Saturday Brew Review: Walker’s Reserve

Hey you!

What’re you doin’ here? You’re lookin’ for beer reviews? Well, why don’t you hit up one of those aggregators that treat brewing as a time-honored art and present user comments with averaged scores? Oh, you’re not really interested in muddling up beer-drinking by quantifying it? I can appreciate that. Huh? You say that you’d put more stock in the opinions of a stark-raving lunatic? More than a well-informed opinion, you’re seeking a heartfelt knee-jerk response?

If that’s the case, I’d say you’re in the right place.

My name is Rendar Frankenstein. I am quasi-fictional, enthusiastic, and ready to drink beer. Fasten your seatbelt, return your tray table to the upright position, and prepare for the hyperspatial-jump.

Today, I’m going to detail my experience with Walker’s Reserve.

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Saturday Brew Review: Thirteenth Hour

When traveling through the galaxy, it’s of supreme importance to be on the lookout for liminal spaces. If you’re not paying attention while cruisin’ through hyperspace — maybe you’re rockin’ too hard to some Load-era Metallica or you’re caught up in a high-stakes game of Sabacc or perhaps you’ve fallen asleep at the wheel — you may very well hit a pocket of liminality. If this happens, chances’re that you’re going to be lost for awhile.

More innocuous than thinnies but less defined than wormholes, these cloudbursts of purple dark matter will warp the perceptions of everyone in your starcruiser. Sophomore slumps will sound like masterpieces. Cash-grabs will look like art. Dog food will taste like delectable cuisine. Hell, I’ve even heard tales of reckless space-pirates tongue-kissin’ their dogs and grabbin’ fat fistfuls of their sisters’ doughy fannies.

It ain’t pretty.

However, every now and then an individual that coasts through a violet gamma-shadow will be better for it. In these rare instances, the pilgrim does not incur the Wrath of In-Between, but is actually fortunate enough to go beyond the beyond. In this transcendent moment, possibilities are not only more apparent, but well within reach. Despite being in a tiny little vessel, hermetically sealed and layered beyond reason so as to ward off solar radiation, the exo-planetary commuter is capable of turning off mental inhibitors so as to live beyond life.

Tonight, my vessel has skidded right through an extradimensional fold. And I’m not mad or concerned. `Cause the fact of the matter is that I’m rockin’ in the Thirteenth Hour.

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Saturday Brew Review: Black Jack Porter

I once spent an entire afternoon hanging out with Boba Fett. He showed me around Slave I, taught me how to use a jetpack, and even let me tag along when he met some of his scummy friends for a drink. It was pretty much the best Saturday of my life.

Actually, that’s a lie. I didn’t get to do any of that shit. I was just trying to impress you.

But, what I did get to do this Saturday afternoon was spend some time with a six-pack of Black Jack Porter from the Left Hand Brewing Company. C’mon, let me apologize for telling tall tales by describing this beer to you! Seriously, check out my brew review! I promise it’ll be a halfway decent read!

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Saturday Brew Review: Mighty Oak Ale

There is no greater trial of will than that of the reigning champion. Sure, on the one hand champions are bathed in the adulation of admirers, those lesser-thans who need this hero to represent them in all the ways they can’t represent themselves. On the other hand, great kings also inspire the dissident hordes who want nothing more than to see the crown filched from head, smelted down, and forged into shackles.

When you’re on top, some people love you. But others want to watch you fail. And as such, you have to constantly watch the throne.

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Saturday Brew Review: Innis & Gunn Rum Cask

Ahoy!`Tis Saturday nite and as such the drinks are freely flowin’ at the Mos Eisley Cantina. Figrin D’an is tearing shit up with his Modal Nodes, inspiring muthafuckahs to hit the dance floor and gyrate their gential-areas together. Backdoor deals are being made so that terrorist-farmhands can blow up expensive government buildings.   And droids still aren’t being served.

If Omega-Level were a patron of the Mos Eisley Cantina, it’d be a smooth-talkin’ Corellian whose language of choice is credits.

But since we have the benefit of residing on the lovely blue planet known as Earth, there’s no chance of snagging space-brews from Wuher. Instead, I must head to the liquor-merchant and choose a potable on my own. Without an interstellar racist to guide me, I’m liable to choose all sorts of kooky concoctions.

As such, tonight I’m drinking Innis & Gunn Rum Cask.

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