I feel sorry for Brent. He lives his little life with the house, the garden and the pets. The only real adventure he has been on since I have known him occurred when he had to fight rush-hour traffic to return a pair of pants to Sears.

I could never live with such a dreadfully boring existence. For some reason, he seems happy subsisting with the day-to-day tedium of mowing grass, feeding the pets, reading the paper and watching the Tick before retiring to his soft, safe bed. The other day, while I regaled him with another exotic tale of beer conquest, he was actually doing the laundry and FOLDING THE CLOTHES. The sight of him performing such an ordinary domestic task almost made me pity him. Thank goodness he can live vicariously through me.

For all of his dreary habits, at least Brent can figure out this tedious keyboard. I have been having a hell of a time chronicling this week's escapades via this most frustrating instrument. After battling these keys for almost two hours, I would much rather be stuck in a small village in Yemen, where by Muslim law no beer can be made nor drunk (well that may be a bit drastic). To think that Guttenberg, a good, beer drinking German, was the father of such a horrendous instrument appalls me even further.

I digress...
This week we're off to the wilds of the Beverage Boutique once again. While I have spent many a day in this beer refuge, it is so dynamic that I never know exactly what to expect from this wondrous, yet dangerous, safari destination. As it is most days, the Beverage Boutique is fully illuminated; making the search for fine brew a bit easier. The lack of cloud cover and rain in this locale probably has something to do with its indoor location. Having thoroughly surveyed the area, it appears that fluorescent bulbs keep it well lit year around.

'Neath the bright light of the artificial sun, I easily spied my prey. It was hiding, ever so coyly, amongst the undercover of six-pack carriers, boxes and other beer bottles. I am sure the brew felt safe that I would be unable find it amid the store's underbrush. Ah, but this beer had never met a hunter with the prowess of The Beer Slayer.

Using the stealthy cunning that has allowed me to snare many a bounty before it, I casually circled my quarry. The poor malt beverage made not a move to escape; for it maintained the delusion that it was safe from my grasp. Then I positioned myself within arm's length of the beast, and with cat-like quickness, I thrust my arm beneath the manmade foliage and snared it by its very neck.

Startled, the gallant adversary put up a fight that I will not soon forget. With its label it tenaciously gripped its cardboard protective outer covering like a caffeine junkie refusing to relinquish a coffee cup. For several minutes the brew bucked and reared all of its 32 ounces of fluid weight in a futile attempt to remain free and undrunk. As always, I prevailed. I tired the quart beast into ultimate submission; again the victor.

Pulling the conquered foe from its fibrous habitat, I shouted, "Aha, you are mine!" The unfortunate tourists within earshot cowered in fear at the sight of the battle and my triumphant cry. (They really should ban visitors to the Beverage Boutique when I am on safari.) I quickly secured the brew in an environmentally friendly plastic bag and took it back my lair.

Once at the humble Slayer Abode, I pulled the bottle from the sack, sat in my slaying Barca lounger and begin the conquering. First I viewed the label. This brew had a handsome skin which boldly displayed the words, "Mississippi Mud Black and Tan." Also prominent on the brew's outer shell was the picture of an alligator and the phrase "Slow Brewed." The gator brought back the bad memory of the time I had to kill one of these creatures to save an IPA it had taken from my boat.

The phrase, "Slow Brewed," I found to be a bit perplexing. Beers generally are brewed at very much the same speed. Yes, lagers are aged, in a process called lagering, but still they and their ale brothers ferment (brew) in very much the same time frame. Since, Mississippi Mud contains both an ale and a lager it would seem reasonable to assume that this beer was brewed at the same rate as any. Perhaps the brewer is slow.

Confused, but undaunted by the beer's message, I swiftly removed my conquest's cap and poured its inner contents into one of my always-at-the-ready Guinness Stout glasses. At first sight, Mississippi Mud had the classic black color and rich white head of any other bottled black and tan. However, my highly trained brew-eye looked deeper into the soul of the beer and saw, that when held to the light, this brew took on a lovely ruddy hue. This reminded me of the time I saw Santa in a Stegmaier Porter.

Having successfully unlocked the beer's secret coloring, I proceeded to thrust the glass beneath my nose to behold its scent. The aroma of Mississippi Mud's continental lager was prominent in its nose. Yet, there was the unmistakable hint of the porter's chocolate malt lingering ever so delicately, as the scent diminished.

As if drawn to the beer like an habitual gambler to a roulette wheel, I, without wasting a moment, put the nectar to my lips. The initial sip revealed the flavor of the porter's crystal and chocolate malt. In a sweet serenade of taste, these two intoxicating members of the cast beguiled me. It was obvious that this porter was of the English style, due to its relative sweetness. I expected the brew to have the dominant coffee-like flavor of roasted barley that is the hallmark of American porters; yet, while present, this flavor stayed in the background like the ugly girl at the prom.

The continental lager played little part in the beer's palate. Its impact was found more in the beer's body. The addition of this lighter style lager to the heavy porter made Mississippi Mud trimmed the beer's physique down to that which one would expect from a medium bodied pale ale. This made it pleasing even on the scorchingly hot afternoon on which I slayed it. This is truly a beer which transcends all seasonal bounds.

Mississippi Mud is fine brew. Though it's 32 ounce package that looks like a moonshine bottle are unusual, it is definitely a beer that I will reslay. I would even consider puting on black face and singing "Swanee River" to get another sip.