Once again the tax collectors evil shadow is darkening The Slayer's stoop. Our state and federal governments are nearing the final push of their yearly fund raising drive. It is time for all Americans to send in their paperwork that will legitimize their gift to these entities. Even though The Slayer hates tax time with a passion, he takes solace in knowing that the money he gives the government is going toward the betterment of our country and will not be wasted on frivolity or through mismanagement.

Though the IRS is the most kind-hearted, receptive and efficient of all government agencies, The Slayer, for reasons unknown even to him, still has a great aversion to filing taxes. There is nothing easier than filling out the forms. They are so straight-forward and simple that this should not be a task met with such loathing. The Slayer just can't help but feel this way.

His extreme dislike of this most abhorrent season causes The Slayer to unconsciously begin searching for beers from remote parts of the country. In some twisted romantic corner of his mind, The Slayer believes that if he were to reside in a portion of this country's vast, yet shrinking, wilderness he might be able to avoid the oversized, Mickey Mouse gloved hand of the IRS. As long as Havre, Montana could avail The Slayer of a similar flavorful choice of malt beverage as New York 10001, The Slayer would be quite happy living life on the lamb from Uncle Sam's collection agency.

Oh, The Slayer can see it all now. Just he and his beer sitting lovingly on the his birch bark porch watching the moose and the loons procreate in his back yard. His nearest neighbor, Enos (he has no last name) four miles down the road doing the same. As the sun sets over the mountain range, the lonesome howl of a wolf, or is that Enos, puts the final wilderness touch on a day spent tasting, writing and emailing articles to the those poor saps sucking in carbon monoxide in their manmade jungles.

Once a week, he would go to town to get more provisions (beer). Nobody would ask him any questions and he would reciprocate. Most of the inhabitants of this bush community are running from someone or something. Each with a story that will go unheard.

Every time he would go to town, Sarah and Esther, the town's only prostitutes would greet him with a semi-toothy smile and a hike of the skirt from their respective corners. One day he might get drunk enough to sample their wares. Although, he is quite certain beer can't make anyone that intoxicated.

Returning home with his beer and brewing supplies he special ordered from Clive at the dry goods store, he is met by his dog, Saaz. His only company, Saaz also has learned to drink The Slayer's home-brews that are not fit for human consumption. When he reaches the front door The Slayer sees that his trusty canine has killed another turkey.

Fortunately, it's still warm. The two will eat well tonight.

With this dream in mind, The Slayer hunted for a brew that will allow it to become a reality. Because most of the brews that adorn the shelves of local package stores are produced in cities where hiding from the IRS would be very difficult, The Slayer knew that this expedition would take all of his cunning and guile.

After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally discovered a brew that fulfilled his quest. His quarry was Sea Dog Windjammer Blonde Ale. This brew, whose most prominent label marking is a scruffy looking mutt in a Gorton's Fisherman coat and hat, is brewed in the relative wilds of Bangor, Maine.

Maine, though a state tucked just north of this country's densely populated New England region, is definitely a place where someone could become lost for a long period of time. Famous for its lobsters and moose, Maine is the only coastal state, with the exception of Florida, not to be one of the original American states. If one tenth of the characters created by Stephen King are based on real people, that would go a long way toward explaining why the state was excluded being a part of our fledgling nation. It would be hard to build a country from scratch if all of your best and brightest statesmen were being killed by an ax-murderer.

Since Bangor is the most northern metropolis in Maine, located about midway up the peninsula, The Slayer felt that it would be a great starting point for his quest to disappear. Everything to the north of the city appeared to be quite uninhabited; this according to Rand McNaly. However, choosing Northern Maine as a new home hinged on the quality of Sea Dog Windjammer Blonde Ale.

That gave the sampling of this beer more poignance than most of The Slayer's other tastings. With eager anticipation mixed with a bit of trepidation, The Slayer pried off the cap with his trusty church key. After pouring the bottle's contents into his pint glass, The Slayer inspected the beer's color and head. Sea Dog's hue was that of a blonde beach bunnies hair after being bleached out by the sun all Summer. It was as white as yellow can get. The brew's froth was slight, at best, but it retain itself atop of the brew until the last drop of liquid was consumed.

Stuffing his charicature-sized nose into the glass to extract the brew's aroma, a sight that has made many a biker weak in the knees, The Slayer found the ale's bouquet to be malty and sweet. Wiping the drops of liquid from the bulbous end of his proboscis, he prepared himself for test that would decide his place of residence, that of taste. Sea Dog Windjammer begins with the sweet malty flavor found in the nose. This is abruptly usurped by a strong, yet not overpowering, hop presence. The flavor of The Slayer's favorite herb dominates until the clean, crisp finish.

The Slayer found Sea Dog Windjammer Blonde Ale to be a fine example of an American Blonde. Though it was pleasing for the style, The Slayer didn't find it compelling enough to encourage a move the Maine wilderness. The beer was very good, but The Slayer could not envision sustaining himself during eight month Winters with just an American Blonde. He feels the Maine clime would require the stick-to- your-ribs heaviness of a stout or porter; at the very least a Scottish Ale. American Blondes don't have the body to insulate his being during below zero nights.

Take heart, all you readers who work for the IRS. Come April 1999, you will once again receive The Slayer's 1040 printed in crayon. For next year's return, he will use one of Crayola's little known colors, red tape. He'll explain the symbolism of that hue in Form SR (Sarcasm Reporting).