Ahh, the annual hullabaloo. The time for my relentless soliloquy to banish the quotidian summer ennui, midst simultaneously imbuing a rich obfuscation upon the part of the poor reader (alas, felicitous imbiber) who must certainly promulgate a healthy gumption to attempt to forage through this precisely 7.7 point font work. No, not for the nebbish most definitely. The conundrum? What is the conundrum of a Stone 7th Anniversary Ale that is not the hop? “Hop to it!” we instinctually say. Indeed. Does the glorious “hop shudder” in its non-verbal expression constitute its own non-verbal onomatopoeia? Certainly, we at Stone have the chutzpah to find out, self-described “despots of the hop” we are. Decry bugaboos of the venal bevvy bamboozlers we do. Non-sequiturs are a non-issue for us lupulin warriors. We live in that world, rolling around playfully in the bales. We couldn’t be incommoded with the fact that few understand. No, we are not known to display ursine behaviour, and I’m not sure why you would ask. Or was that the Magnum, Ahtanum or Amarillo fresh-talking up their quizzically inspirational aromatics? I’m really nonplussed now. Schismic largess I guess. So, I just now queried Brewmeisetermasterbrewer Steve if he had a quote for this year’s nonsensical label flapdoodle, he looked up, paused “Not on me at the moment, but I’ll think of something.” Little did he realize that was more than quote enough. Not only can I take that ball and run with it, I can make it go across my shoulders, behind my neck and down my arm ending up twirling on my extended finger only to punt it into the ditch and leave it there when I suddenly become distracted by some small shiny object... hopefully something with which I can use to pry the top offa this here bottle. It’s 10pm on Monday eve. I’m hungry and I’m going to leave the brewery now. Be careful not to end up with the ball. In the ditch. Know what I'm a sayin’? Of course you do.