Bonfire Rauchbier

Bonfire Rauchbier
The Boston Beer Company
Boston, MA

Hello, puffers. It's been a while but I splurged a little from my routine of asceticism to bring you several more pointless reviews. They are made more irrelevant by the fact that I will be pontificating on three mainstays of the mainstream craft beer ejaculatory movement that most of the beer intelligentsia has already decreed "non Pliny the Elder and hence SHIIIIT!". Such is my vainglorious plot.

I'm probably poisoning my critique by devouring a bag of Better Made Red Hot Cheese popcorn before imbibing but the world turns for less rational reasons than some fat fuck with a double chin and a triple pack of firewater tripping on beer etiquette.

Here's the story: Rauchbier sounds raunchy to me. Like phlegm in your throat that coughs up hairy-snouted and bloody ectoplasm. Or like a good-whiskered woman with a crotch full of disease. To some of you that is boon worthy of your peckerdilly cravings. To me it shouted, "Watch out fucklips.' I tell you this isn't as stanky as it was in that motel in Nashtucky after visiting my butterfly fairy princess clone who makes the stars stream in the sky for my middle years testosterone-eroding sentimentality. I hated it then and am more fond of it now.

There's a raspy spectre of cinnamon, spice-like, caramel infusion in the body of it which is untempered by the over-maltiness. Whatever malt they used has some milky foliage to speak of. Some kind of a lactose nipple in the sky feeding off dirty space junk. Or akin to a Dirty Bastard but with lighter pollution. A scotch with wood smoke. All right, this is evolving into Robert Burnsesque poetry and before I start speaking of me luve I will bow out, hackneyed, defeated and ready for the second round of my grain water surfeit.