And then there was that one time ye olde chaps from the Commonwealth of Virginia sent me some fine ales in the fucking post. I was quite astounded as they picked my tastes to a tee - an India Pale Ale, a Chocolate Porter and a Russian Imperial Stout.
You see, I had stumbled home one late night to wonder WHAT FRESH HELL IS THIS!?!? when I besottedly tripped over the box on my front steppe. I cursed whomever had left it there, though, as I reside alone, I had no doubt that I had accidentally ordered some sort of three dimensional printed porn in a late night debaucherous state.
The first fine bev I had the time to imbibe was Olde Richmonde Batche Numbere Elevene IPAe. (If those fucks can go ten kinds of extraneous with the letter "e," I sure as shite can.) The hops were quite nice, and I noticed a bit of sweetness. I saw no note of alcohol on the bottle, so I assumed there was none - I took the drink for breakfast. It was a foolish lot, but I cast the fuck out of it, so the pleasant morning that followed was my own to enjoy. I figure there's not an IPA out there that will disappoint in the AM, so maybe I'll have to revisit. That being said, there's nothing to telegraph home about, but it's stands as a quite solid IPA that I could pound a baker's dozen of over a cookout or funeral. Or a cookout-funeral. That would actually be rather badass. Imagine if all funerals were followed by a cookout? Even southerners get way shitty at cookouts. Our funeral after-parties are quite loathsome and bland. Time to buck fucking tradition and go haywire at the next funeral I attend - luckily I live across the way from a funeral a home, so there's no shortage of opportunities. Maybe I'll bring an Olde Richmond brew with me.
Moving on to the Legend Brewing Co. Chocolate Porter for lunch, I've noticed that they primed the sweet jesus fuck out of this beer or some shit. It's carbonated like a motherfucker, so much so that there's no body whatsoever. It claims it's a porter flavored with natural cocoa. I'm not sure it's really flavored with cocoa...or porter, for that matter. There's a tiny hint of fucking cocoa right up front, but then the shit foams up in your mouth like a sour, ass-flavored alka seltzer. I can't imagine anyone drinking more than zero of these at any given time, but I suppose people need something to do with their time other than incest and meth. Don't get me wrong, incest and meth have their place - it's called COPS and is fun to watch from a distance, not unlike rape porn and minorities.
And finally we come upon the dinner, the winter of our tasting season. And to the darkest, gnarliest beer I've come upon thus far in my day of wrath. I hold a special fucking place in my heart for Russian Imperial Stouts, and this St. George Brewing shit is a worthy contender. Как дела, bitches? This here's a badass motherfucking stout, none-too-full-bodied, but with a great roasted malt character that lingers so much like an ugly chick you drunkenly hooked up with, all waiting for breakfast and a kiss by the door. Fuck that shit. Wait. No, this is a good linger, though, like that Cranberries song from the 90s and shit. Well, pretty OK, if you're into that kind of thing. I'm not gonna phone in the national guard to put out the loin-fires of my taste buds or anything, but I'd definitely drink the sweet fuck out of this shit again and again.