The Starr Hill Festie Oktoberfest Lager. Two of these were necessary to impose justice upon the wurst. It's a decent beer. Some hop and dance on the tongue, but really, what fair impression could I could draw with a tongue slathered in sauerkraut and mustard? Let's put it this way: it tastes like a fucking beer. Alcohol below 5%. What confounds about this beer is the packaging. I'm pretty sure the official Oktoberfest motto isn't "Life is a Carinval", although "Das Leben ist ein Karneval" sounds pretty blond and blue eyed. And the ferris wheel makes no sense. I'm tempted to believe it's repackaged Summer Lager, with a hasty addition of "Oktoberfest Lager" printed onto the label. Maybe it's an East German throwback Oktoberfest recipe, given the big Commie red star. Whatever, there's four more left in the pack and those are the last four of this beer I'll ever consume.
The Hofbrau Munchen. The principle purpose of this drink, as with almost all drink, is to convince you that you will end up with a busty blond at the end of the night. As I am alone in the den watching television and digesting pork and veal sausage, I hate this beer and have limited intake to a single bottle, which at about 6.5 ABV is plenty. Fuck the Germans and their goddamn blond busty babes. It's good though. The quaf is crisp. And clean. But not the thoughts regarding those busty Oktoberfelines. It's just beer for fuck's sake and if I was in a big tent in Munich, it'd be just the oil to flash fry some fantasies about what the night holds.
