Surly Cynic

October 2, 2008 by Aaron Goldfarb | Filed under Brewer: Surly, Country: America, Grade: A-, Style: Saison/Farmhouse Ale.

6.5% ABV from a 1-pint can

You hear her laugh the second she enters the joint.  One of those tilt-your-head-back-and-just-eject-noise-from-your-mouth laughs.  She might literally say “HA.”  HA! HA!! HA!!! HA!!!!  The thing is though, that no one probably even said anything funny.  It’s simply an attention-grab.  But you don’t need to turn in your barstool.  You know who has just entered the bar.  And you pray she doesn’t sit by you lest your night be ruined.  But, of course, she does.

The chair abutting yours she slides into.  Slinging her purse over an arm, causing the big sack full of cherry chapstick and Milanos no doubt to rest uncomfortably on your knee.  She throw her coat off and hangs it on the chair back, again in your way.  Immediately she wants food.  “I’m staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarving.”  How can that be?  Happy hour just started.  (This is what her companions are thinking.) And I saw what you ate for lunch at your desk just a few hours ago.  Two whole slices of Sicilian pizza.  Yeah, I know you daubed them with napkins to sop up some fatty grease.  Sure, now it’s health food, huh?  And for breakfast you brought in one of those big black trays with the clear lid you remove.  A whole fucking spread of food.  Who eats home fries on a weekday?  Isn’t that more of a casual brunching type item?  Not for you I guess.

Her companions–one of four types:  either the exact same kind of person, a co-worker unaware of her outside-the-office persona, an uncool homosexual, or a hard-hard-up heterosexual–humor her as she peruses the bar menu.

“Poppers?  Any one want jalepeno poppers?”

Everyone shrugs.  “Sure, whatever.”

“But how many orders?”

The waitress comes and takes the drinks.  She gets a vodka and diet tonic water.  “And an order of poppers.”  The waitress turns to leave and she spins her back like a top, atten-hut.  “Better make it two orders.  Oh, and do you have nachos?”

Of course.

“Can I get chicken on those?  And an extra sour cream.”

She scarfs the food down, taking far more than the even-percentage of food she should take.  Then she has the gall to ask, as there’s one final popper left on the communal plate, “How many did everyone have?” scanning the circle.  “Three…three…you had two…and, let’s see, I had…three.  Hmmm…the math doesn’t seem to add–”

One companion cuts her charade off:  “Oh just take it.”

“You sure?” she says as she’s already bitten into the popper, the cheap Velveeta exploding out the fried back end, hitting the bar like some Peter North come shot hits a girl’s tattooed coccyx.

She begins to drink, the pile of food in her belly amazingly unable to soak up the booze.

By the end of drink one she has become louder.  Doesn’t seem possible to be louder but this bitch goes to 11.  She’s touching all the guys that walk by, flirting like she’s fucking Mae West.  And it’s become impossible for you to enjoy your night, to speak with your drinking partner, to enjoy the music or sports on TV.  She’s got the attention she so desired.

By the end of drink two she’s begun to dance.  Honey, just because the “deejay”‘s iPod accidentally shuffled to his ironic download of R. Kelly’s “Ignition,” doesn’t change the fact that you are in a fucking Irish pub.  And no one wants to dance with you.  It makes me thankful that it is literally illegal to dance in most bars in New York.

By the end of drink three all of her quasi-friends have deserted her for “previous dinner plans,” and she’s alone hitting on the unhappy bartender, sloppily asking him if she can get up on the bar “for a little show.”

And by drink four she has annoyed me so much that I have to leave the bar and go home.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, we are discussing fat girls, the absolute worst creatures in the world.

And before you call me a bigot, allow me to defend myself, and defend all other guys (and many girls) in the process because they feel the exact same way as me:

Look, we don’t hate you because you’re fat.  We won’t fuck you–sober at least–because you’re fat, but we don’t hate you for that reason.  We hate you because you are all so goddamn annoying.  Quit overcompensating for your insatiable love of chicken fingers by trying to be interesting and funny, by trying to “steal the show.”  It doesn’t work.  Just relax.  As Jules Winnfield would say, “Bitch, be cool!”

People always wonder how guys can hate fat girls while having countless fat male friends.  That’s because fat men are no more or less annoying than in-shape men.  But fat women are almost always as annoying as they come.  I have a fat female friend or two–I guess I should probably call them overweight or “voluptuous” or, can women be?, husky–and I like them because they act like normal human beings.  Their weight isn’t even an issue, not affecting their personality in the least.  They know how to sit at the bar and speak when there is something pertinent or interesting to say, interject a funny aside or even a full anecdote when necessary, and simply be cool.  Like all my friends do.  But that’s sadly a rarity among the Rubenesque.

Fat girls, you probably think if you just lost that final fifty pounds every one would like you and every man would want to fuck you.  Actually you probably don’t think that because you are all delusional and already think everyone likes you.  But if you do think that, don’t.  Because even if you were skinny and attractive you would still be the most annoying things in the bar.  If you were skinny you might not have such a massive well to produce the loud basso chortles and wails from, but you would still suck.

After this recent fat girl encounter I angrily marched home, glad to find a Surly Cynic waiting for me.  My first time to try it.

It has a nice yeasty smell and tastes a bit like a poor man’s Belgian trappist tripel.  But that’s no insult here.  French malted barley, English oats, and Slovenian hops, though I found the hoppiness to be only mild.  Tastes of honey and floral sensations.  The can claims the recipe also includes apricot, peach, and black pepper notes–which sounds quite intriguing–but I couldn’t really separate those out.  Whatever the case, I really fucking enjoyed this one.  And, remarkably enough, it may be my favorite of the three outstanding Surlys The Captain sent to me.  I can’t wait to try more.


3 Responses to “Surly Cynic”

  1. KingOttoIII says:

    Admit it you took her home and after you were done you drank the beer to forget.

  2. amm002 says:

    Glad you liked it. I think it’s the best of the bunch too. Supposed to be a saison, but then again, Surly doesn’t stick to convention. You’d definitely love the oak-aged Cynic with cranberry I had the other day.

  3. Hardly tasted like a saison to me, which is good, cause saisons often bore me. The Oaked Cynic sounds phenomenal indeed.

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