont woods, then it turns into this wonky barley wine flavor that is far too sweet and cloying. This just stretches itself in too many directions, like a tortured asian teenager living under the tyranny of a tiger mother. Violin, gymnastics, math team, and academic decathlon is tall order for this poor triple IPA.

I like my IPAs to be hardcore, but not THIS hardcore.

M: This has the carbonation of a Nebraskan plains lands, endlessly flat and disinteresting. It just coats in a viney grassy way that lingers along the gumline and lights up a cigarette in a casual Jaleel-White-as-Stefan sort of manner. I am not saying that a beer this beer needs to be a gusher, but come on, don’t just LIE THERE. Ryan Gosling’s junk is uninspired by the sweet hoppy monster.

D: Not at all, I just sit and stare at the hateful liquid, letting the condensation beads form and dissipate. Even a 12oz serving is too much for me. It isn’t the ABV, I have had much worse. It isn’t the hops, I have had much beer. It is just a guy wheelieing while studying for the GMAT. Too much business in one glass and it turns into a train wreck.

Tripel IAPS? Gooby pls.

Narrative: Chip Thornewood gritted his jaw and pressed his house keys into the surface of the coffee table. “Well Mrs. Thornewood, it is tough to diagnose Chip’s condition, it isn’t exactly Asperger’s syndrome,” the two looked through a two way mirror and watched as Chip tore the pages out of a novel in the waiting room. “You see, he has a rare psychological condition known as Prickinium Disorder. It takes the normal human psyche and inverts all the premises that would make it pleasant, turning the patient into a bitter, well, I will just demonstrate. Dr. Thetic walked into the waiting room and offer Chip a Fig Newton. “Oh hey! Sure, let me go ahead and have some of this fruit and cake, or wait, HOW ABOUT THIS?” Chip violently threw the cookie onto the ground and spun his heel on the crushed remains. “Mmm, wow, very tasty, thanks.” Dr. Thetic shook his head with grave disappointment, “Mrs. Thornewood, I don’t know how to say this so I will be blunt: your child is an asshole. A completely bitter, self-absorbed, off-putting, unnecessarily acerbic and acrimonius asshole whom no one would willingly associate him or herself with unless compelled for a good reason.” Dr. Thetic scribbled out a hasty prescription for Ritalin and outstretched the small scrap to Ms. Thornewood. “It won’t cure him, but it will make him a sedate asshole, similar to those you encounter on a daily basis or at a hipster café. Godspeed.”

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Math Nerds Get Stoked: Exponential Hoppiness, Puns Abound.

Flipping the Hoppy Factorial Script. Reducing Polynomials All Up in your Dome Piece.

As if there weren’t enough nerds already into beer, Pythagoream theorum barleywine.

Alpine Exponential Hoppiness, 11.314% abv, Triple IPA

A: nice apple juice color with a bit more darkness, lacing looks like Indian tapestry, nice cumulus head to it. Sick Sierpinski triangle triangle sort of head.

S: Amazing juiciness to the nose with cantaloupe, orange rind, grapefruit, freshly cut grass. A great hybrid between citrus and herbal dryness. It’s like you splashed Andre all over a whole foods. Sick cuvee bro.

Oh wait, a triple IPA with a huge hoppy character, hold on let me call science.

T: There is a faint tart note at the outset, a huge pinecone middle to it, and a mellow orange taste at the end. It looks like a parabola of taste values, graphed over a 3 second interval. AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO THE INVERSE!

M: The mouthfeel is incredibly light and clean. This is definitely not a malt bomb and it is incredibly accomplished as a result. It makes me rap the keys on this keyboard balefully at the frustrating “brewery only” distribution of this beer. This ranks in the top 5 IPAs that I have ever had. It gently rubs shoulders with Ephraim and Dreadnaught with the utmost respect.

I want more of this but it comes out once a year. Halp.

D: If the other sections didn’t clench the “A” review, this certainly nails it on all fronts. This is more drinkable than any lager or “refreshing” wheat beer that I have ever had and it just performs on every level. The alcohol is a lurking ninja that strikes steadily removing your faculties one by one in artful ways. Bottle limits and unavailability are the natural predators of this base level of the beer food chain. That metaphor really didn’t put the applesauce on the pork chops so let me directly state that this is amazing and the average person is lucky that this treacherous beer remains elusive.

This beer is amazing. Darkwing Duck Amazing. Not Launchpad McQuack amazing.

Narrative: “Well well well, Mr. Jensen what do we have here in the bed of this raggedy old Toyota Tacoma? Let’s see, 1000w bulb, 32 temperature controlled pots, nitric fixated soil blends, and a series of 4 multiage fans. Quite the project we have here hm?” Spencer Jensen felt a single bead of sweat percolate on his brow. “It’s just. . .not what it looks like?” “Oh I am sure, looks like someone is about to become a botany major hm? A little science fair experiment?” Spencer blocked the door to his cellar and stammered out a series of incomprehensible excuses. “You see, my mom she enjoys gardening, but no, I mean well we all are starting a fruit garden but the soil, it isn’t quite ri-” Officer Worthington pushed past Spencer and proceeded down the cellar steps. “Oh yeah, great place for a fruit garden down here in this insulated ro-” The flashlight dragged across the floor to a massive lupus hop cone that appeared be aspirating. “WHAT THE-” A single centennial hop vine lashed across the room and entwined Officer Worthington, overpowering him. “NO EXPO! NO! LET HIM GO!” Sticky hop oils filled the room and dripped all over the officer’s clothing, making him smell like a 7th grade TOOL fan. “BURGGHHHHERHRH” Expo pulled the body into the center of the cone, grinding him into a sticky herbaceous pulp. Spencer Jensen had quite the secret to keep indeed.