I’ve been drinking the bitter lately. I plan to stop soon. Lord knows, I’ve gained enough weight in the last six months. But there’s nothing wrong with being a large mammal, as a certain someone playing a certain someone else once said.
In honor of fat bearded poets and other drunken creatures of the night, I present to you a pictorial overview of the malts inside my own ample gut.
Title pretty much says it all.
This shaman/ladies’ man definitely deserves his own brand of suds.
And a befitting motto.
This incredibly expensive brew comes from Stonehenge — where the demons dwell. . . where the banshees live (and they do live well). Actually it comes from Quoyloo. Close enoof, lads. Close enoof.
Here be swill made from fermented dragon spittle! It, too, will cost ye a fine pence.