No, I haven't been to Tasmania and I'm not that big of an asshole that I think drinking the Sam Adams Tasman Red gives me any fucking clue what the difference between a Tasmanian and an Australian and a New Zealander is other than several hundred miles of unforgiving ocean and an accent that chicks dig. 6.75 ABV ain't enough to make me start speaking like that fraud voiceover actor who handles those Outback Steakhouse commercials. But I'm alone in the den anyway so my chick ain't here to impress. So I got nothing but a pint of New Zealand hops masterfully rendered into a "Red IPA" whatever that means. Inspired by Marx, Lenin? There's too much caramel to be referring to its color. And everything's about politics these days. Fucking commies. Well, it is a Massachusetts brewery. Anyway, the label alleges this and that about malts and hops, all of which promise to be "bold, lively, and a bit rugged." Presumably, that describes your average Tasmanian. Santa Claus was hired for the label art. That, or some kind of Tasmanian prospector. (Jesus, but some people get paid for some real bullshit). This pint's head is bushier than that old coot's whiskers. So I'm five eighths of the way through Batch no. 1 of what Sam Adams describes as a limited edition brew. Well, I say, why limit yourself, Sam? Be bold, be lively, be a bit rugged. Be a fucking Tasmanian and add this bearded pinko swill to your regular stable of beers. If you have to, drop that nasty Cherry Wheat cough syrup. If I want cherries, I'll have some goddamned pie. Recommendation: go buy some. Sent from my iPhone
Posted via email from Sydney's posterous
