Summertime. You’re sitting on a beach, working up a good sweat and a better tan. The sun high overhead, you reach into your cooler, flush with ice. It’s time to crack open a cold one and melt into the afternoon. And there’s no better way to quench your thirst than with an IPA crammed with an obscene amount of crushingly bitter, obscenely dank, throat-burning hops. This summer, we will jam your face with our hops.

These aren’t just any hops. We import only the most scathing Fuggle hops from a region in the UK known only for conquest and brutality. You may think that because you’re lounging in the hot sun you’d prefer a zesty pilsner. Maybe a delicate and crisp Irish red ale. Well, then perhaps you don’t have the guts to drink an octuple-IPA that’s caustic grains are mashed over actual lava sourced from Ethiopia’s Erta Ale volcano while loudspeakers crank out Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” on a loop inside an abandoned underground nuclear testing site.

We’ve genetically altered these esophagus hop bombs to create an acid composition that will scramble your DNA. Then we dry roast our resentful little lupulins over the corpses of our vanquished enemies to create an IPA that has been banned in twenty-six countries under a new protocol of the Geneva Conventions.

But we don’t stop there. Because we triple smoke this iron maiden for the mouth using a proprietary mix of burnt plastic from the Mobro 4000 garbage barge and a batch of recalled patchouli oil seized at a 2009 Phish reunion show in Hampton, Virginia.

While all your pals are crushing can after can of effervescent Mexican lager in a glorious reprieve of a triple-digit heat wave, you’ll be choking down the thickest, mealiest, and most vengeful IPA ever produced. Our yeast is doused with artisanal gasoline salvaged from a shuttered Peterbilt engine factory that the EPA sued for every manner of environmental violation. We dare you to finish even one can.

Brewed in collaboration with the Department of Defense and Halliburton, our unbearably acrid IPA is so universally feared that the American Society of Brewing Chemists has issued a cease-and-desist letter. The FDA has suggested our IPA be made available by prescription only.

Some IPAs round out their flavor palate with a Strata hop, giving you the minor relief of fresh, tropical fruit flavors. Our opinion: fruity hops are for wine drinkers and pickleball enthusiasts. If you want fruit then maybe crack open a bottle of go jack yourself. There is no salvation with our mordant and spiteful masterpiece. Blasted with overtones of rubber tires, fetid ghost pepper, and acetone, tasting our IPA is the equivalent of squeezing an entire lemon in your eye while someone punches you in the dick with a two-by-four. It’s. Just. That. Good.

Also, try our new spiked seltzers!