"Little William, what do you know of power..?"
The sun shone in scattered rays which pierced through the clouds above, bathing the charred earth below in pristine light, as if the wake of battle had made it somehow sacred. It was fitting, the young doctor thought, as he peered through a jaggedly-outlined hole blown into plaster on the blackened walls of a dilapidated building which still radiated heat and smelled pungent of carbon scoring. It was fitting for a baptism to initiate his latest creation into the world... His greatest creation. …Not yet, at least, but over time it would manifest into one of the most powerful tools of the Reich.
With a startled blink of his eyes, the young, white-labcoat clad man ran an idle hand through the short-cut brown hair atop his head, noting with pleasure that no sweat had tainted its cleanliness before turning his attention to that which had awoken him from his imaginative reverie. Standing below him atop the rubble which littered the floor was a small boy, dirty, black splotches smeared across his face, blue eyes filled with tears and fear. A pouty lip quivered, his small, skeletal frame tremoring as he struggled to continue to support the weight of the bulky assault rifle which he carried, its barrel smoking from the heat of excessive use.
The young man smiled upon the boy lovingly; with the sort of deep, unconditional love which would be bestowed by a father upon his own son. Kneeling down, the doctor withdrew a clean, bright yellow pad which would be commonplace in a laboratory and nowhere else; a stark contrast to the dingy browns, blacks, and greys of the surrounding destruction. With gentle strokes, he wiped away the sweat, grime, and tears from the boy's face, beaming with pride as he ran his free hand through the boy's tangled mat of hair. "Nothing yet, Little William… Nothing yet. ...But you've done well, today. Yes, you have. I couldn't be more proud of you, Little William. You have shown me just how much you love me, just as I love you." With a stiff nod of approval, the scientist ran his eyes in examination over the boy before he rose to his feet. He folded his arms at his chest and gave pause in reluctance before concluding with a final note... A note of farewell. "I'm going away now, Little William. You'll not see me for a long time now, but I want you to think of me when you hold your rifle... And so I never want you to put your rifle down. Every time you send a bullet piercing through the flesh of your enemies, I want you to remember that I'm watching over you. But most importantly, I want you to remember that the Reich loves you, and you must love it, above all else. Even when I am gone, the Reich will always be here for you... And you must be here for it."
Wheeling about with the agility and discipline of a soldier on the heels of his polished black shoes, the doctor withdrew a pair of flimsy spectacles from within the front pocket of his labcoat and placed them so that they would rest clumsily upon the bridge of his nose. It was but one of the many odd habits of the young, budding scientist, being insistent upon the continued use of a malfunctioning piece of equipment in spite of the fact that it could have been replaced or at the very least repaired at his whim. "Let's go." Almost daintily, the doctor carefully weaved his way through the rubble which littered the collapsed building's floor, making his way to the exit, where a group of ebon-clad officers bearing the glistening silver lightning-bolt Runic of the Schutzstaffel awaited him, taking up an escort formation around him the moment that he stepped through what remained of the door.
The little boy stood silent, watching the group of silhouettes glide across the smoldering, rocky terrain... Though one figure stood out above all... The white lab coat which fluttered in the wind.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Bobby the Doom Lord reviews... The Hilton New Orleans Breakfast Buffet.
New Orleans is commonly reputed with one of two characterizations, the first being a diverse cultural center of history, art, cuisine, and sinful merriment making for a tourist's dream come true, and the other being a city of chocolate, the flavor of which is diluted by plague-ridden flood waters, corpses, and gun-toting barbaric pillagers. The Hilton New Orleans Riverside is an ivory tower that rises above the riverfront like a glistening icon of salvation which, internally and externally, bears all of the aesthetic trappings of, "a full service luxury complex," ranging from quaintly-dressed bellhops to high-speed internet access available at the thrifty price of fifty USD per night; the Hilton's hospitality in its policies on amenities knows no bounds. Therefore, the reader can imagine my astonishment at the fact that the breakfast buffet of the Hilton New Orleans seemed to be a bit more reminiscient of the latter description of fair Atlantis.
Having risen early after an entertaining night on the town on the infamous Bourbon Street, I was more than receptive to the idea of stuffing myself to the point of bursting at a delicious hotel breakfast buffet, which is always the most pleasant of amenities of any resort. The Hilton New Orleans Riverside, however, seems to be an exception in the world of "full service luxury complexes," and isn't very keen on amenities, and so I discovered that what would have typically been complimentary at any "full service luxury complex" worth its salt was going to dent my wallet by an additional twenty dollars. I was only briefly taken aback when the troll guarding the entrance coarsely informed me of the toll to gain entrance, however, and as is unfortunately characteristic of me, I decided to look at my glass as half-full rather than half-empty, noting to myself that such a fee garunteed that the rabble would be kept out and that the cuisine would be exceptional. I was wrong on both accounts... So terribly, terribly wrong.
I'm about eighty-seven percent certain that the service staff of this "full service luxury complex" was screened and instructed on etiquette by a Neanderthal with an advanced case of ADHD, as I can't think of any other explanation for the polluting presence in my "full service luxury complex" buffet of the slouching, hardly-articulate, uncouth baboons who seemed to be of the opinion that they had better things to do than to spare me, the guest, the time of day. My party and I were hurriedly dismissed to our seats and left to fend for ourselves after rudely being denied our request for a table with reasonable proximity to the buffet in the inflection of a ghetto-reared street rat. Awaiting further service in futility for a few silent lingering moments, I hefted myself up from the opposite end of a clear design flaw and traversed across the sea's-breadth of a dining area, squeezing between patrons who rightfully gave me annoyed glares as I was forced to weasle around them and disrupt the privacy of their experience.
Approaching the station where I was offered the live entertainment of my eggs being cooked in a skillet, I found that those manning the galley had alot in common with their maître d'ordures, as I was simply asked in a dull and agitated tone by the cook who was named after an ancient city, "What do you want?" Oh, but stay yourselves, my fellow indulgent connoisseurs, and keep those chins indignantly upraised, for my experience at the egg station does indeed get worse. As I gave pause for what surely was only two seconds at the most, tapping my chin in clear contemplation as I was making my decision, I was once again addressed, this time barked at by the dog on the other side of the fence, "I said, 'what do you want,' sir?" I am not infallible, but I'm quite certain that any establishment, particularly one boasting the claim to be a "full service luxury complex" should be staffed by people with at least a minor degree of civility. Need I say more..?
Yes, I do. The waffles were cold, the eggs were watery and undercooked, the juice was warm, the sausage was tough-skinned and tasted terrible, I had to request coffee which was apparently supposed to have been set with my table, the syrup was inconveniently placed on the buffet rather than served in a container forcing me to sit, butter my waffles, and then once again travel to the buffet or take the ultimatum of using a tiny bottle of sugar-free syrup, and while wholly unrelated to my buffet experience, the damned Starbucks coffee shop upstairs lacked the equipment to make my Frappuccino.
But as always, I look on the brighter side of things - Hopefully, the exhorbitant overpricing will be able to buy Paris and her annoying little dog a breakfast buffet with a little more class.
Having risen early after an entertaining night on the town on the infamous Bourbon Street, I was more than receptive to the idea of stuffing myself to the point of bursting at a delicious hotel breakfast buffet, which is always the most pleasant of amenities of any resort. The Hilton New Orleans Riverside, however, seems to be an exception in the world of "full service luxury complexes," and isn't very keen on amenities, and so I discovered that what would have typically been complimentary at any "full service luxury complex" worth its salt was going to dent my wallet by an additional twenty dollars. I was only briefly taken aback when the troll guarding the entrance coarsely informed me of the toll to gain entrance, however, and as is unfortunately characteristic of me, I decided to look at my glass as half-full rather than half-empty, noting to myself that such a fee garunteed that the rabble would be kept out and that the cuisine would be exceptional. I was wrong on both accounts... So terribly, terribly wrong.
I'm about eighty-seven percent certain that the service staff of this "full service luxury complex" was screened and instructed on etiquette by a Neanderthal with an advanced case of ADHD, as I can't think of any other explanation for the polluting presence in my "full service luxury complex" buffet of the slouching, hardly-articulate, uncouth baboons who seemed to be of the opinion that they had better things to do than to spare me, the guest, the time of day. My party and I were hurriedly dismissed to our seats and left to fend for ourselves after rudely being denied our request for a table with reasonable proximity to the buffet in the inflection of a ghetto-reared street rat. Awaiting further service in futility for a few silent lingering moments, I hefted myself up from the opposite end of a clear design flaw and traversed across the sea's-breadth of a dining area, squeezing between patrons who rightfully gave me annoyed glares as I was forced to weasle around them and disrupt the privacy of their experience.
Approaching the station where I was offered the live entertainment of my eggs being cooked in a skillet, I found that those manning the galley had alot in common with their maître d'ordures, as I was simply asked in a dull and agitated tone by the cook who was named after an ancient city, "What do you want?" Oh, but stay yourselves, my fellow indulgent connoisseurs, and keep those chins indignantly upraised, for my experience at the egg station does indeed get worse. As I gave pause for what surely was only two seconds at the most, tapping my chin in clear contemplation as I was making my decision, I was once again addressed, this time barked at by the dog on the other side of the fence, "I said, 'what do you want,' sir?" I am not infallible, but I'm quite certain that any establishment, particularly one boasting the claim to be a "full service luxury complex" should be staffed by people with at least a minor degree of civility. Need I say more..?
Yes, I do. The waffles were cold, the eggs were watery and undercooked, the juice was warm, the sausage was tough-skinned and tasted terrible, I had to request coffee which was apparently supposed to have been set with my table, the syrup was inconveniently placed on the buffet rather than served in a container forcing me to sit, butter my waffles, and then once again travel to the buffet or take the ultimatum of using a tiny bottle of sugar-free syrup, and while wholly unrelated to my buffet experience, the damned Starbucks coffee shop upstairs lacked the equipment to make my Frappuccino.
But as always, I look on the brighter side of things - Hopefully, the exhorbitant overpricing will be able to buy Paris and her annoying little dog a breakfast buffet with a little more class.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Bobby the Doom Lord reviews... Bisbano's Pizza.
I had high hopes as I approached Bisbano's Pizza; certainly, we've all heard of the legendary deliciousness of family-operated, non-chain pizzerias, and the reputation factor in combination with the fact that the building has been staring at me for the past few months each day that I return to my vehicle from class, I thought it a particularly novel idea to stop in and grab a bite. Unfortunately, however, reputations can be deceiving, very much like appearances... Which, while, we're on the subject, is also very characteristic of Bisbano's; the dark wooden, quaint exterior of the building, lined as it is with ornamental gas lamps, gives one the impression that they are surely about to step into an Old World-style bistroesque pizzeria staffed by olive-skinned, black-haired, highly accentuated familial operators. Instead, one encounters a two-bit deli-style decor, complete with seating which has apparently taken the sharp end of the axe over the years and has seen ghettofide repair jobs consisting of... duct tape.
Taking in my surroundings with a sharply drawn breath of shock, I nodded tersely and decided to suffocate my initial distaste and give the place the benefit of the doubt, opting to judge it by merit of its cuisine, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea, as I would have most likely more thoroughly enjoyed my lunch had I stepped out of the door and strolled over to the nearest local Dollar General and picked up a Banquet fish sticks meal; at least it would have only cost me a twelfth of the price for food of roughly the same quality... But I digress.
I was greeted not by the fair Italian maiden Appolonia nor a mustacheoed Sicilian gentleman by the name of Mario but instead a generic American worker... Which is fine, I suppose, if only a bit disappointing for a small ethnic-themed restaurant. Imagine that you open a door labeled as the restroom and find a closet full of spandex with a toilet and sink jammed into the corner, and you might be able to sympathize with my situation this afternoon - Sure, you can still take a piss, but it just doesn't feel right and it certainly wasn't what you were expecting. Nodding politely with a faux amiable grin of my flawlessly aligned teeth which are gleaming white enough to guide ships into harbor, I informally chose whichever seat I wanted at the instruction of my hostess and took the convenience for what it was, shifting colors that I might embrace and bury myself within the casual atmosphere like a pizza-eating chameleon.
All was quiet in the empty pizzeria, to say the least, as I took up my menu and perused the selection. In this segment, I inform the reader that he/she can take off his/her poncho for the time being, because this is the one part of the review in which I spare the restaurant some of its dignity and pause in my metaphorical pissing all over it. For a small, rundown parlor which hasn't had nearly as much luck with secret family recipes as has Bush's Baked Beans, I must admit that Bisbano's does at least have a broad selection of classic Italian items suitable for lunch, ranging from links of sausage to muffalatta sandwiches complete with the standard fare of cured meats; at least they managed to adhere to the implied cuisine, though I can't say that I would have been surprised if they started whipping out the motherfucking haggis at any random moment.
One seemingly positive quality of the local pizzeria which one might immediately notice is the fact that prices are relatively cheap in comparison to other similar venues, but one should keep lessons of the past in mind and remember that Bisbano's is a particularly deceptive vendor, sort of like that crack dealer at the tracks who is always cutting your shit with baking soda. I might describe the viability of prices at Bisbano's as, coining the words of Forrest Gump, "...like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Paying a few cents over a single dollar, I was pleased with the fact that I was served a loaf of Wal-Mart frozen packaged bread quality garlic bread, considering that Wal-Mart will typically charge me around two to three dollars for a loaf. Conversely, when I ordered cheese bread for around $3.50, I recieved four small strips of the same garlic bread with a slice of lunchmeat sandwich mozzarella melted onto each which probably summed up to about a half of one of the whole garlic breads, served with a tiny bowl of "marinara" which I'm almost positive is simply the same damned tomato sauce they slather onto their pizza. My advice to you would be to hope that when you pay $5.00 for a poboy, you get two of them rather than the negative outcome of the rolling dice in which you get a bologna sandwich.
The service could be charitably described as "decent," as I did at least receive a refill of my beverage before I had even depleted its contents, but on the opposite end of the spectrum, it seems as if the black hole which sucked away the class of the rest of the establishment also took that of the service staff and patronage with it, as the server commented coarsely in a rhetorical question, "What the hell is going on over there," when refilling my drink as I watched an old, deranged man whom had previously been munching away on a salad curse the day away into his cell phone with the same aggressive spirit as if he were speaking to the boy whom had just deflowered and impregnated his whorish teen daughter.
If nothing else can be said of the comical situation, at least I had a bit of live entertainment during the horrendously long wait for my pizza to come out of the oven, which I found a bit out of place considering that Old Man Piss-Off was the only other patron apart from myself and he had already been served since before the bloody moment I walked into the damn restaurant.
When a steaming hot pizza was finally set before me, I can at least say that I was more than willing to devour it whole. The taste was a bit below average. For a couple of more dollars, I could have savored a pie at Pizza Hut which would have been on an entirely different plane of taste, spitting from its lofty noble position upon the plague-ridden Italian peasant Totino, who would have in-turn spat upon his rabid slave Bisbano in order to assert his own superiority. Fortunately a jar of parmesan was at hand, and so I was at least able to partially drown out the thick and overpowering flavor of my generous portion of fennel seed.
...Okay, so maybe it wasn't as bad as Totino's.
Taking in my surroundings with a sharply drawn breath of shock, I nodded tersely and decided to suffocate my initial distaste and give the place the benefit of the doubt, opting to judge it by merit of its cuisine, which in retrospect, was a terrible idea, as I would have most likely more thoroughly enjoyed my lunch had I stepped out of the door and strolled over to the nearest local Dollar General and picked up a Banquet fish sticks meal; at least it would have only cost me a twelfth of the price for food of roughly the same quality... But I digress.
I was greeted not by the fair Italian maiden Appolonia nor a mustacheoed Sicilian gentleman by the name of Mario but instead a generic American worker... Which is fine, I suppose, if only a bit disappointing for a small ethnic-themed restaurant. Imagine that you open a door labeled as the restroom and find a closet full of spandex with a toilet and sink jammed into the corner, and you might be able to sympathize with my situation this afternoon - Sure, you can still take a piss, but it just doesn't feel right and it certainly wasn't what you were expecting. Nodding politely with a faux amiable grin of my flawlessly aligned teeth which are gleaming white enough to guide ships into harbor, I informally chose whichever seat I wanted at the instruction of my hostess and took the convenience for what it was, shifting colors that I might embrace and bury myself within the casual atmosphere like a pizza-eating chameleon.
All was quiet in the empty pizzeria, to say the least, as I took up my menu and perused the selection. In this segment, I inform the reader that he/she can take off his/her poncho for the time being, because this is the one part of the review in which I spare the restaurant some of its dignity and pause in my metaphorical pissing all over it. For a small, rundown parlor which hasn't had nearly as much luck with secret family recipes as has Bush's Baked Beans, I must admit that Bisbano's does at least have a broad selection of classic Italian items suitable for lunch, ranging from links of sausage to muffalatta sandwiches complete with the standard fare of cured meats; at least they managed to adhere to the implied cuisine, though I can't say that I would have been surprised if they started whipping out the motherfucking haggis at any random moment.
One seemingly positive quality of the local pizzeria which one might immediately notice is the fact that prices are relatively cheap in comparison to other similar venues, but one should keep lessons of the past in mind and remember that Bisbano's is a particularly deceptive vendor, sort of like that crack dealer at the tracks who is always cutting your shit with baking soda. I might describe the viability of prices at Bisbano's as, coining the words of Forrest Gump, "...like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Paying a few cents over a single dollar, I was pleased with the fact that I was served a loaf of Wal-Mart frozen packaged bread quality garlic bread, considering that Wal-Mart will typically charge me around two to three dollars for a loaf. Conversely, when I ordered cheese bread for around $3.50, I recieved four small strips of the same garlic bread with a slice of lunchmeat sandwich mozzarella melted onto each which probably summed up to about a half of one of the whole garlic breads, served with a tiny bowl of "marinara" which I'm almost positive is simply the same damned tomato sauce they slather onto their pizza. My advice to you would be to hope that when you pay $5.00 for a poboy, you get two of them rather than the negative outcome of the rolling dice in which you get a bologna sandwich.
The service could be charitably described as "decent," as I did at least receive a refill of my beverage before I had even depleted its contents, but on the opposite end of the spectrum, it seems as if the black hole which sucked away the class of the rest of the establishment also took that of the service staff and patronage with it, as the server commented coarsely in a rhetorical question, "What the hell is going on over there," when refilling my drink as I watched an old, deranged man whom had previously been munching away on a salad curse the day away into his cell phone with the same aggressive spirit as if he were speaking to the boy whom had just deflowered and impregnated his whorish teen daughter.
If nothing else can be said of the comical situation, at least I had a bit of live entertainment during the horrendously long wait for my pizza to come out of the oven, which I found a bit out of place considering that Old Man Piss-Off was the only other patron apart from myself and he had already been served since before the bloody moment I walked into the damn restaurant.
When a steaming hot pizza was finally set before me, I can at least say that I was more than willing to devour it whole. The taste was a bit below average. For a couple of more dollars, I could have savored a pie at Pizza Hut which would have been on an entirely different plane of taste, spitting from its lofty noble position upon the plague-ridden Italian peasant Totino, who would have in-turn spat upon his rabid slave Bisbano in order to assert his own superiority. Fortunately a jar of parmesan was at hand, and so I was at least able to partially drown out the thick and overpowering flavor of my generous portion of fennel seed.
...Okay, so maybe it wasn't as bad as Totino's.
Monday, October 13, 2008
A Beginning: Bobby the Doom Lord reviews... Samuel Adams.
Well, I'm blasted beyond all comprehension on Sam Adams and have absolutely not a goddamned other thing to do, so I decided that now would be a good time to set the fuse on this time wasting, yet nonetheless entertaining blog, which will somehow manage to suck the otherwise useless refuse of free time in my life left in the wake of World of Warcraft. In fact, to be perfectly frank, I don't even see this blog progressing beyond this first post, the upcoming expansion pack release considered.
The object of this blog will be, as the title indicates, to write reviews of random objects of entertainment I come into contact with within my life which are based wholly upon my own arbitrary observations, however uninformed (or informed, in some rare cases) they may be in regards to comparison with other similarly categorized entertainment options.
My initial impulse was to make my first review revolve around rappers, wastes of space and rotten, festering beasts which send modern culture spiraling into oblivion that they are, but in light of my drunken laziness, I'm going to default to the first object at hand... For those of you too dull to figure out what it is yet, it's the Sam Adams in my hand, you worthless shit, you...
Tonight, I sampled a broad range (or at least a broader range than I typically simple in any single given night) of Sam Adams brews, and so I feel that I can comment on variances in flavor and quality comparatively without any fear of self-reprisal. Well, except for the fact that I lied and I'm too lazy to write detailed reviews of each brew and so will simply write about Sam Adams in general.
One of my favorite aspects of the Sam Adams brand is its wonderful team of writers; I mean, honestly, they can make a bottle of beer sound as epic as the fucking Iliad when you've reached the point of slight intoxication which gives way to slight swaying and, more importantly, greater receptiveness to propositions. I mean, honestly, I've just read the label on this bottle of Sam Adams Brown Ale, and I would put the lives of my entire family on the line that if I were to go and grab another bottle of a different variety from the fridge, I would read its label and become so impressed that I would want to induce vomiting to get this shit out of my body because no beer could possibly compare to the epic greatness that is the most recent Sam Adams brew which I've read the label of.
In a general sense of the flavor of the brand, the poetic writing team is justified in its colorful descriptions, as it truly is the smoothest, best-tasting beer I've had yet. I offer my compliments to Jim Kosch (whose signature seems to make appearances on the packaging as frequently as grafitti does on train boxcars), as his Sam Adams brand has a very uniquely and wonderfully bitter flavor with the potency of the hops which he incorporates into it. What I would chastise Mr. Kosch for is the fact that he is comparable to a small child with a chemistry set who continually keeps attempting to produce new concoctions by randomly dumping assorted chemicals into the same base concoction. Certainly, it is a wonderful commodity to be able to boast twenty-one varying brews, but half of them taste like variations the original Boston Lager and the other half taste like a delicious Boston Lager, the flavor of which lingers only in the background as it is overpowered by the hodgepodge of other ingredients which cause it to taste like... Say... Densely brewed coffee, or a powerfully potent cherry cough drop.
In short, I highly recommend that you select a Sam Adams as the next beer which you drink, but I would also recommend that you pray to your gods that whatever brew you select happens to be one of those which were created before Jim Kosch apparently lost his mind...
The object of this blog will be, as the title indicates, to write reviews of random objects of entertainment I come into contact with within my life which are based wholly upon my own arbitrary observations, however uninformed (or informed, in some rare cases) they may be in regards to comparison with other similarly categorized entertainment options.
My initial impulse was to make my first review revolve around rappers, wastes of space and rotten, festering beasts which send modern culture spiraling into oblivion that they are, but in light of my drunken laziness, I'm going to default to the first object at hand... For those of you too dull to figure out what it is yet, it's the Sam Adams in my hand, you worthless shit, you...
Tonight, I sampled a broad range (or at least a broader range than I typically simple in any single given night) of Sam Adams brews, and so I feel that I can comment on variances in flavor and quality comparatively without any fear of self-reprisal. Well, except for the fact that I lied and I'm too lazy to write detailed reviews of each brew and so will simply write about Sam Adams in general.
One of my favorite aspects of the Sam Adams brand is its wonderful team of writers; I mean, honestly, they can make a bottle of beer sound as epic as the fucking Iliad when you've reached the point of slight intoxication which gives way to slight swaying and, more importantly, greater receptiveness to propositions. I mean, honestly, I've just read the label on this bottle of Sam Adams Brown Ale, and I would put the lives of my entire family on the line that if I were to go and grab another bottle of a different variety from the fridge, I would read its label and become so impressed that I would want to induce vomiting to get this shit out of my body because no beer could possibly compare to the epic greatness that is the most recent Sam Adams brew which I've read the label of.
In a general sense of the flavor of the brand, the poetic writing team is justified in its colorful descriptions, as it truly is the smoothest, best-tasting beer I've had yet. I offer my compliments to Jim Kosch (whose signature seems to make appearances on the packaging as frequently as grafitti does on train boxcars), as his Sam Adams brand has a very uniquely and wonderfully bitter flavor with the potency of the hops which he incorporates into it. What I would chastise Mr. Kosch for is the fact that he is comparable to a small child with a chemistry set who continually keeps attempting to produce new concoctions by randomly dumping assorted chemicals into the same base concoction. Certainly, it is a wonderful commodity to be able to boast twenty-one varying brews, but half of them taste like variations the original Boston Lager and the other half taste like a delicious Boston Lager, the flavor of which lingers only in the background as it is overpowered by the hodgepodge of other ingredients which cause it to taste like... Say... Densely brewed coffee, or a powerfully potent cherry cough drop.
In short, I highly recommend that you select a Sam Adams as the next beer which you drink, but I would also recommend that you pray to your gods that whatever brew you select happens to be one of those which were created before Jim Kosch apparently lost his mind...
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