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
Any gift is freighted with extra significance when hauled across great distances. When the present is comprised of fermented barley, well, you know you’re in for a real treat. You’re already giddy with anticipation, like a pathetic child on Christmas morning. And when the thing is a growler full of the stuff, you’re probably doing a hell of a lot more than just kissing Santa Claus under the mistletoe. You’ve discovered his other big red cherry, and you’re just a little bit too proud of it. You’re a real sick bastard, but that’s neither here nor there. We have more important items to discuss.
This beer has traveled many miles, traversed a body of water, evaded the authorities, all just to arrive to your mouth. You ponder this fact before the first sip, but only briefly. You need this.
The nostril-fill is sweet and enveloping. This is nice, you say. The tiny hairs in your nasal passage quiver in excitement as the scent wafts up into your skull. You drink. The flavor glides right over your tongue, skipping it entirely, leaving those taste buds wondering what the hell just happened to them. The flavorful thrust of this beer heads barreling straight toward the back of your throat, smashing into it with an explosion of biting hops. Then, as time itself seems to retard, the liquid very slowly glides down your gullet, as the top of your mouth still tingles. It’s receiving special treatment here, and it’s smug, as it should be.
As the liquid hangs — lost somewhere between your mouth and your stomach — you get a little worried, and you ask yourself whether Nicolas Cage will track down this treasure for you. You then realize what a goddamn stupid question that was. Fortunately, before you have time to self-flagellate in atonement, you feel a satisfying splash in your gut. This beer is now in the very capable hands of the dehydrogenase. Rest easy.
Less tart than cough syrup, more salubrious than motor oil, this beer is for those who dislike speedy ingestion. All good beers come to those who wait.
—Yrethra Franklin
- 2 years ago
