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.
-Pedro
- 2 years 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
- 3 years ago
Appallingly grotesque metaphor: David Foster Wallace’s corpse reanimated as a bum in the early morning light transposed with the first 15 minutes of a Next Generation episode. That’s Oskar Blues Gordon DIPA…more or less.
Now I’m not as thirsty as the bum who was willing to pay me for a face full of dog piss but I am certainly always ready for a good DIPA. 2 days and halway down a growler, this beer puts me in a good mood before dinner and a better mood after a Captain Picard verbal smackdown. And the like the ridges of Lieutenant Worf’s brow, the hops in the beer cut a bristling line across the top of your mouth. But the flavor doesn’t pain you, it sails like heinous JFK-like sailboat on a sea of bourbon.
Traditional is the mildest adjective I can think of for this brew. Isn’t that terribly interesting? Please do try this Colorado delicacy. No, I have not been paid to say that…yet.
-Pedro Wooley
- 3 years ago
