No Wonder We Won the Revolution: A Narrative on Strong Ale (or: [anguish])

Maybe this is evolution, progression. Maybe this all a situation of relativity. Maybe this is just a country boy speaking plain.

But maybe this is an irrefutable, even "self evident" American truth: English Strong Ales are weak.

Let's imagine the last few sentences didn't happen, that instead you show up at a bar, and the barkeep (the kind with just enough jiggle to his belly to convey a slight joviality, and complete trust for the evening) asks you if you want to taste the new cask. "It's a strong ale" he says,
and you think "oh, gird my loins and beat my chest, I become a man tonight" as you steel yourself for the impending torrent of fusels, hot alcohol dissipating directly into your blood stream.

Then you have your first sip, eyes squinted against the pain that you imagine will leap to your jaws and cheeks at any moment, and instead of shivering off the wave descending your esophagus, you slump, muttering to yourself "Strong Ale?" You motion to your glass with a brow furrowed not in pain but in consternation. "Strong Ale?" you say again, this time to the barkeep, that Sentry of the Tap in which you find your trust wavering. Maybe he has the wrong handle.

"Strong Ale" he nods in agreement.

You leap from your stool as if Providence itself gave you flight, talon-fingers clutching to the Keep's throat. He screams "why?!" as you grip harder into his voice, which becomes raspy and breathless with your pressure. That this Arbiter of Ale should lie, proclaiming strength where you only find rich weakness, has sent you into fury, a fierce patriotism that will not abide musty yeast or fruity esters. You need and expect hops so bitter they flirt with pain, alcohol that loses all pretensions of warming and builds a fire in your chest, and just enough malt to cover the torment forming on your palate. Anything less is found wanting of passion.

Men fling their arms around your shoulders, but no one can keep you from justice, to speak nothing of the pursuit of happiness. You feel the life leaving him as you begin to cry, muttering to yourself "strong ale."

It's all any witnesses ever hear you say. It's all anyone ever hears you say ever again.