No Label Brewing Co., Forbidden Lavender

Ain't it cute when the Grim Reaper sneaks some plants into your beer?  That is the surface of the question posed by the label art on this interesting bottle from No Label Brewing Co. in Katy, TX.  I'll gloss over the part where there clearly is a label, and just point out what seems very odd about it.


You can see at first glance, it's not so bad.  Actually, it's sort of a pleasant label, good fonts, nice pleasing colors, mostly legible.  It has a femininity to the art and an overall curious appeal.  So, you buy it, take it home, chill it, and eventually pour yourself a glass.  But while you're pouring this refreshing beverage, you give the bottle a little twist.  The lines draw your eye to the right, following that strange curve to its terminus.  And then what the fluffy hell are you looking at?  It's the goddam Grim Reaper seemingly stuffing flowers in your beer.  Or is it?  Scratch that surface even a tiny bit, and what you've got there is a picture of the Grim Reaper stroking his bone and jizzing all over the name of the beer.

Go look for yourself.  I'll wait.

You see that shit?  What the hell, No Label Brewing Co.?  Was this lable worth abandoning what is clearly the basic conceit of your brewery?

And look at that smirk on Grimmy... He knows.  He knows you're looking.  He knows what you see.  And he loves it.  Now that he caught you staring, he's going to "finish the whole bottle," if you get my meaning.  What a perv.

Surprisingly, the Jizz Beer of Death is pretty good.  Maybe long-holing those stems is a great way to pack some flavor into a beer.  The methods are clearly questionable, but the results are great.

The label describes it as a "wit style ale brewed with lavender," which doesn't really describe what's going on here, flavor-wise.  The fist thing to hit you is the smell, light, but defined lavender (slightly on the soapy side).  Next the flavors of sweet malt, herb-y lavender, and maybe even a bit earthy on the finish all float across the palate on little happy bubbles.  It's good.  I like it.  Be warned, though: this is definitely a chick beer.  This is even more of a chick beer than Dos Equis, which is the very definition of a chick beer.

My plan is to one day buy another bottle of this Forbidden Lavender, chill it good and cold in the far-far-Narnia-back of the fridge where no one will ever see it, turn out all the lights, and pour my beer into my chilled glass under cover of darkness, sneak into my waiting pillow fort and enjoy another one of these beer as quietly as possible.  You can join me, if you don't tell nobody, OK.

Monchshof Kellerbier

If there is one thing that understands me, it is German lagers.  Which is good, 'cause I sure as hell don't understand them.  I mean, what the fluff does "Kellerbier" even mean?  Does anyone even know?  It's just a random collection of letters, like "Monchshof" and "German."  One thing I do know about German lagers is this: I like 'em.  They taste like good beer.  If I had to die tomorrow I'd want to go out drinking German Lagers, rolling nude in my Skittles pool, spoiled nasty from a lifetime of riches and excess, and surrounded by my spurned and disowned loved ones.

Did you know that the Germans are legally barred from putting any weird shit in their beer?  It's true.  I read about it on the interwebs (those things you are on now)!  The Germans, I believe, hate both weird (non-sex related) shit and bad beers, and I show my approval by drinking their good beers to excess.

Monchshof Kellerbier, from Kulmbacher Brauerei,  is some tasty (non-sex related) beer.  There is a malty perfection, and smoothness of smokey beer liquid in my face.  It has a good body and nice legs.  Not so much by way of tits.  Two out of three, though...  Yup, good beer.

I'd like to wax poetic and ramble on about it if I wasn't so busy drinking.  So, clearly, good beer.  Drink this beer.

The Wild Beer Co., Somerset Saison

My beer, it's looking at you.  My beer is angry with you.  Look at those beerfull eyes, feel the heat.  The label says, "Crisp + Zesty + Spicy," but those eye say something far more menacing.  They say, "Woodland hate."

Somerset Saison, no more.  I rename this beer Woodland Hate, and you are only allowed to drink it after you win a staring contest with it.  Let me tell you a story.

Passing through the aisles at my local, my mind roaming innocently, I felt an intense burning on the back of my neck.  It was just as if some demon's cloven claw-fang snagged on my soul and killed everything I ever loved.  I turned and bravely met the cold gaze of my spiritual assassin.  The hart and I were locked in combat, our wills pressing at the boundaries of each other existence.  BANG!  My hand, faster than reflection, peeled through the onion skins of time and experience, to wrap itself around the beast's neck.  Freed from the ice cave that gave it power and persistence, we fought to the death, and victory was mine.  I possessed my demon and brought it home.

The hart of the Woodland Hate bubbled and foamed an anger that lasted.  Its golden pelt settled into the cage I made for it.  Then I consumed it.  It tasted wild at first, sour, but when we understood each other the rage died as quickly as it had first frothed over.  I was left bitter.  Maybe the disappointment I felt was the curse those eyes whispered to me when I first walked past.

Basically, this beer is jut OK, if you like saisons.  There is also a cool illustration on the label.

NBBCo Mexican Cannon

I smell like bug spray, sweat, and sunshine.  The temperature is a brisk 91. I've got a special Mariachi Puro radio playlist on the speakers.  The lawn is mowed, and it is time for the second installment of post lawn mowing beer reviews.

In honor of Omar's love of Texas history, his current absence from the city, and how he can't drink booze while he's on some meds, I have chosen New Braunfels Brewing Co.'s Mexico Cannon, a "hand made wheat ale."  It was brewed in honor of a cannon given to the colony of Gonzales blah, blah, blah, some other stuff, blah... beer.  Omar does that history shit.  I focus on drinking beer.

I've set the scene for you, so now I take a sip, aaannnnnd... this beer is horrible.  It sucks on a Dyson cyclone technology level.

Have you ever received a present that looks super cool in the wrapping, but when you open it, is really just a punch in the balls?  It is an overrated experience, and best avoided.  But if you're looking for the thrill, this beer is for you.

The label talks about a "briskly sour [taste] with a puckeringly salty lime punch [in the balls]."  It tastes like I dropped my rancid margarita in the gulf, tried to scoop it back into my glass, then took leave of my reason and drank it.  When I read the label at the shop, I thought it could be good.  I still think the idea is sound, but holy hell, this is aweful.  This beer has tainted my post-mow beer ritual.

A part of life's beauty is now dead.

On principle, I'm going to finish this wretched bottle of salty malted shit.  Afterwords, I'll probably have to blow a ship-full of sailors just to get this horrible taste out of my mouth.  I like to think the worst that can happen if I try a bad beer is that I have a beer, which ain't so bad.  After this bad beer, however, I will have to re-mow my lawn just so I can drink a decent post-mow beer.  That may seem extreme, but this beer is seriously terrible.  Now I have to get the lawn mower back out and hope to hell that I have a modelo in the fridge.