Nobody touched the stuff at the party; they were too busy with my keg of Schwarzbier and the array of bottles left over from last year. (Barbecues are a great way to get rid of old stuff and provide people with huge variety.) So the next day Himself and I turned to this suspicious little six-pack resting stubbornly on our sideboard. He took the bait first, and after he retched he made me try some. Being a glutton for punishment, I took the bait.

ICK. The initial taste is sweet, although the beer falls flatter than a drunk at last call as soon as it’s out of the bottle. There are a lot of flavors, but they don’t unfold properly. They just sort of jumble together like a bunch of sweaty frat boys at a kegger with their shirt collars turned up. That’s what happens, Lost Coast, when you don’t BREW your ingredients together. When you include “added flavors” in the beer that can only mean two things: artificial ingredients and dumping shit into the beer after fermentation because it’s quicker and easier than brewing it properly. If you check out Lost Coast’s Website, you’ll see that the only award this beer has won was for a design for a tap handle. Oh, that’s adorable. The aftertaste is bitter, but not in a nice hoppy way. It’s more like battery acid meets orange juice three weeks after the expiration date. I had to rinse my mouth out and pour some Anchor Steam Christmas Ale to banish the stench of this vile swill from my taste buds.

This beer made me want to vomit so bad that Himself had to pour the rest of the accursed six pack down the drain. Then we peeled off the labels, burned them, and took the bottles directly to a recycling center. After that he held me for a while and told me everything would be all right while I had a good cry.

Scorecard

Style: Wanabe Witbier
ABV: 4.80% (not enough to make me forget how grody this beer is!)
Rating: Dump it.
Conclusion: This white ain’t great. Lost Coast can get lost.

Where was I?

Ah. Single Malt. Single Malt Scotch. It’s golden and clear like afternoon sunlight, and plays harp strings on your tongue. It’s swank and it’s slumming it. It’s glory and despair. It’s for celebration and mourning. Truly and truly, it is the food of the gods. Not like nasty cheap bourbon (the horrors) or Canadian blended whisky.

Should I ever become pregnant, the hardest part of the nine long months will not be having human larvae growing inside me, but rather the side effect of not being able to have a glass of whiskey. Sure, there’s plenty of medical research coming in showing that very light red wine consumption is probably beneficial while pregnant (very slight alcohol levels enhancing fetal ability to absorb nutrients through the placenta) but it’s gonna be pretty damn difficult to justify hitting hard liquor. I just know the second the cord is cut, it’s Booze Time.