Showing posts tagged IPA
    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.

    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.

    • 11 months ago
    • 11
    Pike IPA In the nomadic sequence of foraging that is beer selection, Pike’s glowing neon rainbow of packaging stuns yer rods ‘n’ cones. An eery aura envelopes you until a successful purchase is completed. I.P.A. Interesting, Palatable, Average 3 nonchalant adjectives raising a notorious question: to beer or not to beer? Handing yr hard-earned greenbacks over for 6 slushy hop bargains may not ring clear and true here. But letting yr friends pour one out for ya like a fallen homey? So be it. Essentially, it boils down to this-a colonial beverage of the variety found in Tom Paines study. A common sensical (wink!) hop ale for those rutting around like bull elk during the raunchy pangs of mating season. Don’t stray too far afield—wolves and “accidental” hunters lay near, salivating. No, step hoovily toward the gravitational center of this year ritual, an elky dominatrix with a bugle so sensual it’ll melt yer antlers. But stop stiffly plodding and (en)gorge yerself on the procreative powers of Pike’s IPA 

    Pike IPA

    In the nomadic sequence of foraging that is beer selection, Pike’s glowing neon rainbow of packaging stuns yer rods ‘n’ cones. An eery aura envelopes you until a successful purchase is completed.

    I.P.A.

    Interesting, Palatable, Average

    3 nonchalant adjectives raising a notorious question: to beer or not to beer? Handing yr hard-earned greenbacks over for 6 slushy hop bargains may not ring clear and true here. But letting yr friends pour one out for ya like a fallen homey? So be it.

    Essentially, it boils down to this-a colonial beverage of the variety found in Tom Paines study. A common sensical (wink!) hop ale for those rutting around like bull elk during the raunchy pangs of mating season. Don’t stray too far afield—wolves and “accidental” hunters lay near, salivating. No, step hoovily toward the gravitational center of this year ritual, an elky dominatrix with a bugle so sensual it’ll melt yer antlers.

    But stop stiffly plodding and (en)gorge yerself on the procreative powers of Pike’s IPA 

    • 1 year ago
    RYE APOCOLYPSE Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA Cascade RyePA Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye.  All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily.  The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach. Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this. There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection

    RYE APOCOLYPSE

    Laughing Dog Rocket Dog Rye IPA

    Cascade RyePA

    Torrents of bleeding mascara blacken the inner thighs of the city’s roadways as Halloween denizens and skanks roam the cloudbursted avenues in search of darker, drier air. Whether you’ve been a sexy pumpkin or a pervy French mime, there’s a “place” you can go to dry off. The Land of Rye. 

    All things hoppy in yer brain can be shed momentarily. We’ll return there momentarily.  The tannic grindstone of flavor you’ll soon be sampling (true) is the grain of rye. Straight outta Iowa or Nebraska like a beery field of dreams. We are so often negligent with the ugly cousin of malt and barley. This cousin is much older and always brings a dusty, earthen cough to the party. Just give it another cool glass of V8 to cover that hack. That’s Cascade’s approach.

    Or perhaps a funky aromatic nose-bath of hops? Codify the rods of rye into mere stirring sticks and whisk the leftover IPA you’ve gathered in yer cooler. Or wash yer lonely spritzer bottle into the dry hopping bag and wait for the magic. Chuckles the Pooch and his brew crew choose this.

    There’s nothing robust about Rye’s but the arid feeling in yer maw after the Cascade might leave the unaccustomed bewildered. In the interests of time and quantity guzzle every last drop of LD’s liquid perfection

    • 1 year ago
    Firestone Walker/Nectar Ales Nectar IPA You can crush sandstone pebbles beneath yer feet. You can wade into icy waters upon mountain tops. You can even dangle makeshift fishing poles almost 8 feet from your casting spot. But you cannot, cannot resist the urge to return to civilization when you know that yer future holds the glorious bounty of the Nectar IPA. The golden shimmer of bear urine flowing downstream on a near-dry river bed in mid-August heat only serves to remind you of the lusciousness of yer dearly desired brew. Wait, only bear turds—-black and wrinkled. Must have been yer own piss down this scruffy, parched creek. Tis a bad sign. The dreaded dehydration of the backwoods. No man should be forced to watch his own bodily nutrients abandon ship so hastily. In those last moments before yer preserved like a mummy on Thirst Ridge, try to imagine what you’ve missed because of a mere packing mistake. You. Dummy. Yer water filter is as clogged as yer nose would be inhaling the dankest whiffs of weedy hop nasal lozenges.  There’s nothing left to do now but sink into a heat-drenched stupor and gaze in hallucination at an imaginary bar booth where smooth, slender arched wood literally caresses your bottom. You lean in to chatter politics and nonsense in a haughty, nose-turning way and watch every other respectable patron gulp gallons of Nectar. And they laugh at the thought of sharing it with yer snooty, dying ass. -Pedro

    Firestone Walker/Nectar Ales Nectar IPA

    You can crush sandstone pebbles beneath yer feet. You can wade into icy waters upon mountain tops. You can even dangle makeshift fishing poles almost 8 feet from your casting spot. But you cannot, cannot resist the urge to return to civilization when you know that yer future holds the glorious bounty of the Nectar IPA.

    The golden shimmer of bear urine flowing downstream on a near-dry river bed in mid-August heat only serves to remind you of the lusciousness of yer dearly desired brew. Wait, only bear turds—-black and wrinkled. Must have been yer own piss down this scruffy, parched creek. Tis a bad sign. The dreaded dehydration of the backwoods. No man should be forced to watch his own bodily nutrients abandon ship so hastily.

    In those last moments before yer preserved like a mummy on Thirst Ridge, try to imagine what you’ve missed because of a mere packing mistake. You. Dummy. Yer water filter is as clogged as yer nose would be inhaling the dankest whiffs of weedy hop nasal lozenges. 

    There’s nothing left to do now but sink into a heat-drenched stupor and gaze in hallucination at an imaginary bar booth where smooth, slender arched wood literally caresses your bottom. You lean in to chatter politics and nonsense in a haughty, nose-turning way and watch every other respectable patron gulp gallons of Nectar.

    And they laugh at the thought of sharing it with yer snooty, dying ass.

    -Pedro

    • 1 year ago
    Oskar Blues Gubna Imperial IPA There are eyes on the walls and speculation abounds that you won’t fulfill yer contractual obligations. Namely, the clause stipulating a post game shower in the sweet juices of Gubna. “Don’t take offense rookie. All the big shots go through this routine.” But yer a little more keen than a bloated, unkempt agent with hairy palms. This is the beer you were born to enjoy. Shower, hot tub, ice bath. You’ll experience this beer as an extremely tasty lather on yer epidermis—and elsewhere. Gubna cuts through black, sooty grime and heals open sores left by oven burns. Hailed as the next all-star, you find much in common with this beverage. Give it a little man-slap on the ass when you slam the last sip of hop-resonant backwash. Curl yer lip and wink with a knowing smirk. You’ve already begun daydreaming of yer Hall of Fame speech. “I’d like to thank my friend and mentor, O.B. Gubna…” but yer choked with emotion. Or is it just a deft swig from a can stashed in the podium? All the same. Sadly, this magical toxin is sure to join the P.E.D. (Performance Enhancing Drink) list at the next owner’s meeting But from the back of the room, Gubna slowly and courteously tips the bill of the its cap. A knowing gesture to you, hero. -Pedro Wooly

    Oskar Blues Gubna Imperial IPA

    There are eyes on the walls and speculation abounds that you won’t fulfill yer contractual obligations. Namely, the clause stipulating a post game shower in the sweet juices of Gubna.

    “Don’t take offense rookie. All the big shots go through this routine.”

    But yer a little more keen than a bloated, unkempt agent with hairy palms. This is the beer you were born to enjoy. Shower, hot tub, ice bath. You’ll experience this beer as an extremely tasty lather on yer epidermis—and elsewhere. Gubna cuts through black, sooty grime and heals open sores left by oven burns.

    Hailed as the next all-star, you find much in common with this beverage. Give it a little man-slap on the ass when you slam the last sip of hop-resonant backwash. Curl yer lip and wink with a knowing smirk. You’ve already begun daydreaming of yer Hall of Fame speech.

    “I’d like to thank my friend and mentor, O.B. Gubna…” but yer choked with emotion. Or is it just a deft swig from a can stashed in the podium? All the same.

    Sadly, this magical toxin is sure to join the P.E.D. (Performance Enhancing Drink) list at the next owner’s meeting But from the back of the room, Gubna slowly and courteously tips the bill of the its cap.

    A knowing gesture to you, hero.

    -Pedro Wooly

    • 2 years ago
    Upslope IPA Lolling yer head to the side like a comatose beauty pageant contestant, beady dribblets cascade off the treacherous fjords of yer mouthmeat. Yer anticipation revolves around the grand prize:  1 giant can of Upslope IPA. Whether you have to travel across the Rockies or to Scotland’s Western shore (Killy Kilmarnock!), a trusty, robusty and mountainous ale such as this is a worthy sidekick. When yer Scottish and trying to properly appreciate the Irish on their national holiday—consider the consequences: none. Be as Irish as you like. Those Gaels admire you and yer people’s hatred of the English rule. Always so, always shall be. Nothing spells defiance like the spilling of malt and hops into a throat. Especially in celebration of all things British—but not English. Careful now. On an ideal planet, pale grey slabs of granite would run wet with this Upslope nectar. Perhaps the Afternoon Session Mountains would contain a vast bounty of these canned delights. This IPA is a buzzer beating solution to the double screen, pick and roll, backdoor pass and SLAM of mating season and Spring. The madness of billy goats corralled and shock collared into a high punctuated and flavorful pen. A frenzied milling about with busted endposts and splinters caught in thick, purple goat lips.  Ending your desire for Upslope comes at a cost because a single taste won’t do. Proper consumption comes at the premium of 6/12/48 cans at a time amongst the jolliest of characters in your friendship circle. Bellow laughter in merriment and swallow large “sips” in the manner of a rockslide and all things Geologic. -Pedro Wooly

    Upslope IPA

    Lolling yer head to the side like a comatose beauty pageant contestant, beady dribblets cascade off the treacherous fjords of yer mouthmeat. Yer anticipation revolves around the grand prize:  1 giant can of Upslope IPA. Whether you have to travel across the Rockies or to Scotland’s Western shore (Killy Kilmarnock!), a trusty, robusty and mountainous ale such as this is a worthy sidekick.

    When yer Scottish and trying to properly appreciate the Irish on their national holiday—consider the consequences: none. Be as Irish as you like. Those Gaels admire you and yer people’s hatred of the English rule. Always so, always shall be. Nothing spells defiance like the spilling of malt and hops into a throat. Especially in celebration of all things British—but not English. Careful now.

    On an ideal planet, pale grey slabs of granite would run wet with this Upslope nectar. Perhaps the Afternoon Session Mountains would contain a vast bounty of these canned delights. This IPA is a buzzer beating solution to the double screen, pick and roll, backdoor pass and SLAM of mating season and Spring. The madness of billy goats corralled and shock collared into a high punctuated and flavorful pen. A frenzied milling about with busted endposts and splinters caught in thick, purple goat lips. 

    Ending your desire for Upslope comes at a cost because a single taste won’t do. Proper consumption comes at the premium of 6/12/48 cans at a time amongst the jolliest of characters in your friendship circle. Bellow laughter in merriment and swallow large “sips” in the manner of a rockslide and all things Geologic.

    -Pedro Wooly

    • 2 years ago