Every now and then, a man comes across a beer that is not only delicious, but also able to make a profound and lasting impact on him. Such memorable brews only come once in a Blue Moon, and tonight, I had such an experience.
Let me introduce you to Bobo. Bobo is a high strung mutt promoting his robust porter in the remote wilderness of Montana, never staying in one place for more than a night. You see, Bobo is a bit of a hobo. He lives the life of a tramp; a scruffy, wild low life fueled by canned beans, cornbread, and of course, his dark porter. Let me tell you the tale of how I came across such a curious soul, and how our meeting deeply affected my attitude of beer brewing dogs.
My journey begins south of the border; a wonderful culinary experience full of margaritas, tortilla chips, and burritos. We discussed the usual, politics, weather, how humanity would be screwed if dolphins developed opposable thumbs. The meal was quite pleasant, actually. However, something happened afterwards that I did not expect. I was thrust into motion, time and space seemed to warp all around me, and when I came to be, I found myself in a place where almost anywhere in the entire world was at my fingertips, waiting for me to take a leap of faith into the unknown.
Where was I to go? Who was I to meet? Questions pounded against my head as I walked along the lengthy choices of cultural curiosities. Every selection had its own uniqueness, anticipating the moment in which I became apart of their own experience. But then there was one. One crying spirit, alone, advancing towards me from the distance. I found myself inching towards the sound, becoming more enthralled by its intrigue every second. And then, I saw him. The skinny twig legs, the rat's tail, face like a lemur and those eyes, those indescribable eyes looking upon me. Bobo.
I stared at the wretched creature for what seemed an age, until I knew I could do no more on my own without the help of Bobo, the porter promoting dog. I finally succumbed to the temptation and moments later found myself in the mountains of Montana, alone with the beast. The anticipation was deadly. I reached into the mountain stream and pulled out a freshly bottled Robust Porter, brewed by none other than Bobo himself. The bottle gave a sigh as I applied the opener, and when the beer was free from the brown glass, the true nature of the dark brown color could finally be seen in all its glory. I anxiously raised the glass to my mouth and took a sip, those eyes still staring me down atop a rock located in front of me. I immediately found the taste to be superb, just as a porter ought to be. The rich tones of the brew came to life as the concoction of water, grains, and alcohol touched my tongue. I savored the drink as long as I can, and I relayed my thoughts to Bobo. He continued to stare, and said nothing. Anticipating a reply, I was a bit disappointed that he didn't say anything. That was until I realized he would not give a reply, unless I knew where to look. I broke the gaze between us and looked at the bottle cap that I was holding in my hand. I turn it over slowly, and read in faint letters, "I ripped my pants." Quickly I look up to where Bobo was standing, only to see a gray rock with no trace of beings anywhere in sight.
For me, this experience was a drastic eye opener in the world of teleportation and robust porters. One can only enter their realm if one is ready to take the leap of faith into the unknown. I learned that sometimes the jewels of the universe are where you least expect, and that Bobo makes one hell of a brew.
Let me introduce you to Bobo. Bobo is a high strung mutt promoting his robust porter in the remote wilderness of Montana, never staying in one place for more than a night. You see, Bobo is a bit of a hobo. He lives the life of a tramp; a scruffy, wild low life fueled by canned beans, cornbread, and of course, his dark porter. Let me tell you the tale of how I came across such a curious soul, and how our meeting deeply affected my attitude of beer brewing dogs.
My journey begins south of the border; a wonderful culinary experience full of margaritas, tortilla chips, and burritos. We discussed the usual, politics, weather, how humanity would be screwed if dolphins developed opposable thumbs. The meal was quite pleasant, actually. However, something happened afterwards that I did not expect. I was thrust into motion, time and space seemed to warp all around me, and when I came to be, I found myself in a place where almost anywhere in the entire world was at my fingertips, waiting for me to take a leap of faith into the unknown.
Where was I to go? Who was I to meet? Questions pounded against my head as I walked along the lengthy choices of cultural curiosities. Every selection had its own uniqueness, anticipating the moment in which I became apart of their own experience. But then there was one. One crying spirit, alone, advancing towards me from the distance. I found myself inching towards the sound, becoming more enthralled by its intrigue every second. And then, I saw him. The skinny twig legs, the rat's tail, face like a lemur and those eyes, those indescribable eyes looking upon me. Bobo.
I stared at the wretched creature for what seemed an age, until I knew I could do no more on my own without the help of Bobo, the porter promoting dog. I finally succumbed to the temptation and moments later found myself in the mountains of Montana, alone with the beast. The anticipation was deadly. I reached into the mountain stream and pulled out a freshly bottled Robust Porter, brewed by none other than Bobo himself. The bottle gave a sigh as I applied the opener, and when the beer was free from the brown glass, the true nature of the dark brown color could finally be seen in all its glory. I anxiously raised the glass to my mouth and took a sip, those eyes still staring me down atop a rock located in front of me. I immediately found the taste to be superb, just as a porter ought to be. The rich tones of the brew came to life as the concoction of water, grains, and alcohol touched my tongue. I savored the drink as long as I can, and I relayed my thoughts to Bobo. He continued to stare, and said nothing. Anticipating a reply, I was a bit disappointed that he didn't say anything. That was until I realized he would not give a reply, unless I knew where to look. I broke the gaze between us and looked at the bottle cap that I was holding in my hand. I turn it over slowly, and read in faint letters, "I ripped my pants." Quickly I look up to where Bobo was standing, only to see a gray rock with no trace of beings anywhere in sight.For me, this experience was a drastic eye opener in the world of teleportation and robust porters. One can only enter their realm if one is ready to take the leap of faith into the unknown. I learned that sometimes the jewels of the universe are where you least expect, and that Bobo makes one hell of a brew.
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