/ la terre

Do not let me order wine, because I swear the next time a sommelier presents me with a cork to an $18 bottle of ro-zay, I am going to bite the end, make sure it's real gold, stick a toothpick and paper winglets into it, toss it in the air. When offered the bottle I will spell out the name phonetically and wonder aloud why we can't get something new, check the bottom and note the lack of born on dating, maybe even stir the glass with a butter knife. It doesn't matter if the bouquet expands as it aerates, I refuse to learn, as I am a dog with my liquor, it goes down an open gullet, SWOOOOOSH. I am intent on the anaerobic properties of my booze, how it performs in the airless expanse of my gut, how fast it reaches my head. I don't have time to enjoy the many feet that went into the stamping of these grapes, I NEED TO BE FUNNY NOW. I will never return a bottle of wine, unless they start giving me bigger taste tests.

I am desperate for friends lately, and even tried a bit to socialize, but THAT'S A GODDAMNED LIBERAL CONCEPT, and the colleagues looked at me open eyed on the golf course as I consumed one tiny beverage (BEEFEATER) after another with no effect on my cart driving abilities. I am writing a new book for a private college, and bid them into the stratosphere so that they would say SORRY, TOO RICH FOR ME, but my bluff was called and at 40 cents per word I am consumed with the fear that EVERY CONTRACTION IS FOOD OUT OF MY BABIES' MOUTHS. Goddamn this life and the sad reality that we can all get closer to our families if we would just let go of work and consumerism and live out of the backs of non-working station wagons, make our own modern fairy tales.