Firestone Walker's Reserved Porter is the perfect companion for a stormy night

Let's be honest, I only drink Firestone because I see my name on the label. They also make good beers but that's kinda a moot point for me.

We're gearing up for Beefest (in our minds and hearts) and David is taunting me with KFC. He believes deep down that I secretly want KFC. He tore out this huge coupon as part of his campaign...Let me tell you about the last time we had KFC. 

But first, beer! There are roaring winds outside right now and we're hunkered down with what I think is the best hunkering down beer possible, a porter. When it's stormy outside, I don't want an IPA or a Blonde or even a Belgian. I want something that's dark, filling and full of roasted elements. It's the beer equivalent of sitting next to a roaring fireplace.

This porter has a pleasant nut aroma and it has dark chocolate and nut flavors that compliment a nice roasty character. It's a well made porter. THE ROCK rating. 


-- For a stormy night, here's a little scary story (more like gross) to hear whilst you drink your porters. It's a story of gluttony told in the most necessarily dramatic fashion possible --

I used to live in a single apt. near Brentwood across the street from a KFC. I didn't grow up on fried chicken and I'm not a fan. I'll eat your Taco Bell and Jack n' the Cracks, but KFC never appealed to me and I swore to never eat it as long as I lived in that location. It became a point of pride. Yet there it was, its luminous lights glaring at me deep into the night. I saw young, old, latino, white people, EVERY type of person go in and out of that establishment, except for me (and why do the elderly have a craving for a wing? Mind boggling).

I lived there for 13 months before one day when I finally caved. There was a lot of alcohol involved and some pre-KFC shenanigans. Day drinking at its finest. David and I were on a Call of Duty Zombie killing kick, and the plan was to end the evening by ordering something quick and focus on killing some undead Nazis. I don't remember whose bright idea KFC was but for continuity's sake, I'll blame David entirely. So we walked over and that's when we saw the sign - for 12 bucks we could get a family pack that came with a bucket of chicken, biscuits, gravy, and a Bundt Cake. Really? A freaking family sized cake? KFC was out of cookies, so no substitutions. Dammit! We snapped it up anyway.

Imagine all this for two people, but with less presentation

This is where it gets embarrassing. Back in my single apartment, I laid out newspaper on the floor. We stationed our buiscuits and gravy around us for easy access and dove in with gluttonous fervor. Bones and grease began piling up on the floor. I put more newspaper down. We were acting like Neanderthals who hadn't eaten any Woolly Mammoth since the last big frost, but my booze addled mind was incapable of realizing this reality. Later, my stomach was full from all the other crap but I also have a terrible sweet tooth. What to do about the bundt cake? Well, there was a thin layer of icing atop the cake. Being the pragmatic person I am, I simply ate the icing and left the cake. Now, that is to say, I demolished the entire top half of the cake using my bare hands (were there no utensils? Who knows) and left the bottom half standing, like the foundations to an old house. On this night, hyenas would've been terrified of us. We...obliterated that 'family pack,' and then proceeded to drink and play zombies until passing out. Party.

Ate the top like a zombie eating brains

In the morning, we felt wretched. There were bones everywhere on the grease soaked newspapers. Leftover mashed potatoes and gravy were scattered about. It didn't matter what our stomachs were telling us, 10 minutes later, there were no leftover mashed potatoes and gravy. We killed the last of the gravy with our warm unfinished beers. No survivors in that house...Gross doesn't describe it.

I can forget many nights (thanks booze) but I can't seem to forget the details of that night as hard as I try. I mean, it's not like I ran over a hobo and drove off without calling an ambulance, or shook an infant like a Polaroid picture, but for whatever reason that night shamed me pretty bad. I guess you could say (in the most melodramatic way possible), that it showed me what I was really capable of. I saw the shadowy fat kid who lurks inside.

Now is a better time in my life. I now try to eat at one salad a day and workout 4-5 times a week (to counter balance my daily beer diet). The air seems fresher and even the sun seems brighter. The KFC was 2 years ago and we're wayyy more mature now...But I have a feeling that after 3 hours of day drinking nonstop, the devil may tempt me to partake in the Colonel's Finest White Meat.

Duh duh dunnnnn