Hear me out. I enjoy beer. I enjoy craft beer. Like a good Michigander, I thanked Bacchus the day Two Hearted Ale finally arrived in New York City. I have not been “up for whatever” bland, antiquated piss was lying around since college. Even then, never on my own dime.

I’ve enjoyed the proliferation of quality beer. The trouble is success swiftly breeds excess. Before you’re cognizant, you find yourself conquering Burma or releasing Physical Graffiti, because you can.

Craft beer, in polite society, has become “beer.” Snobbery about said beer has taken a step too far. To be truthful, it has taken about 30 of them.

There’s nothing wrong with making craft beer your hobby. Consenting adults should get up to whatever they wish, even if it is a short, steep slope to handlebar mustaches, flannel and self-imposed celibacy. Take every vacation to Portland or rural Michigan. Rank IPAs on your website. Drain pour to your disdainful heart’s content.