Um.
Actually, you know what? Are you fucking kidding me? Who the fuck are they getting to do this writing, and why the fuck did they not insist that this person have even the semblance of a rudimentary education? It’s fucking awful when the description of the beer makes you not even want to drink the fucking thing. And of course I’ve already poured the motherfucker. There’s some papaya in there, but just because papaya makes me think of eating fresh papaya that I literally picked off the fucking tree in Honduras three years and change ago doesn’t make me like this literary abortion any more. (Not that beer should be literary; it occurred to me the second I wrote that last sentence that someone might infer such an idea. Beer need not be literary, and neither should the descriptions be; but those descriptions should at least resemble competent writing. That is not the case here.) I’m kind of on the fence here; I still haven’t tried anything from Big Lug that I have really liked, and their Sahm’s restaurants are uninteresting bar-and-grill places I would only recommend to a starving person; but as must be obvious by the fact that I have made it past 500 beers that I have tried, my mind is pretty fucking open. (That’s also the best way to get cured of being a Republican; you open your mind, you let some light in, you try to forget the stupid shit your ignorant, fuck-dumb parents tried to teach you.) And it appears that I am just in a bad fucking mood. On my fucking birthday. And if you don’t believe I actually picked the fucking papaya, then fuck you; but if you still don’t believe it, then here’s a fucking picture.
No comments:
Post a Comment