Oskar Blues: Dale’s Pale Ale
Problems in classical genetics are overcome by slowly evolving processes. The amount of time necessary to imbibe proper amounts of this brew mirrors the glacial pace of multi-generational cross-breeding.
The beery end of this nucleotide rainbow tightly fuses the skin around yer brain into an orange rind husk. You begin to think it’s wise to do things like ghost-swim a boat. You compliment yer watersports by trumpeting Sublime bass notes every…other…breath. A human fog horn cutting through distinctly funkless clouds of water vapor.
Your body twists like a double helix as you climb back aboard, drenched, and reach for the last frosty can of Dale’s in a gigantic cooler.
Zesting your skull with a soppy paw, you guzzle acres of hops and fields of malt. Your breath reeks of satisfaction. And yer mental boat grounds itself on the shores of Lake Dale. Yer actual boat is probably meandering off into the Pacific because yer already back on the shore with wobbly sealegs.
The hybridization is complete. You’ve become one with this beer. You start telling people things like, “I seem to remember being born in Colorado” and you check your ass for yer birthday. Yer fingernails pop off in little metal tabs, only to grow back again.
Time to go juice yerself into the nearest urine-receptacle. Save the rind for another maritime foray into, around-in, and straight through a Gregor Mendel-approved case of Oskar Blues’s finest.