My arrogance has metamorphosed into a peatier, haughtier, boozier, doubler, more “er” of everything version of itself. Unlike the malted substance, which abetted my materialization, you don’t have chiseled iceberg chunks or fizzy, sugary pop sugar crystals at your disposal to cut me or soften the unbridled intensity of my righteous state that is liquid arrogance. Go ahead. Try me. This Islay whisky barrel-infused ale could put a lion’s mane on a hairless cat.