I want to first preface this by saying I love my wife. That might be too edgy for some of you tight-collar types, but it’s true.

I also have zero problems with my wife’s best friend or her significant other. They are good people.

Now that the highly important disclaimer is out of the way – I went to a Wine Party this weekend.

A Wine Party.

I just bought a bouquet of wine!

At least I think that’s what it was called. I’m not sure. See, I’m a simple man who likes simple things: A beer, a whiskey, porn, football, TV, Internet, food and bacon. In that order.

But apparently, there’s something called a Wine Party where people dress up, sit around a table and a guy who knows way too much about wine pours you a slurp of many different wines in succession and then you buy cases of wine from him.

But let me back up.

The event was held and my wife’s friend’s extremely nice home in New Town, St. Charles, MO. For those of you who don’t know about New Town, it’s a town that was built in a cornfield in the middle of nowhere. There’s literally NOTHING then BAM – a place where you can’t afford to live.

I live in the City of St. Louis, which is nearly in a different time zone from this place and with the highway morass, it takes 14 years to get there.

This is a place where white people live to be around more white people (my wife’s friend & sig. other excluded – and I’m sure there’s other good people living there who just work nearby at jobs that pay them in gold bullion).

As a matter of fact, as I passed the Mills Mall a voice spoke through my stereo saying, “The captian has turned off the black people sign, you are now free to participate in white people activites such as diversifying your portfolio and deep-sea fishing.”

Ten hours later we arrived in New Town.

This is a good wine. I know this because it cost 50 dollars.

Now to repeat – a Wine Party is like a Tupperware Party, only they’re selling wine and not Tupperware. And you get dressed up in nice clothes because if you aren’t wearing a collared shirt when you drink wine you are a wino, but if you do, you are a connoisseur.

So we get started and getting started involves some munchies and notecards. Apparently you have to write stuff down on the notecards about the wines you are tasting. I have no idea what you write on these cards. I also have no idea about wine because I do not like wine. Not my drink. Plus you continue to taste it for 16 hours after drinking and I’m a fan of variety.

The wine man, or as they are known in the industry, “sumlie, uh, Wine Man” begins his thing. His thing is showing us a bottle of wine, pouring a squirt into our glasses, and oogling us as we drink and discuss the wine.

I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT WINE.

I drink the shot of wine and look around as the other people who apparently know about wine talk about “woody” and “fruity” and “finish” and none of it had anything to do with sex.

And repeat.

My wife likes wine and I love my wife. So I behaved myself, mostly. And at the end, I said, “Go ahead, buy whichever wine you like.”

HAHAHA! You CAN’T BUY A BOTTLE OF WINE. You have to buy A CASE of wine.

A CASE.

There are people who, unlike me, like wine enough to buy a case of wine. To me drinking wine is something you do at fancy dinner, of which I attend approximately ZERO per year.

But my wife wishes to be more posh than I, and so I – as men do – defer to her.

But we don’t make quite enough money to be posh, so we “went-in” on a case of wine.

Felt like real white trash doing that, but hey – I didn’t dump any wine on my one nice shirt and I didn’t write any poetry which is a real danger when you drink wine.

And the most important thing is my wife was happy and I didn’t have to drink any more wine.

RATINGS:
New Town: Five capons.

Wine Party: 32oz of Thunderbird.

Overall: 50% OK, 75% hey-yo!