Would you like that kick to the head with or without hobnails?

Arrogant Bastard is the kind of beer that punches you in the face, laughs, and takes your lunch money. It's not that it's the jock of beers. Hell, most jocks don't have the cajones to handle Arrogant Bastard. No. It's more like the guy who just doesn't give a fuck. He's the one who likes to pretend to punch you in the face, and see how close he can get without actually hitting you, but doesn't apologize if he doesn't stop in time.

This is a beer that just doesn't give a fuck what you think. Your opinion is worthless. Your judgment is irrelevant.  Your personal preferences bring into question your character, if only this beer cared about questioning your character.

You want hops? It's got 'em. There's a tich of fruit, and a smidgen of spice, and about six or eight tons of bitter. You like malt? It's got that, too, in abundance. There's a little coffee flavor, and quite a bit of caramel, and it's like the malt got a bunch of body piercings and dressed all in leather just to impress the hops. This is the kind of beer that would shop at Hot Topic because it wanted to scare the kinds of kids that shop at Hot Topic to be cool.

If Arrogant Bastard were a band, it'd be The Pixies. It's loud and obnoxious, and surprisingly pleasurable, and it sneers at all the others who copy it.

What the fuck is bogmyrtle?

I'm usually not a total fan of fruit beers. I'm sure they're all excellent brews. I'm sure some people absolutely just love fruit beers. Me: not so much.

This, however, is really good. Especially for a wheat beer.
It's refreshing. It's tasty. It's light on the hops, but that allows the subtle (almost non-existent) gooseberry flavor to come through. Any more hops, and this sucker'd have no fruit flavor at all. The malty base is definitely in the foreground, but the gooseberry has a presence. I imagine after the third or fourth of these, it'd be quite noticeable.

It'd be easy to drink three or four, too, as it is only about 5% alcohol.

Along with the grozet (which is, apparently, another name for the gooseberry), this beer is made with malted barley (duh, that's what makes it beer), bree, wheat, gooseberries, bogmyrtle, meadowsweet, and hops.

I don't know what it is I'm drinking, but I like it.

Damn the torpedos!

I do love my IPAs. I really, really do. Is it the assertiveness of the hops? It might be. I do like my beers to blow up in my mouth like an IED. Or is it the way the malt kicks sand in your face, like in the old Charles Atlas ad? Or is it the high alcohol content? I mean, nothing says good beer like a solid ass-whoopin'.

It's all of it!

Yeah. It's the whole package. The hops is there to offset the malt in an isometric matchup that old Charles would appreciate. Sure, the hops historically kept the beer stable on the long boat rides to India. But it just tastes so good, it's not just for ocean travel any more.

Getting a good balance between hops and malt is difficult, especially when the goal is to take the hops to eleven. I would've loved to be in on that planning session.

Steve: "Listen. I think we should just throw in a fuckload of hops. That'll keep the beer from souring."

Tom: "Sure. Great idea. Have you tasted hops? They're nasty! We'll have to double the amount of malt just to kill the flavor of the hops."

Steve: "Fuck you. I love hops. They taste like pot. I'm the boss. Make it happen!"

Balancing the sweetness of the malt with the bitterness of the hops is a challenge. Sierra Nevada's Torpedo gets it right. It's not as assertive as, say, Arrogant Bastard, but it definitely announces its presence with authority. While Arrogant Bastard simply doesn't give a fuck about you and your pansy-assed palate, Torpedo just demands respect. It starts off a little bit spice, a touch of lemon, and just a hint of pine, and a whole lot of bitterness. Once the hops is done with your mouth, it allows you to enjoy the malt. Just a little. Then it finishes on citrus and herbs.

If it were a U.S. President, it would be Lyndon Johnson: it'll swing you around by your ears without your permission, and tell you that you like it.

In your face! It's Quitness!

Well, Sucker, guess what this is? Yeah, that's right! It's a tall beautiful 30-minute glass of Quitness. It's named after LeBron James (who was some local athlete or another), so you know it's funny. Oh, and it's wonderfully exotic. Look at the rich amber color, the froth of head, the cask-conditioned cloudiness. There's more bitterness there than a convention of all your ex-girl/boy friends. It's crisper than a Glover.

I got some. And you didn't.

Why didn't you get some? Why? You could've been there, if you'd planned ahead. But you didn't plan ahead, did you? Too bad.

Now, before I go all self-satisfied on your ass, I should say that not many people got a chance. Not many at all. There were only a few firkins of this delicious IPA. And it took for fucking ever to get one. I stood in line in the crowded and rather boisterous Great Lakes Brewing Company Pub for 40 minutes before the nice young gentleman manning the pump took pity on my clearly desperate ass and handed me a couple. Of course, it took him probably 30 seconds to draw each glass.

I'm not sure I would've used the sparkler when drawing this beer, but whatever. It's their pub. They can do whatever they like. Whatever. The result was a clean beer, with plenty of head. The slight effervescence of the cask conditioning was a nice break from the heavy carbonation of many beers. The bitterness was like my tongue asked to be the bottom in a little S&M game. Nice, if you're into that sort of thing.

Mainly, though, this beer was fresh, the kind of freshness that would get you slapped in a 1950's era movie. In a classy way, though. The taste was predominantly hops, of course, as you'd expect in an IPA. There was enough malty sweetness to give the hops the old what-for, of course. (I don't know what that means. As far as I know, I myself have never given anyone or anything the old what-for. I just thought it sounded good here.)

In any case, I got some. And you didn't.

Neener-neener.