Southern Tier’s Jah*va Dagger teeth form on the insides of yer skull as you get older. So maniacal and pompous dentists say. To speed up this regression to a Cretaceous dental heritage, consider this aggressively ancestral brew. Like a wasp behind yer teeth, this demon-dark beer stings the first thing in its path: the tip of yer tongue. There’s an angry amount of alcohol inside the bottle and it’s rather cross that you didn’t age this bitch 4 years longer. Survive the onslaught of flavor across the bow of yer dainty palate and you’ll have some pleasant liquid islands of tranquility to pillage and savour. In a David Lynchian vein, drinking this ale manages to frighten and humour you. Imagine consuming the creature, Bob, from Twin Peaks. Lynch created an atmosphere of terror around him but Bob remains hopelessly white-trash and richly hilarious with his mullet and jean jacket. And chocolatey. Use yer Dale Cooper powers of intuition and conjure up some Himalayan gods to guide you, Bob, and that jailbait babe Audrey on a booze-flooded vision quest into yer liver. Only good things will come of this. This bottle has the night-ending potential if used unwisely. Or consumed in tandem with it’s brethren of high-alcohol coffee stouts. But sturdy your light heart and forge into the belly of this beast, hook its thorny appendix and gorge yer now razor jaws on the nectar of its primordial bile.

Southern Tier’s Jah*va

Dagger teeth form on the insides of yer skull as you get older. So maniacal and pompous dentists say. To speed up this regression to a Cretaceous dental heritage, consider this aggressively ancestral brew.

Like a wasp behind yer teeth, this demon-dark beer stings the first thing in its path: the tip of yer tongue. There’s an angry amount of alcohol inside the bottle and it’s rather cross that you didn’t age this bitch 4 years longer. Survive the onslaught of flavor across the bow of yer dainty palate and you’ll have some pleasant liquid islands of tranquility to pillage and savour.

In a David Lynchian vein, drinking this ale manages to frighten and humour you. Imagine consuming the creature, Bob, from Twin Peaks. Lynch created an atmosphere of terror around him but Bob remains hopelessly white-trash and richly hilarious with his mullet and jean jacket. And chocolatey. Use yer Dale Cooper powers of intuition and conjure up some Himalayan gods to guide you, Bob, and that jailbait babe Audrey on a booze-flooded vision quest into yer liver. Only good things will come of this.

This bottle has the night-ending potential if used unwisely. Or consumed in tandem with it’s brethren of high-alcohol coffee stouts. But sturdy your light heart and forge into the belly of this beast, hook its thorny appendix and gorge yer now razor jaws on the nectar of its primordial bile.