Do you owe 500 dollars in back taxes to the Swedish government?
Does your mother know that you know that the cat smokes crack underneath the porch?
Have you, or a loved one, watched 27 Geico commercials in a single sitting?
Do you know what a ham sandwich is?
What is the Internet?
How many ARE you?
Did you ever want to learn a language in 4 days?
How about 73 days?
Are you not telling yourself that you didn’t know that you were aware that everyone knows that you said that you’re nothing but a fat, melting, piece of horseshit?
Why didn’t you?
What more dock off the total panel most episodic sent with folk queen pacifier under the fountain register did that?
You went and ate all the mmmmminimum
FOLLOW THE RULES
OUR OPERATORS ARE INSIDE THEMSELVES
Have you, or your mortgage poured black, with a nice khaki-colored head?
Do you pay attention to the color?
Do you watch it staring back at you?
…If you pay attention to the color, however, you notice it is actually a very, very deep garnet color. Like a black, with hints of rust. Auburn highlights on the edges of the glass when exposed to a lamp.
DONALD TRUMP IS RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT
It smells like burnt sugar, sour cherries, and it even has a red wine character—tannic, vanilla, almond, light tobacco. Chocolate,
Like the the best dryer sheet ever
ARE YOU, OR A 2011 KIA SORENTO, SUFFERING FROM
…Cherry, tart, lactic bite, dark chocolate, cocoa, bitter, tart raspberry, slight vanilla, very drying, tannic bitterness towards the back end, astringent. Coconut, acetone, classic acidity of a fine red wine. Very oaky on the back end, adding some additional vanillin. Vinous complexity…
CARL TO DAY
THIS RATE I BETTER START WALKING
…very quaffable, thinner than expected. Drinks like a slightly carbonated wine.
*9.2 out of 10*
I could compare your big chocolate ass to a succulent piece of ass, made out of chocolate.
The deep brown highlights of your essence shimmer in the fluorescence as if were clay, baking in the sunlight.
–Like, sparkly, and all that nice shit.
You got legs—up to your ass.
I get a whiff—OOOH — what do you wear?
Cherry blossom perfume?
Is that almond oil on your skin? So soft to the touch.
You’re like sour cream. You know the brand.
You look like coffee; you smell like coffee; you even taste like coffee.
Let me drink you in.
Like a fine red wine…
Like a Mounds bar…
You got mounds.
…and a big ass.
OOOH, child, there’s that cherry again…
Bring me back to square one.
You make me like a newborn baby.
Cut my umbilical cord, hang me upside down, and spank me— like they do in the movies.
Gah gah goo goo.
I could spend all night in your arms talking all polite like British S&M,
But… I think this sums up my feelings for you:
*9.6 out of 10*
…Yo, I just got some birthday cake Oreos and found out that I can watch Gilmore Girls on Netflix.
I learned what “arrested development” meant at the age of 22 and never looked back.
I finished a book recently. That’s pretty cool. I fixed that ticking sound in my car.
Wait, that’s a lie.
No I didn’t.
Shit. I literally sat here trying to think of things I accomplished in the last month.
I rearranged my pantry.
I gave a buck to this homeless dude who was trying to buy his wife a present for their anniversary.
I finished that bag of frozen kale from the back of the freezer…
Shit. I am on the cutting edge.
Shit! I had a Panini from that new food truck from down the block!
SHIT! I I just bought Avatar on DVD at FYE!
I’M SETTING SIGHTS ON PARTS UNKNOWN
Shit, I am Meriwether Lewis
ALL IN ONE
Call me Dr. Bronner.
I’m cleaning house.
You’re cleaning dishes.
With a raggedy-ass loofah.
And a stick
Ugh, Jesus, I’m like a kid just scribbling some trees on a piece of construction paper, showing it to his parents, looking for praise. See that brown thing? That’s the trunk. See those green squiggles? No, those are leaves, silly. See that? That’s mommy. That there? That’s teddy. Daddy is in the tree because he’s hiding from mommy because she says he can’t have sleep-overs with the neighbor anymore. Daddy is sad up in the tree. I’d be sad too. I love sleep-overs with my friends.
…and this is why I’m single.
Well, whatever. Who needs to feel adventurous and accomplished when you have Bell’s Expedition Stout to do that for you? Drink two or three of these and you’re Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzig. Hell, you’re fucking Mt. Everest! (Interpret that sentence as you will) You can take on the world just as soon as you can make your way off the couch.
… There, that’s it…
… just roll, kinda…
… there, you’ve got it…
No, wait, you just fell on the floor. Get up.
Dude, get up.
Bell’s Brewery is a brewery out in the middle of who-gives-a-fuck (Kalamazoo), Michigan. Their beer is next to impossible to get around in here in Vermont, so, naturally I am inclined to give it a high rating based on that fact alone.
Anyway, blah, blah, blah, head looks like cardboard, sandpaper, some mocha frappacrappachino. The beer is pitch black, and it leaves significant alcohol legs on the glass (You know what that means—this little piggy’s getting drunk). It’s got little to no carbonation, but no one really cares. As my roommate would say, it’s a “quiet” beverage.
It’s a big, wintery, boozy beer—but it reminds me of a lively spring. Yada, yada, earthy, wet earth. Vinous… tannic… leathery qualities that come with red wine—blah, blah, I sound like a tool— I get some tobacco, and “cold air” in there as well (I really don’t know, I was tired and probably tanked when I first wrote this). Oh, right, and it also smells like cold brew coffee and chocolate mousse; or shit, it’s definitely got a chocolate-dipped walnut, nutty smell. Fuck it, it’s a goddamned brownie. So on, so on, Slight diacetyl notes—like walking into a movie rental store. Blah blah, more bullshit, I have a strange synesthetic relapse and I imagine myself on Pine street on a Sunday afternoon in March, I guess? The sky is overcast, and I hear music in the distance. Wait, do I hear The Smiths?
The taste is surprisingly smoky, compared to the aroma. Big, earthy, overtones of roasted grain bloom upon the tongue. Some several maillard reactions are going on here. Creamy caramel notes coddle the tastebuds. Ok, ok, this is the exact order of flavor:
1. Dry smokiness à la pork
2. Browned toast
3. Salted caramel
4. Fusel notes
5. Dark chocolate brownies with some walnuts
6. That popcorn flavor, buttery, caramel covered
7. Slight bitter hop finish. Coffee.
8. Between 4 and 8, the flavor is very dry, borderline tannic. Aggressive, but attractive. Not a repulsive flavor. Pleasantly challenging.
The beer in the mouth drinks similar to wine, but it’s very chewy. You could describe it as silky. It sticks to the mouth a bit.
I’m going to die alone.
IN A BRAND NEW CAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHRRR!
*9.5 out of 10*
*9.0 out of 10*
T here is a McDonald’s off the main drag that is within walking distance from my apartment. It’s the piec e of shit sprayed over with glitter and given a fancy bow and WIFI. The tables there still stand as tall as I did when I bashed my skull against that one in the corner by the window covered in pigeon shit a nd hot picante sauce that could never quite be scraped off after the breakfast burrito incident. I’m f amily there. The otherwise despondent night manager slips a McNugget in my fries, every time. Strang ely, she never returns my calls. I spend my leisurely evenings confused, drenched in sweat, bitter, po ssessed by an atavistic sense of primal ennui—call it bloodlust, call it drunkenness—standing in line at 1 am behind that family.
“I want that McDouble with heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, heavy, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (I begin to contemplate my life’s meaning, here) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (nearly uncontrollable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, (slowly dying, inconsolable) HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY, HEAVY onions
However, every time, I leave satisfied, detached from the human race, blissfully careening into the black of the night, into the emptiness of mind, emptiness of soul. The cold consumes me and I am enveloped in a thick, numbing paste of nihilistic bliss.
I’m back in my kitchen, covered in ketchup. I’m scared and alone
Where is my promised land?
I ate a box of Crayola for this?
That’s Morrisville, Vermont’s Rock Art Brewery for you.
A reward for the trip there.
Cheap, obliging, friendly, folksy, accommodating.
Mildly unsatisfying, but it’ll get the job done.
Trying so hard to make two and two make three. Their late fall/early winter/who gives a fuck release, Vermont Spruce Stout, is an imperial stout… brewed with Spruce… in Vermont.
God, who cares?
Look, it’s a dark beer brewed with pumpkins, spruce tips, and it comes out once a year.
It’s a weird fucking beer.
It pairs well with Filet O’Fish with a heaping pile of shame and a large fry, personal resentment, feelings of inferiority, white, liberal guilt, and sharp cheddar cheese.
No one cares what the beer tastes like.
I’m covered in grease, sprawled naked on the couch, sobbing.
Somehow, I got tartar sauce on my back
MY GODDAMNED BACK
The beauty of fall is fading,
Death ensues for every living creature
I ate that one
A creamy, khaki colored, receding head,
A slight hint of mint, sweet caramelized sugar, roasted malt, and dark fruit
A strange flavor akin to grape pop rocks—I blame it on the spruce. It barely brushes the tongue before fading into the taste of pine and Christmas.
Full bodied from the pumpkin, I’m sure.
Heavy chocolate flavor
I dig it.
I dig it like a night of defeat coupled with a Quarter Pounder, no cheese, medium fry, sweet and sour on the side.
Thank God I’m not into Sudoku.
That’s my one solace.
*7.8 out of 10*
Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
…Founders Kentucky Breakfast Stout.
The things marked in our lives, these things—these intrinsically perfect things—these things that are objectively good baffle us, disturb us to the point of anger, but also inspire us and lend a shred of light and meaning to our lives. In our age of all things relative, where the plural is fashionable and the valuable pass like stenches from open manhole covers, the stalwarts of quality—these bastions of true grit—the Lenny Bruces, the Orson Welleses, the Karls Markses, the Js Rs Rs Tolkiens, provide stability and artistic and moral direction in our lives.
Getting a bottle of KBS is like getting Batman to show up to your birthday party.
It took me three years, but I got it.
You could not imagine my excitement.
This rare find—this standard—was finally in my hands.
Kentucky Breakfast Stout is a beer that truly needs no introduction, but always deserves one. It is an Imperial Stout brewed once a year by Founders Brewing Company of Grand Rapids, Michigan. Brewed with chocolate and coffee, it is aged in Bourbon barrels placed in caves, where it is left to mature and ripen into the legendary beer it is. Critics worldwide sing its praises.
I poured the drink. It quietly sank into the glass. I stiffened in multiple places. It was beautiful. There was just nearly an inch of white coffee looking head (and rightfully so). It had intense alcohol legs up to my neck. It was pitch black; teeny-tiny bubbles climbed along the edges rising slowly to the top, feeding the head with a sticky lacing around the glass.
The aroma was purely nostalgic.
I am 6 years old
Wandering down the
Aisles of the grocery store where
The bags of coffee hang above me, the sweet
Pungent roasts waft generously, garrulously
I smell roasted cashews and
From a brownie
A chocolate fudge brownie
Out of a bite of Ben and Jerry’s—
There is a brilliant roasted maltiness to the nose as it lingers a bit, tinged with a metallic mineral smell. Raisin and prune, there’s caramel as it warms. I find Bourbon, but it’s as gossamer as possible
BUT THE TASTE
The train screeches with the utmost alarm before it plows into the damsel in distress, tearing her asunder.
It is awful. It’s
So beautiful and
What is happening she
Has KB S but
It’s IBS and you cannot talk let alone get near to her due to her intense halitosis
That fucking halitosis that fucking garlic rotten ass bean curd loving ruby slipper wearing broken little fulcrum bending westward towards OBLIVION
The beer is unimaginably horrible.
It has this unmistakable muddled flavor parading away, pretending to be utterly complex. It’s somewhere between an imperial stout and a “fine,” “dry” “red wine.” It’s like a latte flavor from a suburban Hell of a Starbucks, where the barista has a hole in each ear, each eyebrow, each eye socket— it hits you up front, followed by the sickeningly cloying vanilla from the bourbon oak barrel. Then there is a strong, almost unsweetened chocolate flavor that pushes through with a tart cherry flavor. It’s leathery, so leathery, like the tannins from a red wine, or like a Great Uncle Bob’s backside. It cuts so deep with a very intense dryness like a switchblade digging into
Every nerve fiber
Tangled in the bloodied mess of sinew and fat muddled all to Hell.
I’ve listened to
Kid A and
It’s still April 1, 2014
The beer is undeniably stupendous
Like the corresponding album.
The last gulp was a creamy and smooth, but so effortlessly dry and clean.
Is it perfect?
I am not sure.
Nevertheless, as I begin to dose off listening to “How to Disappear Completely,” I realize that in a few days, this beer will also disappear completely. Off the shelves, until next year, it will descend into bellies or basements to digest or age, respectively. It is a remarkable beer. No bullshit, no quirky remarks, it’s just a damn
*9.8 out of 10*