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
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,”
in a market basket,
eating english muffins in the bread aisle
and drinking johnnie walker double black from
your mother got you
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.
got that danky lanky
take your pants off and pray
citrus pledge wipes
like the junction of lips on a cold night,
before copious apologies.
as I imagined that
with billy mays
to be oxy cleaned
by my oxy queen
peel the paint right off the wall.
the beer is good.
*9.8 out of 10*
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.
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*
Alright, ALRIGHT; here’s long-time reader and Malt Fiction subscriber “Shawn’s” top 5 beers of the year. Don’t go crazy, everybody; just calm the fuck down. We all know how important this is. We’re going to get through it:
5. Hermit Thrush Brewery | Jolly Abbot (Sour Belgian Barleywine, 2015 vintage)
Sure, Bolio, pick something no one has ever heard of. You piece of shit. Oh, right, I was there when you tried that. You still suck.
4. Maine Beer Company | Lunch IPA (American IPA)
3. Hill Farmstead Brewery | Arthur (Farmhouse Ale, 2015 vintage)
SHIT SON, YOU CAN PUT THIS BEER IN YOUR TOP 5, BUT NOT “I LOVE YOU, HONEYBEAR” BY FATHER JOHN MISTY IN YOUR TOP 10 ALBUMS? FUCK YOU.
2. Bissell Brothers Brewing Co. | The Substance Ale (American IPA)
Okey dokey, Sam Blow, I’ll give you a pass on this one.
1. Brouwerij Rodenbach | Rodenbach Caractère Rouge (Flanders Red Ale)
THIS IS THE GODEL, ESCHER, BACH OF BEERS. FIGURES, BOLIO.
…fuck, where was I?
These are, uh, Shane Bowery’s favorite beers.
Shap hates music, I guess–
And he lives in Canada
You might as well call him Ted Cruz.
At least Ted Cruz probably likes “I Love You, Honeybear,” by Father John Misty.
Fuck you, Jane Blooey.
Now give me my money.
PLEASE free Shamu.
This is what I think of your top 5, Jim-
I don’t fucking know.
I guess the beer is named after some jam band artist.
Like the kind of crunchy shit you see that old-time, communist, bird-loving hippie with Birkenstocks wrapped around his elbows
Eating a crappy harmonica
Dancing outside of the santanic co-op on a skateboard
Getting a tattoo of colonel Bernie Sanders on his inner thigh—
The right one—
Like, when are we getting back to those good old days when nobody cared that there was lead paint in our pancakes, and when we we’re bad, we got the good old-fashioned two-by-four to the groin.
I can remember Momma,
standing on her ironing board,
flipping the bird
And gramma and grampa would tell us about
Hacky sack fuckin
Fuck outta here
But the beer’s ok.
It looks like peepee with a bright white head. It looks as American as Lager, with a capital fuckin’ L.
It’s not completely clear or transparent, but somewhere between transparent and translucent, whatever the fuck that means. Also, it’s sort of reminiscent of sparkling hard apple cider. It’s leaves a decent, inappropriate, sticky lacing on the glass.
Very light aroma. Floral akin to tulips, light citrus, hint of pine, mango, bright orange on the back end.
bitter orange peel,
white bready malt,
white grape, faint fennel on the back end.
Crisp, yet medium body, dry finish.
Better than the average pale ale, but does lack some in aroma and taste.
*8.0 out of 10*
This beautiful ladey is a frantastic kind of beer to the godly pre-existing cataloge santamonius craft IPAs of Foley Brothers offerings. The promenade away from Winooski was well worth my time and effort and energy , notta mention my hard work sweat and blood .This beer Looks a lot like a honey-like. Golden. Hazey. Soapy lacing. Slightly off-white head. Kind of looks like duck sauce. Smells are very reminiscent of their Pisces of Eight, Kinda smells
like duck sauce.
Double parking up the hill
Stepping out the Audi in your hoodie-footies,
Use one porto-potty to see how it works
Use the other to get the experience
Spit on the barn board to make sure it’s real
Pineapple. Apple sauce (no spicies, just straight sweet apples).
Peachy/pear fruit cocktail. Syrupy. Very light alcohol
notes. Almost no pine. Chamomile escorted by a hop aroma and duck sauce
that is jointly fruity and pungeant. I over and over again instituted myself perplexed by the tang of this mangnmoneious tour de force. Going back to that Del Monte fruit cocktail cups—peaches, pears, marashino cherries in a syrupy cordiale.
Acrimony analoguous to orange blossom honey, then I obtain a strong honey and astringent orange pith in the hub of the mouth. Then there is desicated apricot. It withers into a understatedd pine and menthol.
Once again to make sure you’re real.
You don’t believe in chewing gum
Not even the kind that improves your smile.
Your ideal evening is casual conversation about your pets, the Phillies, and your favorite movie,
“Welcome to Mooseport.”
Very little malt temperment aside what can be illustrated as Hawaian sweet rolls.
Although Foley Brothers may not have created the carma surta on crafting the perfect IIIPA their allegieance to composing a extremist subdivision within the pages is quite ostensibel with all of this here before you, the most recent submission from what gives the impression to be THE superlative micro-brewery in the state most presently. “Prospect” should out to bea voluntarily analysized as a household erection of a rumble pack to the rectum by a brewery that is so completely forthright ready and adapt to procure the craft beer world by storm. To Paterick and Dan the master brewers, persevere with greatness. God sppeed and give em hell. Shoot em to thrill call em like you see em. You can get em when you wantem then get it get it done. You da best. I think you can kill ISIS
*8.9 out of 10*
Sun rises over the Akaishi Mountains.
The fog rolls in, billowing.
It slowly retreats as the gold tongues of sunlight lick against the tea fields.
Buddhist monks in a nearby monastery practice their levitation techniques while their pet dragon chases its tail around the premises.
A demented farmhand beats a goat with a swath of reeds.
In the distance, local schoolgirls engage in sexual intercourse with a demonic cephalopod.
These things brought to mind when sipping this beer, I find.
It’s as if it gives me no excuse to travel.
If I only have to spend $7.99 on this “plane ticket,” that’s fine.
No, it’s not being culturally insensitive,
It’s being culturally economical.
Moreover, if I drink enough, it’s like I’m flying anyway.
They can keep their Shaolin Soccer and feline delicacies.
…Wait, never mind; is that China?
…Eh, pretty much the same country—same difference.
I guess what I really trying to say, here, is that the Japanese can only wish they could brew beer like we Americans. I mean, hell, we pretty much invented beer.
Sure, the beer is really collaboration between Mitch Steele of Stone Brewing, Bryan Baird of Baird Brewing out of Numazu, Japan, and Toshi Ishii of Ishii Brewing in Guam, but we’ll just gloss that over.
The Imperial IPA was originally brewed as part of a relief effort after an horrendous tsunami rent asunder much of Coastal Japan. So, again, America to the rescue.
USA! USA! USA! USA!
Due to increases in efficiency, this new brew improved upon the 9.2% ABV from 2011, to now 10.1%. Rejoice, then, that you can support your alcoholism at a near 10 percent discount!
USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!
Before you black out, make sure to take time to appreciate the tangerine glow of this ale. Savor its great lacing, its bright white, pillowy (no, fuck you, Microsoft Word; “pillowy” is a fucking word, you fascist bastard, don’t give me that red squiggly line treatment) head, quickly receding. Note how very transparent it is. It has surprisingly vigorous carbonation, yet not so surprisingly, it tempers quickly.
Not unlike my astonishing sexual technique.
Before you zonk out on the counter, relish the aromas of peach, pineapple, grapefruit, honey, grass, and some floral crap—like orange blossom, or something.
Taste the spicy apricot. Understand the grapefruit. Attempt to rationalize the lemongrass. Challenge the bright, green tea flavor to an arm wrestling match. Flirt with the big herbal notes—salty seaweed, mango flavor (likely from the tea) grassy, vegetal qualities are all sweet nothings you can whisper to get brownie points. Appreciate the sweet finish. Settle with the sloppy seconds of more apricot, especially on the aftertaste.
Before your roommate calls an ambulance, notice that sticky texture left in the mouth, contemplate the beer’s decent carbonation and its warming, seemly post-coital coda.
Slam your head into the corner of the refrigerator door as you grab for the sushi.
USA! USA! USA! USSA! UAS! SSA! ASSASAUSSA! SUSSSUUSUSUSA! SAUSUDFHFNAKFOGSOEFGJAasaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
*8.8 out of 10*
CHAPTER 4 – Regurgitation
I gazed upon my orthopedic shoes, longingly.
If only I could stand as straight as a light pole
Liam droned—somehow excitedly—on, and on, about British dramedies now streaming on Netflix.
Great, sounds as exciting as a homemade hanging broadcast from a creaky loft in an unfinished summer cottage in the Cape, at twilight, as the boats draw into the harbor.
He stuttered against my profile, as my eyes focused like lenses upon the voluptuous essence lolling upon the barstool in the endearing shit-hole we shared.
God bless the Onion city! Defend! Advocate! Scintillate! Desecrate!
For attention in that kind of
“Can’t you see I want to be alone?”
Kind of way
Yeah, I hear you, babe. I love being left alone. Have I told you how long I’ve been alone? Let’s compare our longevity. Oh, too hot for you?
”…on bicycles, surrounded by screens just showing these awful, reality shows…”
“Oh, yeah. Sounds like a great show; I’ll have to check it out. It’s on Netflix?”
I took a big gulp of beer, nearly choking.
It was worth it—
Kiwi, pine, plum, mango, papaya disturbed the senses. I was in a fucking tropical paradise. Passionfruit laid out the welcome mat, pineapple came on strong, drawing me in.
Elements of juniper and gin at the very end.
CHAPTER 5 – Conversation
Leaning in, I see her pupils deflate to the tune of a pin pressed gently into a vinyl balloon.
I slyly sauntered over, eyes ablaze with perverse intent.
I burped Hi-C Ecto Cooler in her face.
I could see her eyes burn in the midst of that tropical bomb.
“Hey, are you enjoying the band? My name is—“
“Jesus, you sick fuck.”
CHAPTER 6 – Aftertaste
As my future wife scampered off in disgust, I slouched on her abandoned bar stool. Listlessly swirling the tungsten potion in my right hand I sniffed and snorted, loudly. Cannabis, orange, apricot, hints of Oolong tea. Brilliant shit. Slight herbal hops. Kumquat. Lemon, citrus candy, Orange Kool-Aid, better than Sunday morning sex—
The folks to my right were staring at me, clearly trying to figure out if I knew I was thinking out loud (I didn’t).
Ooh, girl, I want to take you out back to my tool shed and spank the lipstick off you, boo.
They began to fidget uncomfortably.
Baby, you taste like a sexy bunny.
The young woman began to tug on her boyfriends arm, hoping to quickly escape.
Bitch, I’m gonna drink the fuck right out your mouth—
The aforementioned boyfriend stood up, approached me directly with the most scowling bitchface before barking, “you’re a sick fuck. You know that?”
Ok, that’s it, I can’t write anymore of this shit.
This is so stupid.
I don’t know; just go and drink the beer. It’s good like last time.
Like, I’m wasting my time.
*9.4 out 10*