Stone’s Cold Classic

13 May

Stone IPA and Me, A Novella

Two things. Thing 1: if you need to fill a Saturday night minus the GF (wrong audience, I know), may I suggest poppin’ a Stone IPA and cranking Powerage until your neighbor’s ears bleed. And do it naked — because this is how God meant for you to hear AC/DC.

Thing 2:

Minutes before he passed out in an alleyway.

Now let me tell you about a beer that I stole from my dad no more than 9 hours ago. It was a hit and run. Swung by the old man’s house, punched the garage code, raided three of America’s finest IPAs and hit the road. I’m like the Robin Hood of alcohol — if this cat can’t appreciate a $13 sixer that I moved heaven and earth to get (i.e. hit up the “nice” Publix), then he deserves to get robbed. I mean, I bring the guy and his woman (Mom) this fancy dinner gift, drink three, and he’s STILL got three more toiling away in the back of his man-fridge a month later??

You snooze, you lose, budski. And here’s the best part: when I smuggled them out of the ice box, I swear on my life the Bud longnecks fell back like the parting of the Red Sea. Make way for the real king, boys.

Stone’s IPA is one f-cking arrogant bastard of a hazy off-orange ale that kicks the ass of Bell’s Two Hearted three ways from Tuesday. It’s a hoppy, woodsy sap bomb that rocks its 77 IBUs like the badge of honor it is. Seriously, if I spill a sip of this thing, I’ll have a pine tree growing out of my carpet by September. And look, I’m all about Stone’s (cough) “other” brew, but OAKED fanboys be damned, this is the best brewery in America’s best beer.


I can imagine the bitterness overpowering as it warms, but I wouldn’t know. My pint never lasts that long. And let me tell you, I haven’t seen finer lacing in a Victoria’s Secret. Nitro tastes like the bottle, too, which means you won’t  be confusing it for Big Nose (AHEM, Jai Alai) or spitting it back into your cup (AHEM, Two Hearted) when you order on tap.

God bless you Stone. You are to the IPA what Angus Young is to the power chord — its very finest purveyor.

~ The Fly

The end.


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