Author: Ye Olde Scribe

Ye Olde has been asked to write something for the season, hoping to make this a regular feature. The Professor asked Scribe to spice up the site, and in Scribe’s usual fashion he goes for the worst. It’s where the humor often is.

For the first entry we have Abita Spring’s latest dive deep into the worst deep end of the pool, away from their too often mediocre’. They used to be incredibly good in the early years but a long line of brewers that have come and gone have had their toll.

What does Scribe get? Spices, more spices, MORE spices. Is there a damn beer here? It’s not just all spices that ruins this beer, though Scribe suspects maybe A spice like Allspice, maybe two at best. Not the number of spices that matters; more how it was spiced, and the fact that the &$# poor beer behind the raw spices provides little to no back up.

All of which could encourage barf up.

Imagine this: brew a mediocre beer that has little taste, then at the end just dump in raw spices. OR boil too long with those spices, though no overboil sense hits the nose, or your slightly downward portal. That’s it! You too can brew a 7 barf beer. Awarded 7 out of 10 in case in future editions Scribe has to go up to 8, 9 or 10: the last pure toxicity almost on a dispose of the mouth and tongue scale.

PLEASE, Mr. or Ms. Brewers, can you disappoint Scribe and not go to 10? He’d appreciate it.

On the border of where craft beer meets crap beer, there’s a beer even some Konaheads might resent. While not THE worst beer, certainly qualifies as one of, especially when it comes to watering down the essence of craft: FLAVOR. It’s the Ultra-fying of craft.

Ye Old Scribe has been absent for quite a while, but not quite as “absent” as Big Wave is of flavor. There’s a hint of hops. Hey guys, gals, did you toss in one pellet into a fermenter? Did some ant drag it across the wort during boil? OK, Scribe would add it’s so bad the ant must have fell into the boil. But it’s not bad in that sense. It’s bad in the sense Scribe wished it had at least that much flavor.

Was there a malt ban when this was brewed? Even white bread has a lot more flavor.

Is it ‘Kona,’ or ‘CON-ah’? Some ale-like attempt to mimic Miller Clear with the lightest sprinkle of a hop, not ‘hops’?

Thank God for the carbonation. Scribe keeps opening cans and waiting for it to fill his model of the Hindenburg. And waiting. And waiting. And…

Once again Ye Olde Scribe ventures into beers that should never have been brewed territory…

Dog bites own tail and leaves it a bloody stump is more like it.

In the category, sort of, of malt liquor it’s hard to knock a brew for having a bite-y abv sense. Especially since with that style they often use adjuncts rather than adequate malt to get that high. Dog Bite succeeds. Ignore the sulfur-like lager sense. That’s pleasant in comparison. Dog Bite takes higher alcohols to a new level of barf. Kind of a piss yellow, if you’re having urinary tract problems, and lot of toxic foam, for the style, Scribe swears they simply fermented the still contaminated waters from Chernobyl.

Mouthfeel? Roof of the mouth and tongue ripping goodness!

Like the previous entry, Scribe refuses to have any pictures on this post. No need in promoting a Jimmy Jones like quaff. If you do buy it and survive it might get rid of your Hudson River rat problem. Ever seen one? BIG!

Courtesy blogs.villagevoice.com

Photo courteous Moosicorn Note “ProAm” is a beer competition with both pro and amateur brewers entering.

Rewritten with Christmas Love by Ye Olde Scribe

Twere the night before ProAm, when through the brew house
The brewer was heard stirring, trying to find a mouse.
Mickey and his family had decided upon a dare,
To swim in the serving tank now he’s stuck in there.

The brewer decided not to go to bed,
Would plums cover that bad taste of boiled mouse head?
Cause tomorrow he had to enter this crap
He was so tired he wanted to just take a nap

When outside the brewhouse there arose such a clatter,
He wonder what the hell what was the matter.
Near where his coat was there was a flash,
“Did someone light up my OTHER private stash?”

Out the window there was a lot of yellow snow
The hot stream fell Santa yelled, “Look out below!”
It had turned into ice and so did appear,
A falling sleigh and those eight mangy reindeer.

With a drunken holler, an alcoholic hic!
He saw a falling and flailing St Nick.
And before he hit oh how the curses they came
As he called each and every reindeer by name!

“Damn you Flasher! Pole Dancer! Gay Prancer and that Vixen!
Vanish! Comet! Stupid Cupid! I’m so Blitzened!
You made me fall and land on my Christmas balls!
Now after Xmas I’ll be as dead as most Malls!”

Out the brewery door the bewer did fly,
To save his beer he knew that he had to try
Into the tank Santa, his deer and snow flew,
Cause he knew Santa’s had lotsa good beer too

So with twinkling, and a few magical poofs
And also an addition of 32 little tasty hoofs
When the Pro Am competition came around,
A secret recipe first place in show was found.

It is Christmas Day and the brewer awakes
His OTHER stash is gone cause that’s what it takes
To dream such a demented dream one must be cracked
Tasting his brew he thought, “Nothing that beer lacked”

But tho next week it made pubsters so merry!
It also gave all of them dysentary
A while ago he’d asked, “Where’d my MAIN stash go?
But now he knows just why this ale’s white as snow

And THAT’S when the FDA and the cops showed up.

“Because getting obliterated and reaching oblivion have a lot in common, or at least the first two letters…”

Ever wonder what some of the more nasty terms related to beerdom are? Just click on the link after the quote to get your answer!

“The ‘victim’ awakens and spends the first few minutes in a daze, trying desperately to remember where they were last night, when they came back, who they came back with and how they managed to take their jeans off and climb into bed the wrong way round without taking their shoes off. The ‘victim’ then becomes aware of the irresistible urge to empty their bowels. This process is known as the…”

Click…

HERE

“Cause some ‘brewers’ would rather be brew whores than actually go Irish.”

Green beer. Can you think of a more asinine idea? (Is “Ass in Nine” some foolish member of the Borg collective?)

Take a pissy lager or ale, add food coloring, and claim you’re being Irish for St. Patty’s Day. May the blessed ghost of the Saint eat your liver for lunch on the sacred day. May he henceforth place copious amounts of phenolics and DMS into every beer a brewer brews whose only “Irish” offering is Irish by food coloring only.

The Irish icon of beer, whether it be Guinness or Murphys or the other lesser known in the States, be BLACK. And TASTY. Some be red. But NOT fake green.

Why Scribe’s not even Irish, for the most part, and he’s offended. It’s like putting excrement in the candy you hand out Halloween, or wrapping up a can of dog food for Christmas per kid. Drinking green beer on St. Patty’s is like sneaking Tang into the holy water and then blessing yourself with it, or demanding the priest use “those little yellow fishys,” instead of communion wafers.

WORSE, actually, because, Scribe hates to tell you after all those years making up crap like “transubstantiation,” but it’s REALLY NOT the blood and the body of Christ. Hell, it’s not even wine, and hardly bread or even a wafer. About as tasteless as, well, GREEN BEER.

And green beer has nothing to do with celebrating St. Patty’s. Have a Guinness, Murphy’s, or Smithwicks if you must. But if you insist, when the Bobbie stops you and tests you at 3am, Scribe has an Irish “blessing” for ya…

May you blow or piss green.

Or is that an Irish curse?

Picture courtesy planetgreen.discovery.com

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

What to do?

What to do?

The horsemen are horsing around. The Evil one is ruling the planet but Jesus is riding in the same heavenly nuclear tank he rode out on, blasting sinners with plagues, pestilence and mega poisoned pesto. There’s fire everywhere, earthquakes and mother Earth is just being a %$#@! bitch towards her infestation: us. Your evil Aunt Blanche is walking around because she dedicated her life to Jesus before she died, but your kind Unkie Chris is un-reanimated. He was an agnostic. Never you mind Aunt Blanche was a pus filled, AIDS infected, hooker in her prime and Unkie Chris saved puppies from brutal puppy mills.

Why has our kind, benevolent, deity has decided to go with that bitch Blanche, as her eyes dangle out, demons pour forth from the portal no man ever longed to enter and she whacks the nail studded paddle she used to use on all the kids just for fun on her hand? Scribe thinks she looking for you. Doesn’t matter you haven’t been a “bad boy” as she kept insisting.

Like Shaun when faced with zombies: the walking dead, Scribe suggests, “LET’S GO TO THE PUB!”

But what do we drink?
Continue reading “Ye Olde Scribe’s Beers for the End Times”