Son Of A Peach VS. Sam Adams Imperial White

CAGE MATCH BIOTCHES!

Normally I only feature one beer. Normally, I’m too drunk to write these articles. What the hell is your point? Leave me alone. You’re not fit to judge me. Only Ernest Hemingway can’t judge me. He would beat your sissy ass if he saw you trying.

  In this picture, Ernie is so drunk he’s boxing ghosts.

I’ve chosen to feature these two beers today because they are, as of this writing, my two favorite summer brews. They are both wheat beers, but that’s pretty much where the similarities end. Well, let’s get to the rundown, or , as Ernest would say, “Get in the ring you Nancy-boy candy-ass! I can see you hiding behind that purple llama!”

 “Fuck this. I ain’t in it.”

AND IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT TWELVE OUNCES, FROM SPARTANSBURG, SOUTH CAROLINA, “IRISH” SON OF A PEACH!

 “There is nothing at all Irish about me.”

I’ve drank a ton of fruit beers in my time. I’m a fruity bastard, especially when the mercury rises above seventy-five degrees. I’m not much for them in the winter, preferring porters and stouts, but you try kicking back at a BBQ downing bottle after bottle of  Flying Dog Gonzo.

 EPIC PARTY BRO!

Yep. That’s why I go for these beers. This beer in particular lends itself to all day slow chugging sitting out back of someones house watching other people play horseshoes. (Or, if I’m playing, sending people to the hospital with horseshoes.) It’s light and fizzy, with just the right amount of peach flavor. It’s cloudy, but drinks easy. Easy as your one friend’s sister whose always giving you the ‘Take Me Out Behind The Trampoline’ eyes. You know the one. Just like her, it also goes great with said BBQ.

“But Coddy,” you say, “I don’t really like peaches, bro.”

To this I say: “Go back to Russia, Ivan! How the hell do you not like peaches? Peaches, bacon, burgers, fried chicken, and watermelon are as American as apple-pie! Wait…What? USA!”

Break it down now. I SAID BREAK IT DOWN!

Taste: Peaches. Millions of peaches. Peaches for me. And you. And that guy! I LOVE YOU TERRY! YOU’VE ALWAYS BEEN THE BEST OF THEM!

Drinkability: As easy to drink as soda. You’ll find yourself drunk and be surprised.

ABV: 4.7, a little higher than your average pilsner.

Cost: $8.49 a six-pack.

Hangover rating: These have gotten me once or twice. I don’t know if it has to do with the natural sugars in the peaches they use, but probably. They’ll thump your head right proper if you go past eight or so.

AND IN THIS CORNER, WEIGHING IN AT, WELL, TWELVE OUNCES, FROM BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS, SAMUEL ADAMS “RAGING MICK” IMPERIAL WHITE!

 “My father is German, you stupid son of a…”

Whoa. Just whoa. This motherfucker right here means business. It’s a white beer too, but this and the other beer probably don’t even speak the same language, at least not the same dialect.

Example:

Son of a Peach: “How ya’ll doin’? Sure is a fine afternoon. Supposin’ y’all’d like ta sit over in the shade with me? I’ll spin you a yarn ’bout how my grandpappy charmed the werewolves and the immigrants out of the deep south.”

Sam Adams Imperial White: “AAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!IS THAT YOUR SISTER!? I NEED MEAT AND SOULS TO FEED THE ETERNAL VOID!

Yeah. This beer can be drunk outside, but be wary, it’s deceptively thick for a white beer. It borders on true Belgian status. Coriander and spice be up in this bitch. It’s as satisfying as ice cold revenge though, every sip you take is like hearing the lamentations of your enemies. And it hits so hard, you might actually hear those lamentations, after the cops remove the pick-ax from your hands.

 “We’ve never seen anyone fight through five tasers before.”

Tale of the tits Tape. Tape. I meant tape. For real.

Taste: Like thick orange and coriander goodness.

Drinkability: Pretty good, especially considering how thick it is.

ABV: 10% Sweet Jesus.

Cost: $10 a four-pack.

Hangover rating: There is a good reason they only sell this in four-packs.

FIGHT!

Sam Adams comes out swinging wildly! It’s nothing but haymakers and windmill fists! Son of a Peach dodges! Sam Adams has hit the ref! The ref is down! The Ref’s head has exploded! There’s brains and skull and shit! Oh my god! Son of a Peach is still dancing! Sam Adams can’t catch him! Sam Adams has slipped in brain matter! He’s on his back, apparently cursing the elder gods that gave him life!

 “I deny being any kind of elder god. You know, for the record.”

Sam Adams can’t get up! He’s too heavy! Son of a Peach is off in the audience, flirting with someone else’s wife! Oh, the insanity!

THE WINNER:

Son of a Peach, but only because summer drinking is a marathon, not a drag race.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: