Beer Reviews: Death From ABoVe

MILLER FORTUNE IS A PREMIUM GOLDEN LAGER UNDISTILLED AT 6.9% ABV [!]. IT BOASTS A RICH, MALTY AROMA, A LIGHT BODY, AND A CRISP, CLEAN FINISH. BALANCED, YET UNEXPECTEDLY BOLD. 

Miller Fortune : Home

It should read: MILLER FORTUNE IS PREMIUM Chevron UNleaded.  It is the Sex Panther of shitty mass marketed quasi-malt liquor.

Ron Burgundy: It’s quite pungent.
Brian Fantana: Oh yeah.
Ron Burgundy: It’s a formidable scent… It stings the nostrils. In a good way.
Brian Fantana: Yep.
Ron Burgundy: Brian, I’m gonna be honest with you, that smells like pure gasoline.

fortune

Well… Let’s go see if we can make this little kitty purr.

It’s supposed to remind you of whiskey – “unDISTILLED.”  Get it? ” SPIRITED GOLDEN LAGER FOR MORE SPIRITED NIGHTS” because spirits are booze!  And spirited spirits are what boozy booze drinkers drink when they’re being drunken trainwrecks waking up under a boxcar full of their future self spirited! They even urge bartenders to serve it in a highball class.  

BECAUSE A PILSNER GLASS IS NOT SPIRITED ENOUGH!

Miller Fortune

The color? The bottle is black.  Remember this color for a few paragraphs from now. Black is not a coincidence. And the beer itself?  First, congrats to Miller on making a lager that is not the color of Bud Light watered down piss.  No, this color is an 8. You’ll see it again tomorrow on the alley wall in the bowl.

To our unsophisticated palate, it smelled like industrial solvent Colt 45.  The head (if anyone cares) is like piss foam:  unimpressive and quickly gone.  There is no “piss foam ring around the glass” “lacing” either.

BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT MERE BEER DOES! WE’RE SPIRITED!

Miller Fortune

The finish?  Well there are a couple different kinds.  The first is the finish when you drink it: pure grain alcohol, like you’re drinking 13.8 proof Everclear – the kind that sat in a metal Shedd’s peanut butter can since the days when there was a Shedd’s and peanut butter came in metal cans.  Like if tinfoil were a SPIRITED! beverage.instead of Glen Beck’s hat.

Then there’s the other finish.  It’s YOUR (SPIRITED!) finish.  Lets do the math.  3×12= 36.  A trey of Fortune could go a couple of ways. Treat your threefer like it’s a 40 of Mickeys and stop there, and you can call it a night after howling at the moon.  You may even get laid (unlike a a mickey’s drinker – not even Craiglist tranny hookers will fuck a Mickey’s drinker). Don’t count on the other (SPIRITED!) kind of threesome. You’re not that FORTUNE!-ate and the girls aren’t that SPIRITED!

MAYBE YOU SHOULD BUY THEM MILLER FORTUNE! WE’RE SPIRITED!

Miller Fortune

 Anyway, in the real world, you’ll feel an irresistible pull towards a far away land, to fight for the Prize towards the fridge for Coors Light to cut the heavy thick sloshiness.  It seems like a good plan.  It’s certainly refreshing compared to the (SPIRITED!) 30-weight Fortune.  And that is where the finish turns into that night with the Southern Comfort and for the same reason.  This shit is unmanageable.  It is OE800.  Like that swill or SoCo, Miller Fortune actively punishes you for drinking anything else.  That deep caramel hue? Colors hurt, man.  Just ask any whiskey /vodka drinker. Colors and gross added in flavors hurt worse. See SoCo, or compare menthol and non-menthol mornings after. And yeah, it’s ultimately because of that ABV.  Fortune counts almost double.  So those three were really a six.  Anything to wash down the (SPIRITED!) taste gets added to 6.

“Pandora’s Bottle” is right, because you’re unleashing the unintended self-abuse shitstorm you thought you’d outgrown. “Pandora’s Box”?  You’re not opening it tonight, even if she is real and willing and you’re temporarily unable to remember putting aside all the Oprah shit any distractions.  Because there are no distractions when you’re writing the prologue to the story about waking up on the third floor balcony at a bus stop in Maryvale.  At least none that require consciousness or fine motor control.

I really don’t get the latest high-test ABV fad: Fortune, Black Crown, Platinum.  This is the story of one beer and not a treatise on the shadow pimp marketing at work here and who they are REALLY targeting (HINT: it’s not the trust fund club hoppers), but that is for another day. For now…

IN FOUR WORDS: Fuck! Where am I? Oh no! Not again! Spirited! Kill me now!

No Comments

Leave a Reply

%d bloggers like this:
Skip to toolbar