Friday, September 25, 2009

Steel Reserve 211 - Friday, September 25th

Ok, I gave it a try. Seriously I did. At the request of a friend, while standing in the malt liquor section a few weeks ago at BotW, I fatefully decided on a can of Steel Reserve 211. The local malt liquor expert (he isn't, but I'm calling him that from now on) said it was pretty good.

He is such a fucking liar.

Through the goddamn teeth.

I'm sitting here trying to quaff this stuff and its painful. My stomach has attained a state of agitation closer to a cement mixer at a Mafia convention than an upset stomach. The taste of this beverage is indescribable. First off, its sickly sweet. Disturbingly so for something that's supposed to have hops in it. It also has this odd sour/bitterness that comes through in the finish. Definitely not related to hops but it could be related to a bad type of yeast. Or complete and utter beverage failure. The odor coming out of this can is amazing too. Let me describe the odor to you.

Picture NYC on a warm, stagnant August day. The sun beats down on your grimy skin, baking the filth of the streets onto your pasty, gaunt frame. You gather your torn windbreaker and cover yourself, trying in vain to keep the sun from scorching your skin. It makes it difficult to inject the needle. You amble and stagger down the street, praying that your thin waist doesn't slip through the torn relic you once called sweatpants. You are a hobo. And you are hungry. You pry about the trash cans down each street, hoping for tasty morsels to sate your hunger. After rambling about Nixon for what seems like hours to the clown that follows you around every Tuesday, you finally come upon a loaded wastebin. A greengrocer has thrown out every piece of fruit that is rotted so badly it cannot be used in any shape or form. Even the rats won't touch this refuse. You pick out an withered old cowboy-boot of an apple, an incredibly squishy pear coated in a fuzz that resembles the outside of a Wilson tennis ball, and a banana coated in what looks to be the saurkraut from an old hot dog. You stow this delicious feast in your windbreaker and shuffle back to your newspaper nest. As you snuggle in to enjoy your treat, a man comes by, picks you up, and crams you into a silver can that's called Steel Reserve.

I had to open a goddamn window.

There are not a lot of things I won't finish. I'm a fat kid. And a thirsty kid. After I finish typing this up, I am going to dump this down the drain. Normally, I will offer something small to Davey Jones by pouring it down the sink, but this I wouldn't wish on even my worst enemy. It is godawful.

Ugh, I just took another sip. It tastes like banana bread in a bottle of rubbing alcohol. Fuck this shit. I think I have to burn off my taste buds after this shit.

Edit: While waiting for the picture to load, I drainpoured it. It poured the color of my khaki shorts. Buy this only if you're severely masochistic or the hobo mentioned above.

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