The Effects Of Red Wine On The Modern Gay Man

I am not, by any means, a wino. I don’t care to smell it, I don’t want to open up the bouquet, and I am not interested in tasting thimble-fulls and discussing the smoky oats of musty vagina and primrose.

I drink to get drunk, to compete, and to finally feel a shred of emotion. I don’t drink because I like the taste of alcohol. So, its probably unsurprising to you that I don’t like red wine.  If I must drink it, I always try and drink white. And no, that isn’t racism its just common sense. Every time I drink red wine, one of the following outcomes occurs:

I cry about something stupid and meaningless. Red wine reverts me into the angsty pre-teen that jerked off 7 times a day and hated how unfair it was that he had to share a room with his sister, who constantly grossed him out by shooting water out of her vagina.

I get really self-conscious about the fact that my teeth resemble Ronald Mcdonald’s after he just got done S‘ing Grimaces’ D.

I get angry about something stupid and meaningless. Ask anyone who knows me- my emotions are pretty much even keel. It is almost impossible to get a rise out of me or piss me off. Red wine brings out my feminine side, and by feminine I mean that I get really feelingsy (see? the emotion is so foreign to me I had to make up a word to explain it) , bleed from my vagina, say bitchy things about my best girlfriends via text message literally as I hug them, and hump things mercilessly.

I’m not saying that I absolutely abhor red wine. I treat red wine like I do my acquaintances, who I don’t particularly care to be around, but tolerate because its easier than slapping them in the tits and setting them on fire. If red wine had a cocktail party, I would probably show up. But I would bring my white friend with me, and fuck them on top of everyone’s coats in the hall closet.

That’s just common courtesy.