Review: Unibroue (Sapporo) | La Fin du Monde

We sat in the front seat of the school bus and he showed me his YuGiOh cards, while I sat, reticent, eyes glazed over, straining to feign a doting air. I knew, glancing at his uniquely steady hands, that he could shoot up a school at a moment’s notice. Nobody liked Cory. Hell, I didn’t like Cory. I wrung my hands trying to bond with him over our favorite My Chemical Romance song as I contemplated abrading my groin with coarse sandpaper in a fetishistic act of escapism.


An arsenal of anxiety

Born out of bad timing

I invested in a few moments in purgatory

To dodge an intentional bullet.


These are the folks that might grow up,

Join the military

And vent their frustrations out alone

In the


Or if they’re lucky

Start a family


South Dakota


Never talk about





That’s this beer. For everyone who considered suicide a fashion statement, there’s this beer. For everyone who got a little too much into Norse mythology, there’s this beer. For anyone who’s currently a CPA, there’s this God-forsaken Belgian Tripel.


Just give him the money and go.


Be silent.


Step away



Let him eat his taco bell in the food court


The camera









Apricot, hazy, gold around the edges of the glass. Bright, white, fluffy head.  Moderate lacing.


Meticulous notes


banana acetone, white pepper, rosemary and thyme. Orange and grass.


For no one but himself


 Apple cider, black pepper, bananas if they were bitter, bubblegum, buckwheat honey, baked apple. Cloyingly sweet…



But who will find them?


 Effervescent, syrupy, medium thick.


Like the blood on  li








To be













My fin    gers


*9.4 out of 10*


Review: Zima Beverage Co. (MillerCoors) | Zima (2017)







Bruh, you better not play

“Two Princes” by Spin Doctors



It’s time to smoke


  1. CRACK


And rob a bank

Because it’s 2017 and ZIMA’S BACK


It’s been a hard year


Donald Trump is gonna

make KFC day a national holiday

and your boy is gonna spray paint

Jeff Sessions

smocking a

dobie on the back of my






If you ever wondered what it would have been like to drink the Coors “clearmalt” classic while Twin Peaks was still on the air, now’s your chance.


I was lucky to score a bottle of this whale down at my local bottle shop, of all places.


No line.


No kidding.


Right?! I was fucking pumped, son.


They had a couple bottles of this Tilquin variant too, but I just had to pass though. Tickers were on my trail.


Let me show you my kill, dude…



Yeah, had to break out my OG Other Half Teku for this one.


So fresh


Oh, and peep that Trill-dill-ium Dialed-In print there?


So clutch, my dued.


So anyway, super clear, tight bubbles, nice legs on the glass—and I mean legggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggS



How do they get it so clear dude

I don’t get it,

Another lvel bruffest



It’s got that look of thin, cold spit– like a baby overflowing in grandma’s arms.


MMM and that nose?  Bruh, it’s weird, but it reminds me of a good sake mixed with Tang.

…Lightly bready…

A little bit of steamed rice… and pineapple Italian ice.


Dude, studying for this Cicerone exam has really helped me capture these volatile aromatics, bro


Sprite and codeine


Sticks to the mouth

Like tomorrow’s hangover

Or dried blood




This is literally the equivalent of Riff Raff’s Instagram account.




Review: Bissell Brothers Brewing Co. | Lux Rye Pale Ale

photo credit: Bissell Bros, twitter

photo credit: Bissell Bros, twitter

i’ve never committed adultery

the closest i’ve ever come

is flirting across town with two cats

in animal crossing.


i’ve never dabbled in that purple music.


that violin-laden chorus

punctuated with muted, arrogant trumpets and

spoiled with perverted

ivory keys


or perhaps,

maybe I’ve slid a finger or two

into the opening of a can

but not before


its contents into an unfortunate willi becher


reminiscing to the days of

listening to “me and mrs. jones,”

on repeat,

in a market basket,


eating english muffins in the bread aisle

and drinking johnnie walker double black from

the flask

your mother got you

for christmas.

the cute grocery clerk asks you if you’re alright

passed out on the polyurethane covered tiles.


she doesn’t notice the crumbs

you don’t notice

she’s still in high school.


winters are magical.


the aperture captures

more than what is simply put

directly in its line of fire.


the work of art conveys

the true spirit of the artist

despite his silence.


onion beer.

stanky stanky

got that danky lanky

pepper spray

take your pants off and pray

citrus pledge wipes


yet crisp

like the junction of lips on a cold night,

before copious apologies.



as I imagined that


awkward kiss

with billy mays


to be oxy cleaned

by my oxy queen

peel the paint right off the wall.



oh shit


the beer is good.


*9.8 out of 10*

Review: Brasserie Dieu du Ciel! | Solstice d’été aux Framboises

Photo credit:

Photo credit:

My God, this beer smells incredible. It’s so bright and fruity! How distinctively tart, like a field of ripe red raspberries dancing in the cool breeze! The nose on this is so good I could just

Vote for Hillary Clinton.










*9.0 out of 10*

Review: Founders Brewing Co. | Azacca IPA



I suppose there are musicians who have aged into their art gracefully. Ironically, when I started writing this, David Bowie was still alive.

Even more ironically, near injuriously, there then are musicians who have aged like bananas,
And Keith Richards still tours.

…Something else about Ice Cube and Are We There Yet.

Then what’s left are the pajamas-in-the-daytime set.

These are those whose appeal you equate with spending the day sipping coffee until 1 in the afternoon, milling about, before driving 5 blocks up the street to the discount grocery store where you buy five potatoes, one beer, maple syrup and toilet paper while glaring at the couple in North Face apparel in a strangely classist manner.

Does life still have the same meaning under fluorescent light?

You stand in the checkout line, becoming itchy beneath your fleece, wondering if it’s psychosomatic. You’re captivated by the smell of fried resignation coming from the deli department. The chicken carcasses dance their post-mortem pirouettes. They glisten, all pretty and clean. They exist fondly as they do formerly. Soon, you wonder this of yourself. The high school sophomore who rings up your groceries asks for your ID. You pause, momentarily; shocked that you realize you have memories older than she is. She sulks and heaves her uncaring arm forth, demanding legal rectitude in the form of a seemingly meaningless magnetic plastic totem.

This robotic bitch has never been haunted by heartbreak or the inevitability of death. Or, maybe she has, and you’re just too cold as to exist beyond the confines of your hollow, garbage vessel.

You know: those artists you feel just awkwardly comfortable approaching when it comes to their latest endeavors, like Morrissey, or Dr. Dre.

So, yes, I guess I am saying that Founders Azacca IPA is sort of like Morrissey or Dr. Dre. I guess that sounds pretty great.

…but it’s pretty yeah.
Since the day Mike Stevens and Dave Engbers founded Founders, they have at least attempted to brew along the cutting edge. The question now is: ArE They FUKin 2 Old 2 BrU?
Well, they are at least using a new, fresh hop in their attempt to stay relevant.

…In a glass, it resembles 4C iced tea clutched in the fingers of an angry aunt, smoking a pack between a kid and the delicate cycle. Translucent to transparent, it carries a slight haze with an off-white inch of head that recedes to a soapy film.
Sparse bubbles rise slowly from the bottom of the glass. Congratulate them.

My nostrils aren’t necessarily arrested, but perturbed by suggestions of orange sherbet, apricot, some sort of bullshit earthiness like wet leaves.

Wait, wait,

there’s something else. Something I can only describe as peach chutney follows.


let’s just call it Ritz crackers with some Smuckers’ orange marmalade on top.

I taste orange, melon—cantaloupe, light mango, grapefruit. There’s a grape characteristic distinct enough to the point of being reminscent of grape pop rocks. It tastes… irresponsible. It hearkens to the reckless abandon of one who pisses on walls of city hall, of one who bothers arguing that it’s in the name of liberal values, shouting, “I READ THE NEW YORK TIMES! I KNOW WHAT I’M DOING! I’M ALIVE! WAKE UP WORLD!”

…but I’m not necessarily saying this is a good thing.

The mouth touch is clean, yet not exceptionally thin—somewhat watery. Therein lies a medium to light mouth touch, dry, astringent finish.

I don’t know. I appreciate what Founders is doing, but with a beer like this I can’t help but feel they are sort of like the cool mom with the tight clothes who claims to like Kendrick Lamar because she heard he was a Grammy nominee, but cannot get his album title right (“Pimping a Butterfly?).

I’m not expecting you to understand.

*8.3 out of 10*