Uurrrrrrp

I can't figure it out. How can Russell Wardlow, AKA Mean Mr. Mustard Part Deux, be such a great blogger and hate beer? Perhaps when he says he hates beer, it's some sort of sarcasm that squirts right over my head because I bailed out of Columbia U. and ended up getting my degrees at U. of Miami, whereas Russell is hanging with the true sophisticates at Berkeley.

Anyhow, I am currently mashing my fake Belgian ale. Which is nothing like a real Belgian ale. It's loaded with two-row and overpowered American hops which would have your average Belgian in the fetal position in two seconds, rubbing his eyes and crying for maman.

Yes, I as an American--a citizen of the land of Buttweiser and Miller--feel entitled to scoff at the Belgians, who crank out Delirium Tremens ale and Cinq Cents Tripel. Because, hey, they speak French.

Losers.

Speaking of French, I violated my own personal boycott today by buying my old man a bottle of Sempe Armagnac. I couldn't buy him Cuban stogies because he has decided the Bauza pyramid--a cheap treat at $80 per box--is the ultimate smoke. He isn't far wrong. They're amazing, and if you set them aside for six months, they can take on anything Fidel and his stooges have to offer.

Armagnac is tasty stuff, and the old man prefers it to Cognac.

I still have to buy something for his birthday, which is this week. I'm thinking maybe Calvados. I've never had Calvados, but why should that stop me? It has to be pretty good. They want like forty bucks for a fifth, minimum.

Man this Fin du Monde is good. It makes me feel like watching bizarre flash animations featuring squirrels.

The stove beeper is going to go off at any moment. Time for the saccharification stage of the mash.