The Brewventerer

True Adventures in Beer

[brewventurer]

Just like everyone else, I was told never to drink Southern Tier beers from a New Holland glass. It’s Blasphemy. It’s never done. But I had to to win Lake Shore Fog - I mean, it’s Hazy AND juicy. It’s a no- brainer. The bartender refused to pour it. He hid in the bathroom. We recruited a regular, a roller derby girl named Bobo, to do the pour. “I don’t give a fuck,” she said, and, “whatever gets you off.” Just like everyone else, I was told never to dismiss a bartender’s concerns, and we shouldn’t have this time. After the pour (and we’ve all seen this a hundred times) there was a puff of smoke, a beer demon appeared - just your average beer demon; he looked like an unpeeled potato with an underbite and a bowl cut. He applied standard demon rules: Beat him and win the beer, lose and lose your soul. Long story short, Bobo knocked him out. One punch. Bobo never lost a roller derby and rumor had it she used to bully grizzly bears. They said she killed a narwhal with a head but. I believe it, and, to be fair, Bobo actually won the Lake Shore Fog, but she let me drink it. She winked at me when I took my first gulp. I’m worried how this may turn out.

[brewventurer]

I gave up trying to win my Rebel IPA, and just ordered it. The bartender sat it down, then a hand - more wrinkles than skin, more liver spots than not - covered the top. “I’ll buy that beer,” says the hand’s man, “if you go on a Brie run.” I needed no serious degree to read into his deviant genes; any genius can see he’s a cheese geek. I agreed, and I was off. The cheese shop was more magazines than produce, more fake ferns than dairy, more wet floor signs than customers. Long story short, the woman who ran the shop - brought to life by a Frankenstein dry cleaner - chased me out with a broom when she found I was there for the cheese geek. I snuck back in behind a wine hostess shopping for snacks, grabbed the Brie, tossed exact change on the counter, and dashed out. When I returned I had the bartender give me a clean glass.

[brewventurer]

A look at the patron saints of beer and brewing throughout history.

[brewventurer]

I woke up, my eye-blur faded, and I focused in on the Sam Adam’s Rebel IPA. Had I won it? No, not yet. Something was not right. First, how did I get here? I remember a card game. I won for the third time in a row, and... Blackout. “Don’t get up,” someone said. One of the guys from the card game. This guy was a bag of gravel in a Hawaiian shirt. He smell like shrimp and mouthwash. “This isn’t going to play out like the Saw movies, is it?” I asked. All he wanted was his watch back he told me. Long story short, I didn’t have it, but, for a Rebel IPA, I helped find the guy who did, we snuck into his house, and got it back.

[brewventurer]

Upland’s Dragonfly IPA nearly cost me my life, but it was worth it. It was a situation we’ve all been in: You walk into the local Liquor Locker, there’s only one six pack left, you and another person grab for it simultaneously, and neither will let it go. The other person was, if not a Yeti or Bigfoot, then definitely a missing link who raided a thrift store. He suggested we arm wrestle for it, and before I could refuse he had my elbow in a deathlock. My only way out was to abuse the alcohol. I shook a beer, cracked it open, and sprayed his face. I toss a twenty at the cashier and run out. Long story short, there was a car chase, a flattened fruit cart, an explosion, and one person left to post it on Tumblr. The man’s body, however, was never found...

[brewventurer]

Winning Upland’s Campside Pale Ale almost didn’t pan out for me. I was called by Carmi who instructed me to. “Just meet her at the Kinsey Institute, don’t give me one of you beer stories, just be here. Bring the bleach. There’s not much to Carmi; she’s a salt of the earth. Carmi was a pharmacist from Dudley who fell in love with her arch enemy. The two were separated after the arch enemy made friends with a different social class. However, Carmi manages to rescue the situation by enlisting the help of a tattoo remover. Anyway, I got the bleach in under the ink, but the chemicals burns started bubbling up. End result: you can’t tell what the tattoo said and that’s good enough for a beer.

[brewventurer]

I placed the Einstok’s Icelandic Pale Ale can with my trophies and thought about how I won it. I was in Bjork der Bjork, Iceland. Again. I keep winding up there despite my efforts. The woebegone, badger clouds and citizens who were more igloo that person smashed my soul in a George Foreman Grill every time. I sat at Sven’s Tarvern and Crepes Inn when the bartender slammed a vodka shot down, almost smashed my thumb, nodded towards a woman who grinned at me with teeth that could have held a barn together. She had skinny elbows, wide abs, and enough curves to make a square jealous. Basically, the perfect beauty. But far too tall for me; I prefer women under seven feet tall (I’m only a medium-sized person myself). “She wants your manhood,” the bartender mumbled, and sulked off. There’s no way my manhood could handle a giant, so I bet the bartender the Einstok’s she’d be after his manhood by the end of the night. Long story short, she had her way with me, but the bartender believed I earned the beer and awarded me with it.

[brewventurer]

I looked at the Old Nation Brewing’s Helles Lager and remembered how I won it.

I was running around the quarries in Sleepford - home of Baby Flamingoes semi-professional rugby team. I heard a woman say, “Ah, Jesus, Mitch! Not in my hat!” Some quarry workers brought a cooler of beers for after work, and Mitch - ol’ fragile gizzard Mitch - pooped-out early, started blowing chunks. His co-workers dragged him to the car and drove off, leaving a lonely, single Helles Lager behind. (In my experience Quarry workers have always had excellent taste in beers, even muppet liver Mitch). I didn’t even have to win this beer. Fortune was giving it to me. I thought this. Then I see movement from the corner of my eye. Like a volleyball player at a tennis match, my head snaps left and I make eye contact with the competition. A raccoon. I’ve lost many beers to raccoons over the years, but not today. No, not this day. What happened next was a good, old fashioned foot race. The raccoon grinned at me and I took off. We held the same pace. It looked like we’d reach it simultaneously, and I’d lose another fist fight with a raccoon. They cheat. They use teeth. The raccoon had his eyes on the prize, but not on Mitch’s vomit. He splashed right in it and wiped out. I grabbed the beer and kept going.

[brewventurer]

I won Southern Tier’s 8 Days a Week Blonde Ale by challenging a museum curator to a Haiku contest judged a Pokémon Go player who was walking by. The winning Haiku:

A Squirtle splashes,

You lose count of how many syllables I write down,

Pikachu evolves

The lesson here is: Know your audience

[brewventurer]

Trying to win Southern Tier’s 2XIPA nearly cost me my spleen. But it was worth it. Short story long, I was running - I run so I can drink - when I pass a fencer offering beer to anyone who can beat him. I’ve never fenced, but I never pass an opportunity to win beer, so I borrow a foil. A foil, I learned later, is supposed to be thrusted. I swung it around like a Ninja Turtle at a water balloon factory, and this break in protocol pissed the fencer right off. He went into a Hulk rage, drew blood, little holes soon decorated my belly, but I avoided anything too deep. My best hope now was to make him chase me, so I darted into the nearby Pagoda (Evansville’s visitor’s center), tossed pamphlets at him, lost him by the vending machine, dashed straight toward the 2XIPA, nabbed it, and never looked back.

[brewventurer]

The day I won a Charlatan APA by Maplewood Brewery was a dark day. Because rain. I was approached by a man so old his wrinkles remember what sandwich Franz Ferdinand was eating when he got shot. Or, those wrinkles would remember if not for their Alzheimer’s. This man, this unwrapped mummy, this aged lump of elephant skin wore a top hat with the name ‘Hassenfeld’ embroidered on the band and a trench coat. He may have - age playing a role - forgot to wear clothes under the coat. I did not probe, some things are better left unknown. Long story short, he wanted to play gin rummy for the Charlatan, I shuffled the cards until he fell asleep, then quietly left with the beer.

[brewventurer]

Terrapin’s Hopsecutioner IPA shown here with a Tardis - the Tardis in tiny, the beer is not gigantic. How did I win this one? Trivia contest against the mayor of Athens Georgia, Kelly Girtz. I’ll admit it was by chance I won; Mayor Girtz knows damn near everything. Everything except what song the Buggles are known for. Yes, kids, it once paid to watch MTV for hours on end. Not so much now - if it even exists anymore. Neither I nor Mayor Girtz knows with certainty.

[brewventurer]

Saw this on a tailgate today. Took the tailgate. Shh.

[brewventurer]

Sorry to disappoint the fans asking, but I can’t do a beer belly pose. I don’t have a beer belly. Just a firm, solid three pack.

[brewventurer]

New Belgium’s Voodoo Ranger Imperial IPA. This was not an easy beer to win. You know, because of the curse. Legend has it, New Belgium made a deal with a Voodoo Doctor. A real voodoo doctor. Graduated top of her class at Dartmouth right before they dropped the voodoo program and replaced it with Intro to Bowling (great class to audit). Anyway, it’s all true. New Belgium is a success due to a gallon of chicken blood and some discarded foreskin. And this is good for everyone- we’re getting great beer and we didn’t have to do anything. Unless you’re missing your foreskin. Small price to pay. Long story short, after pretending to be a bicycle repairman, I was able con New Belgium CEO Steve Fechheimer out of the Voodoo Ranger and a rare American Buffalo Nickle.

[brewventurer]

Today’s beers: BJ’s

I’ve never lost an arm wrestling match I’ve cheated at. Today was no exception. A man, a huge man, a man with more muscle than you’ve seen was buying beers for anyone who could beat him at arm wrestling. I could not. But I could not let free beer escape me either. I waited two hours (waited for him to wear himself out), challenged him, and bribed the bartender to bump him. The bartender, Paul, who has never let me down, left for a cigarette. The giant beat me. I pulled a double or nothing. Leg wrestling. I bet his lower body wasn’t as impressive (that’s what she said). My legs are basically an Olympic marathon runner. Each. My Brooks hit his ankles, his tree trunk legs timber to the floor, BJ patrons cheer, and I earn my beer.

[brewventurer]

Today’s beer: Tropic Hero IPA by Revolution Brewing

I won this beer in a dart throwing contest against a woman with an eye patch. I thought it would be easy - surely, she had no depth perception, no advantage, no skills at darts. Man, was I wrong. She threw 2 bullseyes for every bullseye I threw. She threw it between her legs, she launched it over her shoulder- not even looking! - and ricocheted it off a light bulb; she never missed the board. Finally, I admitted defeat, grabbed the beer, and ran, ran, ran. I suppose I didn’t actually beat her at darts. However... it tastes like a victory to me.