Umberto Eco would be proud of this concoction.
There’s plenty of confusion escaping from the dark froth in yer glass on this one. What’s going on? Monks murder who? What sign of a sign of a…oh never mind. Eco loves mind games and this Belgi-därk has enough zazz and spice kick to loosen a few nuts and bolts in yer lumpy meatsack of a head.
That’s not to say things are too harsh sip-2-sip. Monk’s Bluut challenges and shapeshifts minute by minute. Like Schrödinger, you’ll never know the data, until you open the box and see a fucking cat that’s been dead for days. What were you doing with a deadcatbox all this time? Console yer weepy self with another uncertain quaff of the brown goo saluruping around in yer snifter. It’ll help.
In the end, you will drink this, until at some point, you devolve into the Monk’s Uncle: a staggering, sweaty, beastly hybrid who slobbers and grovels for trappist gruel. If yer ready to for a dark, churning Belgian transfusion, prep the needle on the Tap Head and drive it into yer mealy flesh. And don’t forget to ditch the rotten kitty.
-Pedro Wooly
- 2 years ago
- 2
