Beer Reviews from a Pretentious Litterateur

A place to muse over the booze we thought we would enjoy. 

Three Floyd’s Broo Doo: this beer smells like sex feels. Despite scent being the sensation most would eliminate from their own sexual experiences, I could never denigrate this beer’s phenomenal taste and sensory experience. I miss Southern Hemisphere without ever traveling outside the continent, but now I can order this beer and feel worldly. 

Rebel Juiced IPA (Mango Mania): more mango than mania, and that might be good for the brain, but no one keeps that in mind. I’ll buy one to mix it up and let a six pack chill in the fridge for six months. Rebellion becomes passé these days.

Electric Feel IPA by Magic Hat: If you are as good as the song, I’ll only drink you until MGMT makes an IPA, but I’ll be looking for Sleepyhead IPA next Friday.

Low Key by Magic Hat: I’m low key trying not to drink all three of these. I still won’t be too bitter if I do.

Pokro Brewery’s Monkey Assassain (double IPA): my idea of a monkey killer isn’t like yours, I thought those that killed monkeys would be crafty and cunning, but your method is more like what killed monkeys in Vietnam.

Pokro’s Cherry Sumthin: it wasn’t sweet at first, but 1/3 in makes me think of a cherry on top of a sundae of Greek yogurt.

Founders Backwoods Bastard: barrel aged scotch ale. You were aged in silk, unlike me, aged in this atmosphere. While you smoothed your edges, I had to breath in hot air of politicians and grew cynical. You remind me of the bastard I’ve become, though you somehow label me on your own chest. I know I need to go to the woods and embrace the cold air this winter.

Lagunitas Equinox: hops as smooth as the hips of a marble statue when no one else is in the museum and you can run your fingers across the masterpieces of the ages.

Three Floyd’s Wigsplitter: express train to a stout village of caffeinated elves who don’t sweat the technique. If it wasn’t eighty this would be perfect, but I’m still mad they ran out.

Zing Zang Bloody Mary Mix: I forgot to bring your buddy vodka with you, so I hope you aren’t lonely as I bleed you dry. I don’t want to be mean to a spicy friend.

West Coast IPA: I don’t know about you, but I always feel  22 ounces make an IPA better than if its one of those fancy ones served in a weird wine glass thing.

Three Floyds Yum Yum: Like a good referee it goes unnoticed. I drank the whole thing already. 

Margarita’s Margarita: yawlright, but taste kinda like chlorine. I don’t know why I like the smell of chlorine.

Three Floyds’ Pride and Joy: You are the realness. Buvaisar Saitiev would drink you, ya know, if he drank and read my blog.

Buvaisar Saitiev’s Gut Wrench Defense: It looks like you don’t even care, but I guess you don’t have to care about each position when you are the best in the world at most positions.

Trivento Malbac: another tunnel I’m told. Another plume disperses against the back of my palate–a sewer’s steam against a canopied restaurant that still smells savory.

Emelisse Black IPA: It tastes like black licorice, if black licorice tasted good and was made by spinning silk instead of straw through Rumpelstiltskin’s wheel.

Grätzer by New Belgium and Three Floyds: cold coffee, smoke over water, no fire in mind.

Bell’s Two Hearted: I lean away from consumable singles, but when you are bottled up you fight to be free, revealing your second heart. Drafted plans are crumpled on the floor.

Lagunitas IPA: IPA, yes IPA, you are an IPA. I like you, but you aren’t the only one in town, though everybody’s talking bout the new kid in town.

Malbec from churrCo: it makes my mouth feel like a tunnel. Rainy puddles from a Parisian metro staircase imported first to argentine vineyards then to this tunnel not of love but of dry, wan wisdom.

Chiante from la ginsstrA: the scent of work’s dry erase markers, or maybe youth’s scented marker licorice. Taste is sandy torrents spiraling only to the back of my tongue, sidestepping the straight forward sweet bumps I affronted it with.

Merlot by milbrandt: I smell nothing as nothing is an absence of not only molecules but pessimism. Is this chocolate milk or am I a man of international intrigue? No no no, I have many roads to follow you down yet we both know I’ll never go, and yet I love you and hear “Lowenstein” in the wind.

Caberneigh from William hill: you are sweeter than a pig soaked in grease and honey. Though a roll of quarters sits in the bottom, I am on top and I am with you, at least in this moment, in this bed, in my heart, but for long?

90 minute Dogfish IPA: you surround me like the hearth’s fire, though always in front of me, even my back side is embraced. Uncracked iPhone on my thumb: 90 minute on my tongue. You make me sleepy because I am overwhelmed by your beauty.

120 minute Dogfish IPA: you taste oh you taste oh oh…ooh. I remember you being darker, but you hit my mouth high and hotter than I remember. You may be too much for me tonight.

Pomegranate Vanilla Martini from Stacks: coke zero inside nestle’s strawberry syrup. Delicious and pre-internet–take his word for it.

Alpha King IPA by Three Floyd’s: an old friend’s greeting, you are always sweeter than I give you credit for, yet more bitter the more I get comfortable with you. Our absences should be shorter. You can open your bitter heart to me since you do it so smoothly, and never before I’m ready.

Greenbush Dunegräs (IPA): you smell like non-dairy malted milk balls. I want to eat the whole box. Just as my mouth went dry in between bites of Whoopers, each sip leads to the next, and I’m sad to see the glass half gone after only half a thought. Another round may not be needed as the more I taste the more my mouth waters, hops popping from before eventually pile high but not dry. We’ve met before, and I’ll fight the waves another day to hop through a stream to yesterday.

Pabst Blue Ribbon: I taste nothing, until a stagnant pool gives metallic timbre to the roof of my mouth and insides of my cheeks. I’m tempted to claim it the drink of Metallus Cimber, but I haven’t hung with him in years, and his brother Publius was cooler anyway.

Rebel IPA by Sam Adams:
I know I’ve lost my innocence,
but have you?
I presume not–you are
an expectations
no revelations
no consternations
absent deviation
yet you call yourself a rebel.
…but I like you
…enough for now

Chris Joll’s Whizzer: its low key arrival tempts me to play, but it hips in hard and puts me on my head. Pairs well with fish and trips.

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