Archive for Spirit Guide

The End Of An Era

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , , on April 9, 2013 by Colin Walker

Well, it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Sorry about that, truly. I had several constant readers, and as I piddled my time away doing other things besides writing, I’m sure they found better things to do than reading my stuff. Fair is fair and all that.

I have no excuses, but I do have a reason.

I have to come right out and tell you guys this: there will be no more beer reviews on this site. Say sorry, but say true. It’s that’s what you came here for, I thank you for your time, but must bid you a fond adieu.

adieu Little fucker even has a monocle!

And, it’s not the beer’s fault. It’s mine. See, sometime around August, I slipped into alcoholism.

slippery To be fair, I probably would have tripped over those embellishes ‘s’es, too. Shouldn’t leave them lying around like that.

Yep, the bottle got me. Just as it bit my father before me. I went from beer, to vodka, to vodka like almost all the fucking time. Now you’re probably thinking ‘Shit, the codpiece walked around stinking drunk for months, and no one stopped him?’ But that’s not right, that’s not how it was. See, I can walk around with about four ounces of vodka in me constantly, and I’d defy anyone to notice without a breathalyzer. Just part of my fantastic Irish constitution. And I didn’t put it out in the open. I was slick with it.

SlickMe, in my mind, being a slick son of a bitch.

So, yes, I walked around for months, legally drunk, with no consequence. I didn’t wreak cars, or get into fights, or dip my dick into the Jell-o dessert at parties. But my life did start to disintegrate around me. I stopped paying attention to anything that wasn’t terribly interesting to me, which was mostly vodka and doing whatever the hell I wanted.

In fact, the drinking never really did get me busted. If you’re reading this looking for one of those hard bottom endings where I drop from stellar heights to lows unknown, I’m sorry to disappoint you. There’s none of that here. My wife called me out on some of my behavioral bullshit and that’s when I realized the drinking was getting in the way of who I wanted to be. I wasn’t being a good husband or father, and was all around acting like an irresponsible asshole. You want the bottom, there it is. May it be as soft for all others, although I know it won’t be. Maybe it’s because I saw my old man fall so far that I was able to pull the cord so early.

But, It’s over. It’s been more than a week since I’ve had a drink, (including soda, I used to mix it with all kinds, and now it kind of makes me ill. Shit’s bad for you anyway.) and I’ll admit, for the first few days, it sucked bad. I had the shakes, the chills, the sleeplessness, the whole bit. But, that’s over. Then I had the few ‘holy shit, I feel great!‘ days that follow that, and now they’re gone too. But I’m still here, still not drinking. And, it’s not even a thing anymore. I don’t see why I did it in the first place, but hey, we are who we are, right? Me and the bottle were bound to tangle, but I’ll be damned if something that lives in a container is going to get the best of me for very long.

So, to all the drinkers out there, bottoms up! I begrudge you nothing. But I blew out my metaphorical knee, so nothing but the bench for me. Happy trails.

But don’t go anywhere, I haven’t stopped torturing my gut with frankenfoods, or reviewing expensive cars. Shit, we might even blow some shit up. Who knows?

Unibroue Terrible And Samuel Smith Organic Apricot: A Hazy, Sweet, Mahogany Smack Down

Posted in Spirit Guide, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 6, 2012 by Colin Walker

 Spirit Guide

Well, I sure went off the rails with my posting schedule, didn’t I? Yeah, well, that happens. There was only one perfect person born on this earth, ever, and his name was Arnold Paupington, of Spelthorne, Surrey. No one really knows much about him though, as perfect people have a tendency to be woefully fucking boring.

 How boring? No search results boring.

To err is human, and to throw your posting schedule out the window is how The Codpiece gets down. So, let’s break back into it, shall we? Starting off with a big, dark, Canuk that just don’t give a damn.

   Head’s so damn big it uses a large dog bed for a pillow.

Unibroue Terrible

I’ve never trusted the Canadians. You want it out there? Fine, it’s out there. I know that all of you have been wondering about my position regarding my northern neighbors for a while now, so BAM, there it is. Some who know me will say, ‘But Coddy, your paternal grandfather was French Canadian.’ I will then call you a freaky-ass stalker, because I hardly tell anybody that. You need to get the hell out of my family tree–seriously. And I’ve never even met my paternal grandfather, so there. Not to try and start in on a sob story, but there dude ran out on my grandmother before my father had even drawn breath into his partially territoriality handicapped lungs. There’s also the fact that the Canadians in general are just too damn quiet. I know what that means. I used to be that guy when I was a teenager. I used to stay up in my room for hours, and they’d never hear a peep out of me. You know what I was up to?

Almost satanic levels of mischief, that’s what.

 Pictured: What I believe to be a Canadian greeting card.

So when I heard about Unibroue, a Quebec-based brewery that opened in 1990 with the intention of becoming the first brewery in North America no faithfully mimic the Belgian style of brewing beer, I was more than skeptical. I got down right scared. And then I got armed.

 Because like I said, Canadians are fucking crazy, that’s why.

I bought a bottle of their ‘Terrible’ offering from The Wooden Keg as part of my birthday ‘Here, honey, please drink yourself to death’ present. I mean, I had to buy it, right? Look at that bottle. There’s really nothing on it save for a silver strip with the word ‘Terrible’ cut out of it. Intriguing, to say the least. I poured it and took that picture up there. There was some serious head right off the bat, even with a careful down the glass slow pour. That, indeed, is a characteristic of a Belgian Trappist-style beer. I raised my eyebrow, then the glass.

And my distrust of Canadians was instantly reinforced. “See!” I shouted, much to the distress of my wife and our teenage daughter. “You see that!? You can’t trust a goddamn one of them! This isn’t terrible at all! This is fantastic!”

 And then I just kind of rocked the fuck out for a while.

This beer is straight-up great. It’s almost as good as SKULLSPLITTER , and it shares a lot of the same traits. It appears to be black coming out of the bottle, but when held up to the light, it has a definite mahogany hue. There is a rich malty-ness with distinct fruit overtones and a barely there smoky finish. It really gets on your tongue and does a dance. And it’s not some kind of low-rent boiler room jig, either. This smooth maple leaf motherfucker waltzes, gliding across your tongue like some kind of be-pinstriped ballroom dancer.

Any kind of strongly flavored grilled meat would complement this brew tremendously, although food is by no means necessary to enjoy this beer. One could simply lean back in a favored chair, resting their feet on the naked minority of their choosing, smoking a fine cigar, and a good night would be guaranteed.

So, there you have it. I’ve been won over by a Canadian. That’s one out of thirty four and a half million. And I’ve got my fucking eye on the rest of them.

TASTE:  Elegant, complex, and powerful. Like the space shuttle in a dress.

DRINKABILITY: This is a fantastic sipping beer, but you could always be a heathen and chug it. Try not to throw up on the Dave Matthews poster you still have hanging in the man cave in your basement, though.

A.B.V.: %10.5

 COST: $12/1pt.9oz.

HANGOVER RATING: I wouldn’t go past three bombers of this.

 Source

Samuel Smith’s Organic Apricot Ale

I’ll let you all in on a little secret. I’m not really all that fond of Samuel Smith beers. The browns and porters fall flat, in my opinion, being kind of mundane and unremarkable. It’s why I don’t do reviews on them, or reviews on beers that I’m just kind of uninspired by all together. Because opening up an article and seeing the word ‘Meh’, followed by this picture:

Is a waste of both of our times.

But hey, you know what Samuel Smith can do right? Fruit beer! Damn right, Coddy’s preferred summertime libation jackpunched by an old English brew house. I’ve had all of them, but on the same night I tried ‘Terrible’, I got to try what I believe to be the best one for the first time.

Samuel Smith’s Organic Apricot is everything a fruit beer should be, and then some. First off, if you don’t like apricot, stay the hell away, because they sure didn’t go easy on it. The apricot here is far more prevalent then in the offerings from Pyrimid, Sea Dog, or Dogfishead. These apricots kick in your door, sit on your sofa, and demand chips.

 Apricots.

There is a thickness to this beer that is actually quite pleasant. I can’t stand that sort of thing in a berry beer, but here it just sort of works. Perhaps it’s because apricots (unless fresh or dehydrated) are usually served with some kind of syrup, and my mouth has no trouble at all with the associated viscosity.

This is absolutely wonderful, and if you were to put it in your face hole with something, I would suggest plain high quality cheesecake.

TASTE:  FUCKING APRICOTS

DRINKABILITY: Too damn easy. You could put yourself in the hole pretty quick with this, and have fun doing it.

A.B.V.: %5.1

 COST: $7/1pt.9oz.

HANGOVER RATING: Gotta be careful with something this sweet. ‘Wine Crushing Headfuck’ isn’t just a great band name, you know.

And then…

Samuel’s Sunsetter: The Apricot At The Threshold

Now, those of you that read this blog regularly know that I like to do this retarded thing with food where I smash two things or more together and try and see if I can survive/enjoy it. 

It was only a matter of time before I did this with beer, and you damn well knew it.  So what happens when you have roughly equal amounts of these two beers sitting in your fridge? Do you do the responsible, acceptable thing and pour a small glass of one, then the other? Not if you’re me, you wouldn’t. Hell, this glass holds sixteen ounces. I’m not wasting them.

It would be really easy to sit there on the other end of the internet and say: “Coddy, I coulda told, ya, man, that’s gonna be a bad idea. Brew Masters worked for countless hours on the formulation and manufacture of those two beers, and you just can’t go playing god and splicing their delicious beer genes together like that, bro.”

Well, then you’d be a smug asshole with no sense of adventure. You would also be woefully wrong.

Because this combination is awesome.  Smoked peaches? A complex symphony of taste over a simple beat of sweetness? A thick, yet refreshing body?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

In related news, I am now a minor beer deity. Go forth, child, go forth and conquer! 

Beer Week Almost Derailed By Nemesis

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2012 by Colin Walker

Spirit Guide

“The first and greatest commandment is, don’t let them scare you.”- Elmer Davis

“Fortune favors the brave”-Publius Terence

“I swear these motherfuckers at DuClaw are trying to kill me.”-Codpiece

We were rolling strong until about two days ago, my fine readers. (I drink the beers and the review goes up two days later–I don’t write these as I’m drinking.) I was floating along the river Hops, in my flat-bottom barley boat, whistling to myself as I drifted past the fruit trees. I had laid back with an easy drinking porter, chilled out with my new Viking main-man, and even hosted a rowdy tempest that was more peat than malt. All in all, good times. A few harsh words were uttered, but nothing completely untoward. Looked like smooth sailing.

Then, Hop river sped up, took a sharp turn around a blind bend and dumped me into the wide end of a bottleneck. The water’s will was steady, but in my way, preventing me from continuing on to the estuary and the sea beyond was a evil-looking bomber. DuClaw’s Pax Nemesis.

 Fuck.

It turns out, the name was appropriate.

Enough with the maritime metaphors. This beer kicked my ass and nearly capsized my boat (sorry…not really.)

 “And ye almost shoved yer own misen mast trough the poop-deck. ARRR.”

DuClaw is from Abbington, MD. That’s about 100 miles from where I sit, but since they’re in MD, that technically makes them ‘local’. I wanna love the local boys, it’s always good to root for the home team. Plus, DuClaw has some seriously kick-ass labels, and anyone who tells you that they’ve never bought a beer solely because of the label is a bald-faced liar.

That’s right I called you back from yesterday’s post to call you a fucking liar. Smooth malts my ass. Don’t point that thing at me!

So, swayed by the cool labels and the cool names, I picked up three bombers from DuClaw at The Wooden Keg.  This is the first. It’s a jacked-up altbeir. An altbeir (old beer) is brewed with a top fermenting yeast at low temperature. It starts out muddy, becoming clearer and lighter in color as time goes on. Mostly, altbeirs don’t reach %11. This one, does. I don’t know what they did to it, but I wish they hadn’t.

The taste of this beer is almost completely artificial. It’s strange, almost as if they formulated a trippel and a bock in a lab, then slammed them into each other under a grain alcohol shower. It’s kind of thick, cloyingly sweet, and somewhat oily. And the alcoholic aftertaste? Dear lord. I’m not a weak man when it comes to spirits, and I’ve had brews well above %11, but none has ever given me  the problems this one did. Have you ever poured vodka into soda and forgotten to stir it, just chugging it back right after you pour it, then regretting it as that taste of pure, unexpected alcohol made you burp and your saliva glands go into overdrive? This is just like that, except the soda sucks.

I was honestly stuck here, should I sip lightly, avoiding the feeling of nausea, putting up with the taste of this stuff? Or, should I chug bravely, throwing cation to the wind in an attempt to move onto a better beer and leave this foul experience behind me?

I think that, if you know me, you know which path I chose.

This was almost me.

Man, by the end of it, I was sure I was going to lose it. My stomach was in pure revolt. Never again with this. I’ve got two more, but different DuClaws in the fridge. Let’s hope they’re better.

Taste:  If you love yourself…

Drinkability:  stay the hell away from this.

A.B.V: %11

Cost: $10

Hangover rating: I’m sure that if you drank two of these, you’d need Gorilla tape to get your head back together.

New Belgium Passion Saison

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , , on December 20, 2011 by Colin Walker

Spirit Guide

Let me make something clear. I am a man who can admit when he was wrong. Back in August, I ribbed New Belgium Brewing Company a bit. It wasn’t about the beer, I loved the beer, but I did make some disparaging remarks about their name and their website. These remarks may have been true, but I’d like to go ahead and retract them now anyway.

“But why?” you ask, “Coddy, you’ve always been the lone shining beacon of truth in our otherwise murky world.  When the fog of lies and propaganda gathers, it is only you who pierces that deceptive murk with your everlasting sword of light and purity.”

It is to you I say, “Who the fuck are you, and how did you find this website?”

I’m retracting the statements I made because I have now become convinced that New Belgium Brewing can do no wrong. What I’m saying is, I want to have New Belgium’s babies.

So, now that it’s been established that I’m a mincing twat for New Belgium, let’s get to what I’m reviewing:

Inseminate me, you amber bastard.

It’s the Prickly Passion Saison, and it’s the shit. They took prickly pear and passion fruit and threw that shit on top of a high ABV farmhouse ale. It’s fruity, yeasty, and it will knock you on your ass.

The two fruits combine to form an almost mango character. Which is weird, but not unpleasant, kind of like my uncle Sal.

“Wear the pajamas I like.”

Pair this with a good filet of whatthefuckeveritdoesntmatter and go drink some right now.

Taste: Tart and yeasty. This is only bad when we’re talking about the fairer sex.

Drinkability: Tricky at first, but after the first few sips, it becomes almost addictive.

ABV: 8.5%

Cost: $8/22 oz.

Hangover Rating: Three will crack your skull and eat your brains like a famished gorilla. (gorillas do that.)

New Belgium’s ‘Kick’, & Flying Dog’s ‘Backyard Ale’

Posted in Spirit Guide with tags , , , , , , on August 28, 2011 by Colin Walker

This edition of Spirit Guide is dedicated to Nate ‘Fat Nate’ Field, who specifically asked when I was going to get off of my lazy ass and do another one of these. I’ve got a question for you, Fat Nate. When are you going to stop jerking off to old reruns of ‘Growing Pains’? That shit is weird, dude.

A two part-er this week, starting off with:

‘Kick’, New Belgium Brewing Company

The Codpiece is a fruity bitch. I’ve addressed this before, but a lot of the beers I do reviews on seem to be fruit beers. I don’t know why this is. Perhaps it’s because fruit beers move me more than most? Maybe because when they’re good they are amazing, but when they are bad they are atrocious? Could it be that I’m being paid off by some underground fruit and malt syndicate? Am I trying to tell you all something with an underlying theme that I couldn’t possibly say out loud, something that tortures me and makes me question my very existence and the choices I’ve made in life? I don’t know the answer. Neither does the gun in my mouth. I’ve asked.

 Oh gun, you so crazy.

  But don’t despair! If fruit beers aren’t your thing (you horrible fucking person), skip ahead. If you like them (and maybe want to get together sometime and play with my model train set with me), keep reading. New Belgium did this shit up right.

New Belgium is a fancy-pants brewing company out of Colorado. Don’t believe the fancy-pants bit? Here is a link to their website.   Shit is fancy as hell. As to why they decided to call themselves the New Belgium Brewing Company, I have no idea. They are headquartered in Fort Collins, which already has a name.

 Pictured: Not in any fucking way Belgium.

Fort Collins might have some kind of stigma that I’m not aware of, that these brewers didn’t want to be associated with.

 The Fort Collins school bus, stopping for a Big Bite and a Dew Slurpee.

But whatever. What matters is the beer, right? And this beer is quite exceptional. Instead of brewing the whole lot with cranberry and pumpkin juice, (because it’s fucking Thanksgiving already) they opted to do just seventy-five percent of it that way. Then, they added twenty-five percent of their potent wooden barrel aged ale. The result is a fruit beer that only hints at being one. But unlike some other fruit beers, *cough cough, Sam Adams Cherry Wheat, cough*  you can’t miss the hint.

 “What the fuck did I ever do to you?”

It is potent and easy going down. I’ve only seen them in 22oz. sizes, but let me tell you, I could drink three of these mofos easy. And I’d find the bail money somewhere. “I’m hoooooooome!”

It’s mildly tart, but not sour. Kind of like your sister. Except I bet this beer is smart enough to find it’s way home after being left under a highway bridge. The cranberry flavor stands out more that the pumpkin, but the pumpkin hides in the soft back bite. Shit is delicious, son.

 Taste: I just fucking said it was delicious. What more do you want from me? You always TAKE.

Drinkability: Only slightly acidic. No problem at all.

ABV: A sneaky, sneaky 8.5%

Cost: $6.50 for 22oz. Not too bad for something this caliber.

Hangover Rating: Unknown. I only drank the one. I am filled with deep regret over this.

Next up:

 Flying Dog Backyard Ale

I love Flying Dog, ya’ll. Word is bond. They, like New Belgium, are from Colorado. But, unlike NB, whose yeasty tentacles have just found their way out to Maryland, Flying Dog moved their brewing operation out here, to Frederick. Before you say, “Oh, Coddy, you’re on that local favoritism shit now.” let me tell you this: that don’t mean a damn thing. The brewery that used to be in the building Flying Dog now occupies was called Blue Ridge. From what I can remember (it’s been years), that was some of the most god-awful shit I’d ever tasted. It was like the embodiment of misery took a piss in my mouth while I was sleeping and held my jaws shut when I woke up. A brewery about twenty miles from me, in Martinsburg, WV, produced beer so bad that I actually threw it out. Do you know how bad that has to be? I once tossed the salad of a girl I barely knew, and I couldn’t drink that swill. Thank god they are closed.

 Fuck. You.

So, when I say I love the Dog, that’s because Flying Dog makes excellent product. Their motto is a line borrowed from Hunter S. Thompson: ‘Good People drink Good Beer’. And while that alienates the shit out of me (and Hunter, too), they make some awesome brews. They make my all-time favorite Imperial Porter, ‘Gonzo’, and I have only tasted one or two of their offering which I didn’t like. but they were IPAs. The Codpiece don’t really truck with IPAs. Your mom gives me enough heartburn as it is.

My buddy John ‘Good God Man, You Slept With My Sister-In-Law’ Reece bought a bottle of this over last night. My opinion, Flying Dog has saved the day again.

 And just like that, Google Image search makes me hate Jason Lee a little bit more.

Backyard Ale is delicious, with a light smoky malt flavor. It was brewed in conjunction with a chef (Bryan Voltaggio) to compliment ‘All Things Grilled’.  Sadly, I didn’t try it at a BBQ, unless taking whippets around a clown corpse can be called a cookout. But I’m sure it’s great with all kinds of food.

Taste: Smoky and malty, full and smooth.

Drinkability: A little thicker than a pilsner, but certainly no chore.

ABV: 7.5%

Cost: $8/six-pack

Hangover Rating: Unavailable. Like ‘Kick’, I only drank the one. And it was so fucking good the bird stole some of it. 

He’s a dick like that sometimes.

Son Of A Peach VS. Sam Adams Imperial White

Posted in Spirit Guide, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 11, 2011 by Colin Walker

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.