And it’s summer again. The humid bolts of lazy lightning drift across open grassland, sweeping a crisp hoppy scent into yer flaring nostrils. Flaring, that is, with animal lust. The Urge. Everything is incredibly fuckable. This oaked IPA and its orgy of palate-pleasing tastes are no exception.
In a world made mad by the comings and going of pheremone surges, this IPA soothes fast—a tranquilizer dart to the groin of yer beery libido. Placid clam drips o’er yer demeanor as 3…4…13 sips assembly-line their way to yer maw. Strange mental clarities arise like slowly escaping flood waters.
The tall, sweet hop grasses shudder, hiding the burbling undercurrent of rising intoxication beneath. There isn’t a spot of mud. Sparkling muddy ripples tickle yer toes and you suckle more and more dewey juice.
You can see for dozens of acres in any direction into the rolling green hills of oaky goodness. Absorbing sublime hop acids into yer pores. Confine the marshy beerwater to the friendly recesses of yer belly.