Double Dry-Hopped Pale Ale
I want to wash that man right outta my hair,” Trevor sung into the mic as he made a break towards the bar top. “…And send him on his way!” Swinging around the shoulders of a stout and increasingly indignant older Japanese woman, he lost his grip and fell face first over the bar and into a mound of Galaxy hops. Just when you thought he’d be down for the count, a hairy set of knuckles emerged over the surface of the counter top. In its grasp was half of a Mai Tai with a microphone as a garnish. “But they made me wear a wristband!” he screamed as the waitstaff fireman-carried him out into the parking lot and back into the wild.