Free Wine Blog III: Forgettable Regrettables
This is not to be confused with a Free Wine Blog/A Wine Blog That Is Free. The wine is free, but the blog is going to cost you. Don’t worry, I’ll send you an invoice. Yes, by reading this disclaimer, you have already agreed to pay me. This also shouldn’t be confused with Shitty Wine Blog, which is the far superior blog of which I am lampooning. If you want better writing about terrible wine, go to that blog and disregard this one. Brittany actually knows what she’s talking about when it comes to kitsch beveraging.
I’m really good at making poor decisions. When a pair of new shoes tend to hurt, I keep walking. When a cute girl is in my presence, I become a pensive introvert. And when a friend says drink, lord knows I drink. So last night I found myself limping with the skin torn off my ankles, cooking dinner for one while still being discombobulated from the night before. And of course a free bottle of wine was staring me down, mocking me, knowing that I don’t want him but have no other viable beverage options. The bottle knows that my feet are too messed up to walk to the store, hell, I could barely get off the couch. This bottle of wine knew everything about me and yet, I knew nothing about him. Naturally, I had to meet them. As my series of poor decisions continue…
Ultimate Pog 2014 Rodel. Or is it Rodei? Or a backwards J to make it Rodej? Or maybe the O is a U? Rudej? Is this in Russian? Why would a Spanish wine have a Russian name? Don’t answer that question. Also, I feel like I drink way too much Spanish wine, because it’s all dirt cheap. There must be a lot of broke people in Spain. Either that, or wine is what the scoundrels drink, while Pilsners run at $40 a can. It’s kind of like how bowling in New York is reserved for rich people, while anywhere else in America, bowling is the only thing that broke people can do to enjoy themselves. The only other description on the bottle is that it’s a Rioja and Denominacion De Origen Calificada. Using my basic knowledge of French [The International Language™], I can translate that this is a Rioja [uh-huh] that was originally used as currency in Calificada. What’s a Calificada, you ask? Oh, you philistines. Calificada is the hip district in the city of Spain. It’s a cultural melting pot that’s a 50/50 combination of California and Calcutta. You can get your head chopped off for watering your lawn. That’s if you get a lawn. Place is wild. Untamed. Calificada: The Place To Be.
– I was about to take my first sip, but the initial smell gave me the overwhelming sensation of fuck this. After some mild cringing, my first sip gave hints to dusty lingonberries. Why does every Spanish wine taste like dusty lingonberries? Am I doing something wrong? Am I supposed to run it through a filter? Spray it off with Pledge? Why?!?
– I accompanied it with a $3 steak and burnt rice. The wine made the steak taste like it cost $7 or maybe even $7.50. Conversely, the steak made the wine taste like I got it for free. Can’t win em all. Can’t win at all.
– As I got deeper into the bottle, it became more tolerable. This stuff didn’t have that gasoline aftertaste that I’m so used to. At some points, I’d be able to convince myself that it was Gatorade. This didn’t make it taste better, but it was kinda cool.
– Is there vanilla in it? I think I tasted vanilla? Or is it a cigar? Pipe tobacco? Either way, it made the body bold and complex and I don’t know how to talk about wine.
I pinpointed the Earth-Feels to come from it’s district of origin: The Mean Streets of Calificada.
Brody Alam had just narrowly escaped death after stealing an avocado and some kale from the street farmers market and took refuge on the beach. In the distance, he could hear the muffled sounds of limbs being hacked off while some surfers caught the tastiest of tasty waves. Brody stared off into the sunset, rattling off a debate in his head. Does he become a professional thief or does he disobey his parents by going to Berkley? Decisions, decisions. But it are these decisions that make life worthwhile. And so on.
– I spent most of my wine time yelling at the TV, as my fantasy baseball team imploded on itself. Yasmani Grandal missed an easy pop foul which led to Ross Stripling getting lit up for a couple of runs. Meanwhile, in Arizona, Zack Greinke continued his conquest in making me Big Time Sad. He coughed up 7 runs, which is something you don’t want your 4th Round Pick doing every time he goes on the mound [which he does]. The only relief I got from that bozo was when he attempted a bunt and gave me my first GIF of the season.
Yeah, that’s been my season in a nutshell.
– After I was done being angry, I thought a lot about the idea of buttsex, as it was a topic that kept coming up in the cultural consciousness. Why do people do it? What if you have a hemorrhoid? Seriously, why in the hell does buttsex exist if not for low-brow novelty?
– I thought a lot about parties. Whatever happened to parties? We used to party all the time. Nobody parties anymore. As soon as you settle down and get married, the idea of a party totally morphs. And then when there’s only a few single people left, there’s not much partying to be had. You can’t have a 3 person party, that’s blasphemy. I could always crash somebody else’s party, but then I just feel like an old bag, because I don’t remember how to act around young people. This is probably why I can’t have kids. Why did I even write any of this down? The wine was definitely not a party wine, but then again, I never party with wine. Maybe my biological clock is ticking. Maybe I just really need to party, before it’s too late.
– All in all, by the end of the experience, I had completely forgotten about all of the bad decisions I’ve made. I suppose that this is the point of wine.
Rudej Rioja: You’ll Forget To Regret This!