Author: Ye Olde Scribe

“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”

Upchucked by Ye Old Scribe after being force fed a can of…

Miller/Coors, one of the last tasteless beer mega-whores left in the USA has a “new” idea. A slogan! Scribe is impressed. Impressed there are actually idiots out there that might think this is something “new.”

The slogan is “The Official Beer of EWE!” OK, it’s “you,” not “EWE,” but don’t you think “EWE” more apt?

And get this! They’re willing to bribe you into agreeing with the slogan. You might get to be pictured on their Facebook page or appear in one of their ads if you sign up; attempt to add some respect to this slogan that means NOTHING.

Now Scribe will briefly say something positive about Miller/Coors. At least, if you believe them, they’re going to donate some money to Iraq and Afghan Vets for everyone who does something or other. A little vague. One hopes someone is monitoring those donations, other than the “brewery” making the offer: the one with a history of deceptive marketing. And what has that got to do with the “you” in the EWE?
Continue reading “Ye Olde Scribe Presents the Wouldn’t You Rather Puke? Beer Report’”

(Image courtesy homebrewtalk.com)

Hey “judging” beer is fine. But “snobbery?” Who thought up that crap? Winos? Stouts only with steak, only light Lagers with fish?

Snobs, that’s who thought it up. Not beer lovers.

Scribe has been drinking beer since the early 60s, and not just the kind of swill American brewers insisted on pouring down our throats, thanks to being able to travel out of country a long, long time before you got free crotch grope.

Scribe wasn’t joking when he chose, “Ye Olde,” as a moniker.

Extra Stouts are delicious with fish. A true Kolsch makes a steak taste even better. Or switch them. You choose. Not them. And if it isn’t right, the greatest thing is you get to try again, and again, and again. Some dishes may seem to go best with some beer TO YOU, but that is highly subjective.

If anyone insists on convincing you otherwise, they don’t know $#@! about beer. Tell them to take a bottle of their favorite wine and shove…

“Because big American brewers really know how to brew BARF.”

You would think after so many years of the craft beer revolution big beer would know better. You would think after malt liquor got it’s racist image 30 years ago or so, they would be more careful. You would think after all the innovative craft fruit beer out there, big beer wouldn’t be to God d#@!$% %$#@! ) *(*&^%$#$@!! stupid.

Nope. Just make a Colt 45 version of a wine cooler? No wonder big beer keeps WHINING. You would too if you kept kicking yourself in the nutsack.

Continue reading “A Ye Olde Scribe Barf Beer Alert”

“Because it rhymes with ‘Report,’ Mr. ‘How DARE you steal it from Scribe,’ Colbert?”

Written by Ye Olde Scribe

No stores named in this rant. Not the point. This is a beer-less beating of formerly GOOD beer stores. So let the bashing begin!

Thirsty, Scribe stopped by a store in Spencer, Mass. That may or may not be far from The YOS Anti-Archie Bunker. Scribe NEVER tells anyone where the YOS Anti-Archie Bunker is. Too many of Junior’s henchmen and wench women would LOVE to know.

The store used have a moderate supply of craft beer, and used to be in a strip mall where, sad to report, people no longer strip. Must be a lack of beer, or the guys with the bubble machines prowling the lot. Spoil sports.
Continue reading “Ye Olde Scribe’s Bad Beer Store”

“Well that bites.”

ABV – 5.9%
OG – 15°P
SRM – 10.5
IBU – 59???

YOS was a hophead long before most and actually likes IBUs that go way above 100. But sometimes there’s just no point in being so damn bitter.

Scribe was shipped a bottle of French Broad’s Rye Hopper Ale. In the interest of being fair he had to drink it warm since Mrs. Scribe dropped the bottle after unpackaging and the cap popped. Maybe it was because it was too damn warm, though Scribe finds the warmer nature of beer from the country of bad teeth tends to mellow the hops. But this had little rye, low sense of malts and bitter, bitter, bitter.

Did your brewer leave you for a “better” beer? Poor Rye Hopper. No wonder you’re so damn bitter.

The aroma was hops: maybe Cascade but taste couldn’t tell, a bit rye. The color: golden. The taste was bitter: period. The problem here is that 59 IBUS usually doesn’t do this unless high alpha acid hops are used or someone dumped the hops in the beginning of the boil and astringency takes over. Scribe is guessing the latter. There’s a talent required when brewing hoppy beers: especially if you want the character of, oh say, RYE, to arrive on the palette as well as hops. Additions at just the right time, in the right way, and not just a long, hard, boil.

Hey, French Broad! Don’t you Asheville, NC guys know that hard boiled is for eggs, not hops?

(Please refer to #8 for the source of both the following photo and the related story-Prof. GA)

Ever watch “Six Feet Under” when it was on? Someone always dies in the beginning, some ironic some very sad or even funny ways. Scribe LOVES beer. He first started writing ABOUT beer. But just like any alcoholic beverage, to say beer can make be used as an excuse to do stupid things is so much an obvious “duh,” it’s dumber than a Homer Simpson ‘DOH.'” Here are just a few either stupid, or sad, beer and alcohol related deaths Scribe has discovered by visiting Doctor Google. (Hopefully he doesn’t offer certain enemas.) Murder is included. Scribe dares you not to laugh, feel sad or shake your head in wonder. Scribe warns you: some of these are a bit gruesome. If you’d rather NOT, DON’T click.

Continue reading “Ye Olde Scribe’s VERY, VERY Incredibly Bad Beer Report”

“‘Rub JUST the bottle,’ the genie in a bottle said, ‘JUST THE BOTTLE.'”

She lit her cigarette and said, “That all ya got baby?” Scribe smiled and said, “Yeah, I think you were inadequate too.”

Her name: Glissade. Sierra Nevada calls it a “golden Bock.” There ain’t no such category. Maybe a Helles Bock?

Scribe had anticipated her arrival with baited breath. He just couldn’t decide whether to try to swallow a fishing plug or worms to get that “baited breath” sense. Sierra has a sexy name in the craft brew world. But when Scribe curled up with the bottle she was everything she was supposed to be but nothing more, and not enough of that “everything” to be all that interesting.

Golden it was. Foam? Copious, nutso and ever lasting. Crystal clear and a light urine color. (KINKY!!!) Bock nose: melanioidins: light. Slight lager sense. Coats the glass. Fills the mouth with white, creamy carbonation. (Even more KINKY!!!) Taste: no hops: somewhat expected for the style, but should have just a bit more than this: a bit more of everything. Malt: probably pale or pilsener. A “cling to roof of mouth” kind of malt; but by no means “gag,” sense.

In short, enjoyable but not worth all the hype, or as good as other Sierra brew-based sexpots. Kind of bland, blase’. Wouldn’t kick her out of bed, but might fall asleep on her. Actually: Scribe did.

You can do better than this, Ms. Nevada.