Founders Backwoods Bastard At the expense of underselling the mental aptitudes of a canine, I’ll say this-the laziest thing about a dog is the reluctance of his neurons to fire before the sound of a leash or the smell of food. Thankfully, there’s a new man’s best friend and it comes from the gritty wasteland of Grand Rapids, MI. The Backwoods Bastard doesn’t growl or grovel. It glides languidly across any surface it comes into contact with. An applied chemist’s bubbleless river couldn’t compete with the superfluid texture of this high class ale. The level at which this beer operates is like the most subtle undercover spy. It’s old James Bond—sexy and discrete. Daniel Craig couldn’t power his 60-inch chest through a wall of these bottles. This surly secret agent is a master of disguise, cloaking his strange and terrible armaments inside in his underpants. There’s a vague backstory somewhere in these 12 fluid ounces about a careerist father, lonely hounddog and an evil dictator but we’ll leave that to wait for the motion picture. In the meantime, we can all use our damn imaginations for once and create our own boozy adventures with hipsmashing confluences of bourbon guzzling spies and tortuously enticing beer wenches. In the midst of all the naughty action between your ears, refuel your cerebrum (and libidnum) with a direct injection of what you would swear was liquor. You know, if the label on the beer bottle didn’t so explicitly contradict you. -Pedro Wooly

Founders Backwoods Bastard

At the expense of underselling the mental aptitudes of a canine, I’ll say this-the laziest thing about a dog is the reluctance of his neurons to fire before the sound of a leash or the smell of food. Thankfully, there’s a new man’s best friend and it comes from the gritty wasteland of Grand Rapids, MI.

The Backwoods Bastard doesn’t growl or grovel. It glides languidly across any surface it comes into contact with. An applied chemist’s bubbleless river couldn’t compete with the superfluid texture of this high class ale.

The level at which this beer operates is like the most subtle undercover spy. It’s old James Bond—sexy and discrete. Daniel Craig couldn’t power his 60-inch chest through a wall of these bottles.

This surly secret agent is a master of disguise, cloaking his strange and terrible armaments inside in his underpants. There’s a vague backstory somewhere in these 12 fluid ounces about a careerist father, lonely hounddog and an evil dictator but we’ll leave that to wait for the motion picture.

In the meantime, we can all use our damn imaginations for once and create our own boozy adventures with hipsmashing confluences of bourbon guzzling spies and tortuously enticing beer wenches. In the midst of all the naughty action between your ears, refuel your cerebrum (and libidnum) with a direct injection of what you would swear was liquor. You know, if the label on the beer bottle didn’t so explicitly contradict you.

-Pedro Wooly