There is a union. It represents yer capacity to have fun. Currently it is negotiating with a bottle of the League of Hops. You have unleashed the hellstorm of secrecy, caffeine-laced debate sessions, and predictable trips to the liquor counter to ease the swollen mental lobes.
The union wants the freedom to sample the vast varieties of hops, while the League throws an unseemly wrench into the machine, “Drink only Double Trouble. It’ll end you anyway. Throw away yer illusions about loving another hop-filled drink.” There’s a scratching sound that echos loudly in the negotiation room. It’s the Union of Fun digging its fingernails deep into the giant oak conference desk.
It’s true.
There’s no escaping how much you crave the sadistic hop assault designed by Founders. Only through this bottle will the union satisfy certain animalistic urges and thirst quenching desires. And only in Michigan could such a scale-tipping enticement be produced. A liquid carrot tied and hung on a alcohol melded rod of Hop vines. There is little, if anything, false or fallacious about the League’s Bargain.
Deal. And at last, the keys to a city of Double Trouble are handed over by the Warlords of Michigan. Reluctant, though they are, the masters of this hoppy domain understand yer plight. Under the conditions, at least. There is a glimmer of beery heaven awaiting in each of these bottles.
Eliminate the mediator and find a settlement of yer own. Slice the through the Michigander gauntlet and find the true source of pure hop enjoyment.
-Pedro Wooly
- 2 years ago
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
- 2 years ago
