Well, I made it to work. And on time, no less.
I ended up going with this…
In the spirit of Samhain, I stole this picture from someone on the internet. If this is your pitcher (Southern for “photograph”), then I must say that I apologize. Kinda. The only reason I don’t is because I didn’t get a badass wine-sized coffin with mine. Although that probably would have jacked the price from the under-$20 range up to the 200-buck-chuck range.
A few years ago, I bought a bottle of this stuff and, I may be hallucinating from the after-effects of sweating my balls off in a gold lame costume, drinking a bottle of wine, and sleeping for 2 hours, but I promise that this stuff was actually from Transylvania, and claimed to be made by “real” vampires.
I realize that was a convoluted sentence, and my inner copy editor wants to hang me up by my gills, but I promise it’s the truth. I thought I had bought two bottles of it (I almost always buy two bottles. one to drank, and one to keep for posterity), so I could prove this. But upon further inspection, I have gathered that I came home wasted one night and drank up every drop of hooch in the house… including my “keep” bottle of bloodwine.
Speaking of bloodwine, Vampire red wine useta have the slogan, “drink the blood of the vine”. Now it says, “eat a dick, you fatshit goth. your dumbass will buy anything that says vampire on it”.
Well, I’m paraphrasing a bit.
Unfortunately, Vampire wine isn’t from Transylvania anymore. Now it’s from North California, home of the legendary coven of vampire hippies. They drink the blood of the soybean.
There’s not much that can take the wind out of the sails of a Vampire wine like saying you’re from Northern California… instead of Transyl-frackin-mania. Well, maybe if you told people that you were now a “Contemporary Christian Republican Tea Party anti-Halloween Teetotalling Wine sans Alcohol Content” wine. Even then, if it was still called “Vampire”, stupid horror-fans like me would buy it.
Especially if it came in a boss case that was a coffin.
If you’re wondering what it tasted like, you’re barking up the wrong tree. My palate is about as refined as a Georgia bulldog’s.
All the bullmess that you always read on a wine bottle, “hints of pear, an aftertaste of oak, fruity aroma, finished with just a smidge of rat droppings” is completely lost on me. To be honest, I doubt if I could tell the difference between a fine wine like Wild Irish Rose and a bottle of piss from an old guy with a hernia.
And all you people out there who claim that you can taste every single flavor in every wine…
Quit lying. Seriously. We are all very impressed by how pompous you are, I can assure you. You don’t need to add to it. You are there already, Mr. Phantom of the Opera Costume at Dragon*Con.
I really don’t see how you can keep a straight face while telling me that you smell pomegranate and hickory in a merlot.
You realize that shit’s made from grapes, right?
I mean, if the wine was stored for 30 years in oak casks, I can see a little oak sneaking in there after midnight. That being the case, I think Wild Irish Rose probably has just a subtle hint of aluminum or asbestos. Which I find lends it a nice “completely unnatural and carcinogenic” aftertaste.
All kidding aside, the Vampire treated me right. It tasted smooth (it was a Cabernet. did I mention that?) and didn’t give me a hangover, which is really all I ask for from my booze.
I know that drinking is not strictly the province of fatasses. There were tons of Hardbodies at the party. But when you’re actively trying to lose weight, drinking a whole bottle of wine probably ranks up there with a good old-fashioned “Sweet Sixteen” powdered doughnut binge.
This is just the sort of hurdle that I need to challenge myself with, anyway. It’s things like “night out and no sleep” that can really derail a fitness plan.
The tasty taste I attribute to the vampire hippies. Why? Hippies probably know what a good wine should taste like… at least moreso than real vampires from Transylvania. Dracula himself even says, “I never drink…
Bram, you are clever. And here I thought you were just a one-hit wonder, doomed to terrible shows featuring Vanilla Ice and “Mo Rocca”, whoever the hell that is.
The vampires from Transylvania who useta make the wine probably retired because they realized the irony of making wine but never drinking it. It’s like a tattoo artist with no tattoos, it just doesn’t add up.
I like to picture the winemaking vampires as being really dapper, sophisticated, chaps. This is different from the normal vampires that I picture in my mind.
My normal vampire is a real badass when he needs to be, romantic, but not effeminate in the least, and possesses no interests that don’t feature drinking the blood of the innocent. What I mean by that is that my ideal normal vampire could do any number of things, but they are all just the means to an end. Your end, mwa ha ha. He could be taking up cross-stitching, but in the back of his mind it’s really just a way to get close to that hot cross-stitching chick he met at the bar.
These winemaking vampyres, on the other hand, have developed a hobby. The hobby of winemaking. They love winemaking, not because it helps them land slutty goth babes, but just for the sheer joie de vivre they derive from the process itself. Sure, they hunt the innocent, but that only takes up, what, an hour of the night? What’re they supposed to do for the other 7 hours or however long? A vampire’s idle hands are the devil’s something something.
But they gave it up. Maybe a bunch of Simon Belmonts came in there and whipped them to death (I love Castlevania, but how does a dude with a whip kill vampires? If this is possible, I see the next Indiana Jones sequel in the works now. Thanks, George Lucas, for ruining my life).
Please pause while I sing a lament for one of my favorite lost-genres of movies: the horror comedy.
If you grew up in the 80’s, there were numerous movies that you had to see, else your kid-credentials were instantly revoked.
One of them was the Goonies.
And another of them was the Goonies… with monsters. They called it “Monster Squad”.
If you were anywhere from the ages of 3 to 14 in 1987, and you don’t instantly recognize the phrase, “Wolfman has nards!!!” then just get outta my sight. Why are you even here? I think you should be over at fitforbeingacompletemaroon.com. Shoulda taken the ol left turn when you left 4chan.
For those of us who do know, and love, this little nugget of screenwriting platinum, “Monster Squad” reminded us that kids always know better than adults when it comes to saving their hometown.
For a quick plot summary, the Monster Squad is a group of kids who get together and do frackin awesome stuff like talking about monsters, drawing monsters on their trapper keepers, and debating on the best way to murder werewolves (turns out, it’s a silver bullet! who knew?)
A bunch of classic monsters will soon be invading their town and only the Squad is aware of it, so it’s up to them to stop em! Luckily for them, an ancient book containing vital information on how to conquer bad guys is dropped off at their house by an old guy… whom we are never bothered with again.
This movie is one of the inspirations behind that flick “Super 8”, but “Super 8” is small potatoes compared to the Squad. I have no doubt that the Squad could kick those little “Home Movies” wanna-be’s’s’s asses. I’ve talked before about how kids in the 80’s were tougher than kids today, so I won’t get on that tirade again (just want to throw this out there: watch the first 20 minutes of E.T. if you don’t believe me), but I just wanted to say that, while the Super 8 kids ran from the alien, a kid from the Monster Squad kicked a werewolf in the balls and another one befriended Frankenstein! Take that, Spielberg!
A few years ago, I bought a bootleg of this movie offa eBay… they then promptly released a badass “more special features and info about the Monster Squad than you would ever want or need” version on digital disc video.
So don’t buy a bootleg.
And don’t kick a werewolf in the balls.
And don’t lie about being a virgin.
Then watch Monster Squad and remember how much more of a hardass you were when you were a kid.