I like going on a limb. I don’t do it often enough, but I really enjoy those moments when I dive in headfirst, not really thinking about what I’m about to get into. Sometimes, this goes terribly wrong and I fall on my face. But other times, it’s simply magic.

Tonight, it’s pure magic.

When I went to the beer store, I was instantly attracted to a certain naughty four-pack. He gave me a cat call and I couldn’t resist. Bourbon County seemed too good to be true — a commemorative stout aged in bourbon barrels. Oh, and not for nothing, but it’s produced by Goose Island, a brewery that has its shit together. Seriously.

I brought the four beers up to the counter. Handed them to the friendly booze dealer. And he, in turn, told me that I would be paying $21.37 for the small collection. Over twenty dollars for four beers?! Where the fuck are we, back in the USSR?!?! I muttered under my breath. This is an astronomical sum of money to pay for less than fifty ounces of beverage. But I wasn’t going to back down. Call it a sixth sense or just plain stupidity, but the newly revealed expense was appealing in a way. As though the maxim you get what you pay for might be true.

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