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
In order to understand and enjoy everything good around you, there are specific conditions that must exist. First, surround yerself with presence of a loved one on soft sandy shorelines invaded by icy fingers of fresh snowmelt.
Then, in a moment of Ghandi enlightenment, thrust a fortunate hand into the darkness and yank a moistened bottle of Consecration from behind a slippery streamrock. Next, a flick of the wrist and yer shooting off an angsty cork into a moonless yonder.
Noisy columns of water slip and slosh awash with fluvial endlessness. You notice curvaceous silhouettes in what dim light invades your nocturnal veil. These should be tulip glasses—ready to contain what some call “liquid anticipation”.
A blinding spark of foresight: Licking the inside of an oak barrel. Playfully teasing the wispy locks of current and cinnamon imps. Or cradling an eddy of sour bubbles in your belly button.
There’s really nothing tricking or surprising here. You know it’s special when you hold the bottle. Rub it on your moustache and drink in the smells even after the bottle is dry. Let yer thoughts lounge amongst the sinuous vines of mossy dingleberries upon boulders.
Stretch your stubbly mandible wide like a shaved lion. It’s the hour of trolls and witches. Your beery thoughts now dream of the Motherland and wild, tart waters flowing brown and red.
-Pedro Wooly
- 2 years ago
