Wherein the author drinks two cans of Surly Beer while watching the Ultimate Fighting Championship with Andrew and Dan.
It’s starting. Elbow shot to the back of the head. That had to hurt. Guess we’re rolling. No lameass musical parade for the UFC. And that’s how it should be. Damn right.
Bitter. Too cold. Too cold? Beer in a can too cold? Shocker. I did just pull it from the fridge.
Boom! Thigh kick. That Orlovski is one scary dude. I wonder when he started wearing those scary teeth? I wonder if he wears them on dates? I think I might be more scared of his old Russian trainer, though. Looks KGB or something. Minsk. Shit. That’s tough. Minsk tough.
Squeezing the beer to hard. It’s all dented up from the adrenal death grip I have unconsciously applied to it. Maybe that’s why it’s called Bender. On the plus side, I don’t have a handful of broken glass. Oh, and it’s warming up. Better.
Wow, Schafer is receiving an ass-kicking. Done. Just like that. That was fast.
That went down pretty easy. I can taste the alcohol, and the burnt, bitter taste is a nice complement to the battery acid flavors in the back of my throat. This is a seriously bloody sport.
Time for the “Furious.” Holy crap. I feel like I just got hop-punched. 99 IBU beer in a can? That’s insane. Insanely good. Wow.
Holy shit. Jardine just applied like 15 punches directly to Griffin’s skull. Whatever he’s paid, it’s not enough.
It is crazy to drink beer like this from a can. Each time the opening touches my lips, I brace myself for something disgustingly bland and icy cold. But this is good. Really good. I would drink this all the time. And pretty strong, too, with the 6.2 %. But why in god’s name is it in a can?! I can taste tin, and I feel like a goddamn hobo.
A punchy hobo.
Put this IPA in 22 oz. bottles and send it my way stat. Or else.