Pirate Check

Yeeaaarrrgghh me hearty’s. Tis that faithful day again. Its been a long time comin fer all yee pegboys ‘n girls dragging yer corpses in the gallows of stench yee call work! But nay be frettin cos its friday ‘n that mean one thing…            …tis ransackin time! T’day I ‘ave  a warnin fer yee, be weary an ale which calls ‘erself Scarlhet, she is ne’er to be trusted!

Yee might be lured into false security, associatin its name sweet things like the Johansson wench. Lucky fer yee, yer ol’ pal Capin Muffer is ‘ere to set yee straight. Ol’  Cappy had the displeasure of sampling this masquerader ‘n lemme tell ya, she aint half as pretty as she looks. At first glance yee be salivatin at the sight of this golden nectar. Beautiful bubbles brewin up from the depths of ‘er hips, gettin yee ready to wet yer beak but alas, she’s one salty dog. Its malty this be true but blended with her malt  is a sharp, salty, sourness one could only compare to lickin the boots of yer fellow crewman after a long day on the poop deck.

Tis brewed in Seattle ‘ere on the West Coast by a crew who go by the name of Epic Ales, however this one is anything but that. She’s brewed with malt, cumin n’ caraway but me thinks they mistakenly replaced them with liquid sandpaper ‘n dog piss. In fact I wish I had a spot o’ sandpaper that I could’a sanded down me taste buds with ‘n mustered the strength to finish the pint. Alas ’twas not to be ‘n cappy was forced to share ‘er with the plumbin. One other thing to note is the misplacement of the alc. volume on the vessel, nowhere to be found she was. A common feature of beers across the border it seems. One ponders if this be a ploy to sell ya watery beer for more gold coins than their worth or, in this case, lure yee into consuming a brew that may be as potent as her shrude taste. Whatever the case may be the best part of this ale was the moment before me lips hit the the glass, captured here in this etching.

Yaarr, this be one ale we ought be placin the Black Mark on ‘n sending back to the depths of Davey Jones’ Locker to rot where she belongs. If yee be raidin ‘n plunderin the ale stores this weekend, yee’ve been warned, stay clear of the one they call Scarlhet!

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