Victory DirtWolf: Earth Day SodWolf

Next up, Victory DirtWolf Double IPA:

dirtwolf

When looking for a new beerbecue HQ, one of the cool things about the HQ we bought was the 430 sq. ft. fenced-off garden in the back. That’s a lot of dirt.

Srsly?

Srsly?

The Haybag, perhaps seeing yet another object of preoccupation for me, immediately proclaimed it would be sodded over. I put up a half-hearted fight to keep it. Perhaps I was looking to mitigate capitalism’s further erosion of my humanity. Or maybe it was to remain in touch with my family’s farming roots. Most likely, however, it was to escape changing shitty diapers under the guise of a heavier landscaping/gardening workload and to hit the bottle of George Dickel Rye I stashed in the shed. Perfectly classless.

I see what you did there. Very funny.

“I see what you did there. Very funny.”

Eventually I relented. It’s 430 damn sq. ft., after all; and we’re moving from a townhome. I already have to buy a lawn mower, I don’t want to figure out squeezing a fucking Harvester combine into the family budget, too.

So, we had sod delivered on April 22nd (Earth Day). I laid it like the sod-laying boss that I am. 1.0 even came home after school to help. Then I proceeded to water the shit out of it.

Look like she's got it handled. Time for a beer.

Look like she’s got it handled. Time for a beer.

Now, environmentally, I’m a middle of the road guy, but the irony of doing this on Earth Day is not lost on me. So, proud to have imparted upon my issue my vast and generationally vital sod-laying knowledge, I was a little troubled to later find her drawing her “What you did for Earth Day” homework (with gleeful encouragement from the Earth-raping Haybag): A picture of her and daddy sodding over a large and once fertile garden and spraying enough water to lower the Chesapeake watershed mean high tide by several inches. I am a terrible person.

"One might say, classless."

“One might say, classless.”

It pours like it looks in the picture above, except imagine I used proper lighting and something other than a camera phone. It smells like a double IPA should: Dank and citrusy. And the taste doesn’t disappoint. But it’s less a “wolf among sheep” as the bottle claims. It’s more the wolf’s lazy, stoner cousin who wakes up at noon, drinks from his roommate’s carton of orange-grapefruit juice, puts it back in the fridge empty, decides to forego a shower to wallow in his earthiness, and fires off a fat spliff on the couch to play Call of Duty till nap time. I like it.

The Haybag: This was OK. The earthiness was a little too pronounced for me, but that’s a personal preference. Now, get the George Dickel bottle back in the house and make us some Manhattans.

Advertisements