Pale Ale, Southern Tier

Today I’m cracking open a beer I’ve had sitting around for a while.  Actually, since I bought it, Southern Tier has discontinued it.  I guess that makes a review roughly equal to worthless, but whatever, I’ll do what I want.  Here is Southern Tier’s Pale Ale.

Looks like a beer I'd get more of... if I could.

Looks good.  Nice head, cloudy yellow body.  Starts off with a delightfully bready aroma.  The slightly stronger than usual hop presence shows you a pale ale can still come with a bit of a kick without straying into IPAland.  Wait, what am I doing?  You can’t buy this beer anymore.  I can say whatever I want.  It’s not like you’ll ever be able to say, “I think that review was inaccurate.”  Okay, here’s the cuff.

Now I’m off it.  This beer tastes like rocket ships delivering bundles of bamboo to a giant panda hospital on Mars.  Every sip is a backwards somersault into fish with two tickets to the game where your cousin can’t believe it’s not butter.  Some day you’ll look back and say, “that was the beer that turned into a bear and made it so der Rock passt prima,” even though you still don’t know the difference between stupefacente and stupefacenti.  It’s really too bad they discontinued it because you’re all missing out on a brew that harnesses the power of supermassive black holes to transport you to an alternate reality where trees grow on money and days like this said there’d be mama.  I don’t usually do this, but on a scale from 1 to renaming frenched fries freedom fries, Southern Tier’s Pale Ale is definitely Crocodile Dundee in overalls and a bowler hat.

The real question raised by this beer is why I still have it.  Surely there can’t be anything else that old or older in my fridge!

Ketchup can be brown, right?

So I don't eat it often.  No biggie!

Or maybe not at all...