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I know what you’re thinking and what you’re thinking is fucking pathetic, it’s so nerdy. “B-but Tristan ‘Mynie’ Abbott, this beer wasn’t meant to be aged!” You can’t give it a proper review in its current state!”

Fuck you. Fuck everyone who looks like you.

I have the fucking shingles and the only things that bring me solace are research chemicals. You ever try freebasing Valtrex? I don’t recommend it, but I also think a man’s worth is determined by how well-rounded he is vis-à-vis the number of things he freebased: daisy pollen, powdered Doritos cheese, the yeast at the bottom of a bottle of Bernardus Wit, etc. I’ve boiled them all into powders and then proceeded to light up the ol’ mainline. Why, you say. It makes no sense to give yourself boils and blood infections like that, you say? Because I am real fucking man. Unlike you.

Diseases can only be cured by exposure to alien compounds. This is Newton’s Eighth Law, people, and it was pretty much discussed word for word in the book of revelations. You got a problem, you pour a chemical on it. Acid gets rid of shit—that’s why its illegal to pour acid in people’s faces. You think aspirin is some of your hippy dippy organic raw milk bullshit? Fuck that. Aspirin’s from space. It’s a chemical.

Now, whether such practices were the cause or cure of my shingles is a question that can only be answered by a scientist. I am no scientist; just an herpetic monster. And no one agrees to a monster’s studies, especially when they yield terrifying discoveries.

Discovery one: Brett never dies, he just becomes flattened. Whereas a good bretty beer is serrated like a knife and tangy like a 9-volt, this is like one of those worthless unserrated knives you get as a thoughtless Christmas gift. It’s also as sharp as velveta (which isn’t sharp).

Discovery two: whatever was on the front end of this, balancing the brett, has turned into club soda.

Drink up!

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