A look at some red lagers
September 25, 2012 Rozanne Woodward 0 Comments
1) Killarney’s Killarney’s, or "it’s like Red Budweiser," went down pleasantly curt. Kelley, my cute little research assistant, said giddily, "Ooooh, I like that one, it’s sweet like a ditzy blond. You strap her in the back seat and peep at her boobs every few seconds because they’re fake, empty, and beautiful." We both had a pint before the appetizer, chugged two more before the entrée, and laughed at the waitress adjusting her bra.
2) Red Rocket A Colorado fare is Bristol’s Red Rocket. The movie theatre blared Elton John in the foyer, and reeled up Quills, those sadists. I have no other comment, except that Geoffrey Rush should have sucked on a bottle of Red Rocket, and perhaps his Mr. Pokey could have been a rocketman.
3) Fuller ESB The European contestant sauntered to the table, followed by an icy beaker. Her smooth and supple body crashed into the glass, churned seductively, and finally settled, kissing the bottom of the mug. My sober fingers groped and ravaged the beer. I lustfully sipped and swallowed, until the hops bounced in my belly. The second slurp was less attractive, and the third repulsive. But that first unmitigated pleasure was like some bimbo from Europe running off with your husband. Good for a cheap trick, but long term … yeah right. You’re already perched in southern France lippin’ a glass of vino with no one but Jacques the bouncer, and Julia the nun.
4) Red Wolf The most ignominious purchase was Red Wolf on a Sunday morning (since 7-11 was the only shot at beer for brunch). Like my faketoothed granny, Red Wolf has a wicked gnawing bite. The beer rapes your taste buds, and leaves your throat wondering for what does it deserve to serve such pennance. The grizzly wolf on the label must have imbued this crap, because he froths rabidly, daring you to drink the insipid red neck trash. It’s as if I’d crossed the river Styx. At first, hell is merely a place where we unenlightened souls reside bearably unconsolable because we didn’t know any better. Then you start to feel like a malicious renegade, knowing full well the consequences. And finally you turn into a purely depraved masochist, habitating a perditious world. But, I had to finish my beer.
5) Killian’s Irish Red No one ever decides to study urban rural development, but you stumble to grad school, toxic from the previous night, finally relating to the down and out farmer. You empathize with his passion for Killian’s and feel an exorbitant woe. Why should he pay his taxes, when the government won’t subsidize hemp? Pastoral poverty stares at him, toying with his helplessness. "I’m not trained to sow, or reap what I sow. How cow do you bow to sows from your trough? I wasn’t taught that in grammar school. I was teached to snort cocoa, and save my heroines." You cry to him from your $250k house, weeping that there aren’t enough supermarkets, and he can’t harvest his crops, and the bars are closed, and the Killian’s has been poured all over your hemp rug.