Demon in a Bottle

As you likely know, CR*, I love to drink. (In fact, I'm drinking right now. What are the odds?) Beer is my primary poison of choice, whiskey my spark plug; but, given the option of any alcoholic beverage or no alcoholic beverage, I'll choose the former every time (and yes, that includes cooking Sherry, cologne, antiseptics, and medicinal tinctures). So when Legs forced me to decide between drinking wine with her a couple of nights a week versus abstaining completely, I picked wine. I'm as predictable as the plot in a porno.

I have nothing against man's second-oldest alcoholic potable, mind you; I've just never been a big fan. My drinking tastes tend to be less bourgeoisie, more proletariat. Still, to quote the bard, "Booze is booze," and I enjoy a glass of vino every now and then. Before I wake up the next morning in an alleyway with my pants around my ankles and vomit in my hair, it makes me feel classy.

And so it has been that, for the past three weeks, Legs and I will couple -- sometimes in the sexual sense, sometimes not -- twice or thrice per week to share stories and clink glasses. Legs, in addition to being an admirer of Yours Truly, is equally fond of wine; and since I'm as equally fond of Legs as Legs is as equally fond of me and wine, everyone is happy. Easy, peasy, Japanesy.

Until last night, that is. The evening started off fine with a bottle of Yellow Tail Cabernet Sauvignon and some episodes of Lucky Louie, but after the Yellow Tail was killed Legs brought out a bottle of "Vialetto Dolce Bianco Vino da Tavola," translated with the help of Google as "driveway sweet white table wine." (Thanks, Google!) A more accurate description of Driveway's infernal product is "white wine that tastes like beef stock and/or wet dog."

Now, I have nothing against beef stock (or wet dogs, for that matter), but -- and please correct me if I'm wrong -- wine is supposed to be drunk, not thrown up. I didn't puke, and neither did Legs, but we both held our noses (or held each other's) every time we took a mouthful of Vialetto's awful concoction. I gagged, Legs gagged, but in the end the bottle was empty. Because, hey, anything to drink as opposed to nothing to drink, right?

What makes this tale even more depressing is the fact that, during our harrowing wine experience, two infamous products in the Psychedelic Kimchi canon were present: Double Happiness cigarettes and the smaller, sadder, less productive -- but still the same price! -- Pringles.

I'm not certain, but I have it on good authority that that wicked triumvirate has unleased the unholy forces of Hell. Knuckle up, winos, smokers, snackers.


* Does that work? I'm afraid it's too vague for the uninitiated. I myself find that "Psychedelic Sperm Donors" has a nice ring to it. Am I wrong?