I'd have to go with scotch or bourbon. I've drunk quite a bit more bourbon in my short years, however, so I'll have to go with that.
Let me paint you a picture:
It's August in Colorado. You're in an old gold rush town, already a little bit drunk, walking with a some new friends down Main Street, where the sounds and smells of coal-burning steam locomotives and gasoline-belching Harley-Davidsons intermingle in the cool night air. There was rather large inflatable penis at that last bar, but you choose to ignore it for the time being. You enter another bar a block down - the door is on the corner of the building; the doors are that old saloon-type swinging door that you only thought existed in spaghetti westerns, and yet, here it is, and you're walking through it. There's an older gentleman at the upright piano wearing white and black, really cranking out some ragtime. The whole place appears to be lit as if by candlelight; the men behind the bar are dressed in the same white long-sleeve shirts and black vests, but with the addition of thick waxed mustaches, they look every bit their part. Attractive women in feathers and tight corsets that shine like fish scales in the dim light roam amidst the tables, taking orders and fetching drinks. You and your friends decide that such a place requires a good whiskey of some sort, and you settle on Buffalo Trace, straight; one for each of you. The piano man calls at you - you'd requested Maple Leaf Rag, remember? He doesn't really know it, yet somehow makes his way through the best rendition of the Scott Joplin tune that you've ever heard someone-who-didn't-know-it pull out of his ass. And the bourbon is good. And life is good.
And that's why I like bourbon.