Poets and writers drink more intensely. Smoke more intensely. Worship God more intensely. Poets and writers fuck more intensely. Poets and writers give more willingly-- spilling the alphabetical marrow of their souls out into the albino sonogram of hope that is the page, hoping some stranger whom he or she has never before met turns to his crafted syllables in time of dire need and somehow finds solace, finds laughter finds a friend.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Tartan Inn Holiday Beer tour Day six: Batch 19
Perhaps the only thing more enjoyable than drinking beers around the holidays is legally being denied the opportuinity to intrinsically indulge. Being 17 and having a bottle of vodka camoflaged in the back of your closet awaiting the friday night beneath the poetic penumbra of lonely bleachers when your unfledged tastebuds will be tempted with the forbidden alcoholic ambroisa coerecing you to imbibe with burgeoning bliss and sophomoric glee.
Distributed by Coors' brewery the BATCH 19 aims to be the recipe of an orphaned beer form your great-grandfather's era. This is a field goal beer. It punts the interior of your palate. Akin to the Vanilla porter, it is light, a breath of brew. While I can't imagine getting seriously soused off this drop ( or ordering this on draught if I did ever find myself in a prohibition-era speakeasy) its a refreshing chirstmas ornament of a libation that leaks through your palate, seminally planting a chirstmas star on the evergreen of the pithy drinkers anatomy.
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