AFFORDABILITY: Sammy Smith is never that affordable, even when it is on sale at the Kroger in it's big ass bottles for twenty cents less per bottle. Twenty cents out of four dollars don't even buy a stamp to mail my old girlfriend a postcard reminding her why she a bitch. 2 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: The taste of a nut brown gives you a properly fuzzy head, but the grass around the edges of my brain ain't tall enough to be worth the expensive seed being sown. Iffin's you're looking to get fucked up drinking the Sammy Smith, you're gonna need to buy a ton of them, at least a ton of coin. I think they get by on the fact most of their steady clientele are hippie girls who make the Nut Brown Ale a part of their perfectly balanced wake-and-bake breakfast with some blueberry kush or whatever the fuck hippie girls be smoking nowadays. Hippie girls always dazzle me with their colorful skirts and lack of underwear. 1 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: Plenty of Old English style (sans malt liquor) and a flowery thing that looks like this vagina I dreamed about one time that freaked me the fuck out and had me nervous for a couple days that one day I'd actually have to see a vagina like that. 1 out of 5, simply for the earth tones, because the vagina nightmare thing is like negative 3.
CORPORATE MASTER: As far as I can tell from the label, there is no bullshit multi-national corporate master for this here Sammy Smith dude, although he's a redcoated Brit, so his wealth probably pre-dates the entire existence of evil corporate conglomerates. He probably adopts African children and eats them and no one investigates the disappearances but if they did he'd blame it on Al-Qaeda recruiting African children using his new media purchases to perpetuate the bullshit. 3 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Sammy Smith’s Nut Brown Ale is surrounded by an aura of hippie girl vagina love, wispy hairs in abundance, no underwear, thrift store blue jeans slung low on underwearless hips. It is a festive beer where the rhythm method is encouraged because condoms are inorganic feeling and lack the proper energy. It is a wonderful beer to be drank with blueberry pancakes on a late Sunday morning breakfast, doing the samurai sudoku or crossword together, and you pretend that Dave Barry’s not a fucking idiot doofus, because there’s nothing better than tapestry fabric curtains blowing in the spring breeze with the windows wide open, feeling the air on your skin as you lay around having good fun intertwining sex all day. In fact, call it making love, because it feels like those old Al Green songs, and you wish Sundays were forever. 9 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 3 & 1/5 STARS!
No comments:
Post a Comment