Just in time for Thanksgiving, I present you with beers not fit for your banquet and definitely not fit for everyday indulgence. Since you’ll likely never get to know them yourself by mere happenstance, allow me to introduce you to the family of arrogance seated at my dinner table:
Double Bastard Ale returns. My arrogance, doubled, this ale is dark amber and lacerative as hell. Seated at the head of the table is the newest member of the righteous few, Double Bastard Bigger Longer Uncut. This Laphroaigian whisky barrel-infused ale could put a lion’s mane on a Sphynx cat. Its arrogance doubled, barreled and served straight up. An offspring of utter overconfidence, Lukcy Basartd Ale is an audacious, celebratory blend of three bastards. This detail is printed, handily, on the bottle for those that require spoon feeding.
Southern Charred takes a deservedly honorable seat at the table. The result of Double Bastard Ale spending months sequestered in Kentucky bourbon barrels, the once-burly behemoth emerges as a stunningly graceful beast in fine gentleman’s clothes, with its bold, bullish roots lingering just under the surface. And, treasured by only a select few, is Double Bastard in the Rye. The results of aging in Templeton Rye Whisky barrels is epiphanous, and while I understand the strong emotional reactions this beer often causes, I do beg of you a modicum of self-respect by toning down the excessive genuflections and open weeping. It just makes others in the room uncomfortable, and embarrasses your mother…yet again.
Crime was first concocted in 2010 when some jackass named Greg Koch decided to ruin a beautiful bourbon barrel full of Lukcy Basartd Ale by dumping in his backyard-grown chili peppers. The result was unsuitable for the faint of heart, mind or palate. Unsurprisingly, I loved it. Should you dare to give it a try, be forewarned: You’re playing with fire. It won’t scar you physically, but the emotionally fragile should keep a healthy distance. However, for the bold and the truly brave, I bestow upon you, Punishment. While chili pepper connoisseurs, daredevils and masochists proclaim it’s an enlightening experience, the average human (read: you) cries uncle at the first whiff. (And good god, stop the incessant whining about it on social media. No one cares to hear your complaints, and why you would think otherwise defies logic or reason. Go back to tweeting what you had for lunch, tiger, we’re on pins and needles. Really we are.)
It’s a dinner party for the privileged and those freed from the temporal planes of poor taste. This cornucopia of arrogance presents itself for those who dare to face their truth: That my truth is the only truth. You may proclaim in pain, disbelief, or feigned disinterest. However, if you’re among the few possessing the capacity to appreciate ales of such intense quality and depth, I have generously provided this rare and special opportunity to realize true enlightenment. Few are able to recognize it as such.
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