This beer sounded good while wandering around Belmont Station,  but I’m sure Val Kilmer has been guilty of saying this to himself over and over again over the years as he has packed on the pounds.

It would have been a great beer had the heavy handed berry molesters at Laughing Dog not dumped way too many huckleberries in this hootch.   It had a great huckleberry flavor, but that’s all you could taste.   I’m sure there was a beer in there somewhere,  but it was hidden behind someone’s idea of Huckleberry nirvana.

This one gets a solid two and a short essay in pictures.

This,

Plus This,

Plus this,

Equals this.

Don’t let this be YOUR huckleberry.    Now go wash your eyeballs out with soap.

Budweiser Ice

The Least Interesting Man in the World Drinks Bud Ice

He lives in a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. He works in accounting for an insurance company that serves other accounting companies. His favorite restaurant is Applebee’s. He is, in short, the least interesting man in the world. And he drinks Budweiser Ice.

Some facts about this man:

• His beard is not on his organ donation card. In fact, there is nothing particularly of interest on his organ donation card.
• He has never surfed, arm wrestled a dangerous foreigner, nor smoked a cigar in a high-g spinning test chamber. He has, however, scored a hole-in-one in frisbee golf.
• A CD, chosen at random from his collection, is 85% likely to contain vocals from Rob Thomas.
• The image on his desktop is one of the default selections that comes with Windows. It is centered, not stretched or tiled.
• Behind his beard, there is not a chin. There isn’t a fist, either. There is another long boring story about the 2006 draft of his fantasy football team.
• He is neither a lover, nor a fighter.

This man doesn’t always drink beer, but when he does, he makes it Bud Ice. Yes, Bud Ice, the beer so devoid of notable qualities one way or the other — it is not a very good beer to drink, and yet not bad enough to at least be an interesting story, like “Country Club” malt liquor. It comes and goes through your life like a ciper, the null set of beer-ness, the beer you’ve probably have had but don’t recall. Have a drink, won’t you, and when you do, please think about the least interesting man in the world.

[end commercial]

[and, end any idea of Walt Liquor's that he could make decent commercials]

“Who is more foolish? The fool, or the fool who follows him?”
-Benjamin Kenobi

Juan de la Cueva may have been a loon. For some reason in 1575 he wrote about some dish that combined Jalapenos and ale. Crazy? Maybe. But the real fools in this instance are the guys at Rogue Brewery who decided that this obscure story would make for a great beer.

Have you ever tasted a shoe? No? Well, I’m not sure I ever have either, but immediately after taking a sip of this beer I was convinced it tasted like one. Then the shoe flavor left, and the real horror crept in. Repeat after me: Peppers do not belong in beer.

The aftertaste was so wrong, completely awful on so many levels, that I was convinced I couldn’t really have tasted that. I tried again. I had Grandpa Goodbeer try it. All to no avail. This beer is gross. As soon as the otherwise odd flavor goes away, Rogue Chipotle Ale attacks you with the nuclear bomb of all Aftertaste Attacks. Dry, tangy, salty, throat scratchy, gross old jalapeno flavor. Its actually much worse than it sounds, if you can believe that.

On the other hand…

I did have to give it a 2. It worked pretty awesome as a marinade for Tilapia.

I applaud Rogue for trying new things, I really do. But much like that random hallucinogen I tried in college, not all experiments are a good idea.

The only thing “spring release-y” about this stuff was the hopefully upcoming release of it a few hours later from my bladder.   Even then, it would probably be the same pitiful trickle that my first, and last, taste was.   I tried, I really tried to like it.  Honest.

I took a 6-pack of this camping along with Frosty and our families last weekend and figured that a nice cream ale would be a good choice for camping festivities.  This choice was Siriusly wrong.

Lagunitas appears to have taken this beer way too seriously and made something too “sirius” to be drinkable.   It’s a concoction that’s loosely  musty, hoppy,  and overly spiced.   My wife says it tastes like grapefruit and she willingly, YES WILLINGLY, agreed to drink the rest of this vile swill.

I’m only going to give it a 2 because previously I really have tasted worse and probably will again.  I’m saving my ONES for gag reflex inducing future Swillfests.   My faith in the American brewer has been tainted once again.

Only the “reserve beers” (Alaskan Summer Ale, Stumptown Tart, Fat Tire, etc) from the home stash saved the weekend from being a total Swill Ride.

Before I begin, I would like to point out that written on this label are the words: “Original Bayrisch Gfrorns”. Preach on, shiny nonsensical bottle, preach on.

Trips to the store with Lil’ Frosty have proven fruitful in the past, so as I stood confused at the wall of beer, I once again deferred to the toddler for my ticket to inebriation.

“Get that shiny one!”, I was told. Putting my faith in the hands of someone who eats boogers, I picked up the overly shiny bottle and brought it home.

My first impression was that someone spent a lot of time on this label. Some like, say, Liberace. I do applaud it though. Despite the garishness, there is something appealing about a bottle that takes risks, and isn’t afraid to adorn itself with nonsensical sentences.

Unfortunately, the cliche’ about “overcompensating” proves itself true here again. I honestly didn’t quite know what to make of the beer itself. It was a bit overly fruity, but not too offensive, and thankfully was pretty free of cheek smash. But despite that generic assessment I just gave, the only way I could describe it was that I just didn’t like it. You’d think that something with virtually no hop flavor would be a big hit for me, but alas. It was like the anti-Easy Drinkin’ beer. By the time I was 3/4 of the way through it I had to pour it out.

I found myself having to force it down, drinking it had become a chore. Like that time in college when the beer goggles wore off, but you still weren’t ‘there’…not that I’ve had any experience with that sort of thing…

I like Nut Browns. Anyone who has ever tried Rogue’s Hazelnut Nectar can attest to its total awesomeness. Even perennial disappointment Deschutes Brewery makes a pretty tasty Brown.

So you can imagine my total shock and dismay when I took a swig of Hale’s Irish Style Nut Brown, and immediately cringed with an intense cheek smash. Hale’s Brewery best never go to the Emerald Isle, because apparently they consider “Irish Style” to mean “tastes like crap”.

You see, where I was hoping for a nice nutty flavor, possibly with a hint of “brown tang”, I was met instead with an insane amount of hoppy teeth kick. Admittedly, I don’t like IPAs all that much (even when they taste like crotch), but I don’t even think IPA guys would like this. Its like a beer that can’t decide what to be. I can only imagine the brewers sitting around … “We can’t get this to taste right, lets just throw a bunch of hops in it”.

To their credit, Hale’s only offers this as a seasonal brew. I mean, why offend the Irish all year round?

The title of this post, I shouldn’t have to say, should be read in a voice imitating Samuel L. Jackson. Part Four in my worshipped-around-the-world series of reviews on Beers Whose Artwork Can Kick Your Ass, my review of King Cobra Malt Liquor represents a homecoming of sorts, to the malt liquor of choice as a youth. Malt Liquor and other assorted beers and paint thinners form phase 2 of everyone’s introduction to alcoholic beverages, where phase 1 is of course yummy fruit drinks like Boone’s Farm, and phase 3 is discovering that first non-terrible beer that you drink for the taste, not for the liver-trashing. Phase 2, which is all about the liver trashing, usually coincides with leaving home for college or your first apartment and the resulting lack of funds therewith. And every Ramen-eating thrift-store-wearing blood-donating Hare-Krishna-meal-eating college student has for a while become enamored with the magical combination of high alcohol content (too high to be legally called “beer”, hence the “malt liquor”) and cheap-as-dirt price of malt liquors. In my days in phase 2, I was a King Cobra drinker. My brother liked Old English, another friend drank Laser, but for me the royalty of crappy booze was clearly the best. Ah, sweet memories…

As I’ve mentioned before, the key lesson you quickly learn in drinking these bloated, nasty concoctions is to drink them COLD. Serving them ice cold beats down the horrible flavor — you do NOT want these puppies to warm up to room temperature to volatilize all those nasty petrochemicals. You soon find yourself in a race against the clock, hurrying to chug it down before thermodynamics catches up with you, sometimes resorting to gripping the bottle around the tiny neck to avoid accelerating the warming from your hands. The last few ounces will be precisely the same frothiness as fresh pee, so you better hope it’s not the same temperature, or you’ll be heading for technicolor yawn. All that being said, King Cobra was my favorite of the bunch, and over time (i.e. the couple months I spent in phase 2) I developed a fondness for it, memories of which all came rushing back at my first sip, now 10+ years later. I think it’s that this beer has the least odious qualities among all other malt liquors, so it shines in comparison — not as gag-inducing on the first sip as Old English, not quite as much hints of a Greyhound bus station in the bouquet. And, of course, wrapper artwork that could kick your ass and then possibly eat your foot…

“Woah” I said as I took my first swig. And I didn’t mean a good woah.

I was feeling adventurous, so I decided to grab this rather cool looking bottle and try something from our friends down south. Apparently “Carnivale” isn’t the only wild and crazy thing in Brazil, cause this beer is wacky. The odd initial flavor, and ass-y aftertaste is difficult to describe. Fruit? Wheat? It is “Unfiltered Wheat Doublebock”. Apparently what they didn’t filter out was the “funk”.

I give it a 2, cause I made it through at least 1/3 of the glass before the inevitable sink pour.

I got what I deserved. Even a non beer drinker would tell you that buying a beer named after a character on the Simpsons was a bad idea. And really, after my terrible experience with Three Stooges beer back in 2000, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson about t.v. themed beer. In a word … Blech.

Ok, so this beer isnt really Simpsons themed, but the name alone should have scared me away. Santa’s Little Helper huh? Yeah maybe when Santa needs help washing something down the sink and there isnt any water handy. Or when “that one” relative shows up who drinks all your good beer, and you want to teach him a lesson.

As you can clearly see, I hated this beer. But I gave it a 2 because those of you who like IPA’s may actually be able to drink it. Its so very hoppy, which I generally am not a fan of, but the fact that it didn’t advertise itself as being so is what got me. Like the similarly themed Hair of the Dog, Santa’s Little Helper has a (Simpsons) name that is truth in advertising.

The other night I sat down to watch the Comedy Central roast of Flavor Flav, and cracked me open a 40 of Steel Reserve. Somehow the perception shift induced by malt liquor renders Flava more normal and understandable.  At the first sip, you’re still approximately sober, and Flava appears (correctly) to be from Mars.  About halfway down, he starts making more sense, and so by the time you’re nearing the bottom of the bottle, it looks to you like you’re watching George Plimpton read from the Economist.  Once you finish off the last foamy disgusting swig, you’re officially a producer on three tracks on the latest Ol Dirty Bastard album. 

Part three in my tony-nominated series of reviews, Beers Whose Artwork Can Kick Your Ass, Steel Reserve is yet another malt liquor beer that I (a pencil-necked balding geek who could get sunburnt from a dashboard light) have absolutely no business drinking.  And yet, it wasn’t bad.  If drinking Schlitz is like punching yourself in the face with a cinder block, Steel Reserve is like slugging yourself in the stomach with a can of pumpkin pie mix.  (And of course Miller Lite is like a weak slap to the face with an envelope of petunia seeds.)   It didn’t have the sharp skunkiness or odd medicine-y taste that the really bad malt liquors have in that first whiff — served sufficiently cold, Steel Reserve will admirably serve your purposes if your purposes are funded at less than the 3 dollar level. 

I realized in writing this review that I should research why the hell there’s a “211″ on the label, and discovered it’s the medieval symbol for “steel”.  There, someone can now use this blog as a book report.  While you’re at it, include this little nugget (and remember to cite wikipedia):  “Due to the high alcohol content and low price, Steel Reserve is widely consumed by alcoholic homeless people.”  Which brings into stark relief for me who the target audience is for my set of reviews on Frosty Goodness.  Unfortunately Steel Reserve is banned in parts of Seattle for this reason (drunken homeless crime, not my posts on this website).  So I heartily recommend this El Cheapo beer, and urge you to try it before it is inevitably banned by your metropolitan area.  911 might be a joke, but 211 makes for one wild night with five-foot-three former rappers…