In Vino Veritas  

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9/1/2005 7:50 pm

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

In Vino Veritas

The saying In Vino Veritas translates to: there is truth in wine. It means that you are more likely to say what you feel under the influence of alcohol.

Let’s test the theory.

Warning: this article contains excessive use of the word jug

I went to the liquor store to pick up a little 'vino' for my experiment. I’m not a wine connoisseur, but my palate is good enough to know if it sucks. My wallet, however, dictates what I’m willing to pay. With what I'm paying in rent I would need Jesus to perform a miracle on my tap water. Thankfully, I have Carlo Rossi.

The liquor store guy tried to put me into an expensive model as if I were at a Saturn dealership. He recommended a nice thirty-dollar Cabernet.

“Naw, but that big fuckin’ jug’ll do.”

The Vitals:

1 four liter Jug of Carlo Rossi Paisano Table Red wine
equivalent to five normal ( 750ml) bottles of wine
Approx 135.26 oz
Equivalent to over 20 glasses of wine
Price $9.49

That should be plenty of booze for my 145-pound frame.

I paid for it in cold hard cash, a crispy ten, then threw the jug over my shoulder, being sure to sure to tell the register jockey he could keep the fuckin' change. That’s how I roll.

The jug rode shotgun. I could have sworn she told me to change the radio station a few times. I guess it was a bit of foreshadowing, but I chose to ignore it anyway. Besides I was getting the ‘Led out’ to a little "Tangerine".

When I got home, I realized I didn’t need a corkscrew, because Rossi is twist-off. Good fucking thing, because I don’t have a corkscrew and I’d be damned If I was going back to the store to blow any more of my nest egg on unnecessary luxuries.

Twist the cap I did, after I tapped the bottle, of course. I poured the truth juice into my plastic 32-oz Dream Team cup from Mickey Dee’s, and I was off. I figured I could drink the whole jug in about five cups in a few hours, while letting the stream of consciousness flow.

Cup 1
This wine is pretty good, albeit a little sweet. I wonder what "paisano" means (I then Google paisano). In Italian, it means friend.

I also check out to see what the hell Dan Aykroyd's latest project is. Seems as though he hasn’t done anything since Christmas with the Kranks. He played Vic Frohmeyer. Awesome. His project before that was the straight-to-video Intern Academy, which some reviewers have deemed completely unnecessary, a pile of shit on top of a pile of poo. He’s falling, he’s falling fast.

Truth Number One:
The reason I hate Dan Aykroyd.
Dan is my biological father. My mom was an SNL groupie back in the 70’s, and well, what can I say? I was born a bastard child with sketch comedy chops. I never even met the man. Never sent me a birthday card, letter, nothing.

That’s all bullshit. He’s not my dad. The saying should be changed to In (Latin word for lots of) Vino Veritas because I'm still full of shit after just one Olympic-sized cup.

Cup 2
Got a nice warm buzz on. Basically each cup is the size of a whole bottle. That thought sinks in.

Truth Number Two:
I think this experiment is really just an excuse to get drunk. A throwback to the binge drinking days of college years. Maybe it’s that smell in the air, the shift in temperature, the cool breeze; summer is almost over and there is an empty void. That void is the beginning of a new college semester. I’m a few years removed from college, but each year I have that withdrawal. The sensation is weaker with every passing year, but it’s still there.

I’m almost done with cup two and I’m drunk. There’s barely a dent in the jug. This is an impossible task. Fuck you, jug.

Cup 3
I have a conversation with the jug. I don’t consider it my friend any more. We are now sworn enemies.

Truth Number Three:
Everyone hates you, jug of wine. You are the laughing stock of the wine world. You have slightly more respect than a Bartles and James Wine Cooler but less than a box of White Zin. California table red my ass, paisano!

I chug cup number three while staring down the jug in angst.

Cup number 4

I’m no longer drinking out of the Dream Team cup. We had an argument. Several of the guys on the team (Bird, Mullen, Malone, Stockton, Drexler and Laettner) took the jug’s side on the abortion issue. Me and Magic where the only ones who vehemently agreed that a woman has a right to choose, so I threw them across the room. I fuckin' hope they landed on Laettner's fat feathered face. The jug and I made up. In fact, I’m drinking directly out of the it, so I guess we’re kind of seeing each other now.

Truth number four:
I’m shit-faced. Also, putting on my white first communion suit was a bad idea when 'jugging' red wine. The good news is that the suit still fits! I remember my first communion like it was yesterday. It was on a frozen lake, but my snowmobile was broken so I caught three red snappers and set them free. My head hurts and everything is spinning.

As I whistle "Taps" into the jug, I realize that it is my destiny to start a band with eight people. An octet! The only instrument we’ll play is the jug. Maybe we’ll grab a skin-flute player too. We’ll conquer America just like the Beatles. Fame, fortune, wine… ZAP! That's onomato... onamono... oenomeanopia... ahh.

Lights out.

The Next Morning
I woke up early for work, but on the floor. At least an hour early. I almost made it to the bed. Despite all this, I feet great. However, I’ve been in the game long enough to avoid getting a false sense of security. I’ll pay for my sins before lunchtime.

As I got out of bed, I wondered why the hell I’m wrapped in red-stained white towels. I quickly remember my drinking experiment. After I took a cool shower, I realized that I have no clean bath towels. As I air dried, I noticed that some of Rossi’s 2004 Paisano Reserve made it in to the toilet bowl the night before, along with what looks like cabbage. I hadn’t eaten cabbage since St. Patrick’s day, 2001. Thankfully, not all of it landed in the bowl. The rest covered the floor, wall and even a bit on the ceiling. Impressive. For some reason, cleaning up puke isn’t as bad when it’s your own. I still had a few gag reflexes, but it’s ok. In that purple cole-slaw vomit was a little bit of me.

Before passing out, I managed to write a few things down…

Adam Carolla: Beep.
I may or may not have been watching Carolla’s new show on Comedy Central. I think he did a bit about the beeping a truck makes when in reverse. Any clarification on this would be appreciated. I can’t remember if it was funny or lame, or if it happened at all.

That’s what I think it says. It's not legible. It could also be BRUN BUMP. Regardless, I have no fucking clue what it means. I must have been on to something though because I underlined it seven times.

Is this some existential Popeyeian ultimate truth? Or did I pass out in the middle of a sentence? The latter is more likely, but who can be sure?

I didn’t finish the wine. There was a good 24oz left upon measurement. But, one should drink in moderation. If I had finished it all, that would've just been downright piggish.

What did I learn? Maybe it’s that I can’t finish a whole jug of wine. I challenge you to do better, paisano! Perhaps it’s just that I miss college, where they would have accepted my efforts, instead of the brow beatings I got from friends and loved ones. Maybe drinking a jug of wine is part of who I am. I definitely don’t have a drinking problem, despite what they say. Or maybe I’m just not ready for step one of twelve.

The truth is out there. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a Carlo Rossi jug. Maybe it’s at the bottom of a tequila bottle. Maybe the worm knows; I’ll be sure to ask him later tonight, when I’m roaming the streets along with Mr. Cuervo, trying to dispel the myth that ‘Tequila makes people flash their boobs to complete strangers’. The neighbors are going to be so excited to see my nipples.

--I love

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