Over the past year, I’ve begun to enjoy wine. I like red. I’ll drink white, because let’s face it, there is alcohol in it. But, given the choice, I prefer red. I like all makes, models, sizes, and shapes. I’ll drink it out of a cup, glass, cupped hands, the bottle, wax cups from the bathroom, don’t care. Now, maybe I’m a caveman when it comes to the subject, but I need not go deeper(Sometimes we just can’t ladies, its only so long). I don’t knock anyone for expanding their culture or tastes, but I do knock people out for trying to forcibly expand mine(Not really). When I walk into a liquor store, I don’t need your opinion. I scamper to the section where the wine is red and try to find a label, or name that appeals to me. Yes, I’m superficial.
Most of the time I can get away without your help. Sometimes though, just sometimes, Johnny Winesnob gets me(Nice name tag, Chip). He’ll begin to talk, offering advice, which is fine, but please don’t tell me what I shouldn’t buy. If I want to throw my money away on undrinkable swill, it’s called free will. If I pick up a bottle with an awesome name, or label don’t make a face, don’t give me that smug, disapproving look. Don’t suggest a different vintage, or offer me something from your “Employee Approved Section”. I want. what I want and it isn’t to hear about your experience with such and such wine paired with such and such food(Oh, how I hope you choke). Actually, I do have a paring question, can you tell me what wine goes best with self-loathing? When the conversation takes this turn, I usually stare. Not aggressively, or in a threatening fashion, more like a vegetable. I’ll just stare at your store issue vest, or your walkie talkie. I fantasize about looking into your eyes and saying “Clean up in Aisle 1” and dropping the bottle at our feet. Then we can talk about how the oak or smoky taste is irrelevant since the only thing it tastes like now is the floor tiles. Thanks for nothing.