To the person who is setting the limit on alcohol pours,
Hello it’s me, the guy who is still thirsty after that wine pour. I apologize if you misunderstood me when I said I would like a glass of wine. Maybe you thought I said I would like to taste the wine first. I totally understand the mistake, there are a lot of snobs out there that want to inspect the label, sniff the bottle, and shove the cork up their ass before you pour them a glass. Fortunate for you, I am not one of those douches. I trust that this bottle is drinkable as I am paying far too much for a drink that is not even going to get me buzzed. Now that we are on the same page, go ahead and fill ‘er up!…..
Wait, why are you walking away? I paid $12 for a glass of wine; therefore I expect a glass of wine. Instead, I’m sitting at the table with a hamster’s bladder amount of liquid that has been poured into a wine glass that could easily hold over half of that bottle. Why is it that the fancier the restaurant, the cheaper the portions are? I’m not a mathematician but if I were to estimate I would say that 85% of this glass is filled with air. Add that to the portion of wine in my glass that is just water and you’re looking at the same percentage of actual alcohol as there are non-virgins at a Magic: The Gathering Convention.
Now I’m sitting at our dinner table with a thimble-full of red liquid in my glass, looking like I’ve been cut off by the bartender, as if I’m some kind of alcoholic. Of course I’m an alcoholic, that’s why I ordered a drink at my grandma’s 85th birthday party when everyone else is drinking pop, but how would YOU ever know that? I’ve been forced to choose between sitting here, slowly sipping this wet fart’s-amount of wine like it’s a really hot cup of tea, hating my life, or drinking it normally and looking like I have an insatiable appetite for liquor that can only be quenched when the entire wine cellar is decimated, just to get a small buzz. I hope you feel the fire of my gaze upon your warm bread-serving ass as I brood in my booth.
This is exactly why I buy boxed wine and only drink at home most of the time. Primarily because it’s 4 bottles in one box and I can’t tell how many I’ve had thanks to the solid cardboard but also because it doesn’t try to cheat me out of a proper pour. (Which just so happens to be 1 cm from the lip of the glass, take a huge gulp, then refill until sloshing over the edge of said glass) The cardboard box is really good for my self-esteem as well; I just keep telling myself I’m on the first bottle up until it only dribbles out of the spout. And that box of wine never gives me sideways glance when I order my 5th glass like you did. I don’t need your judgmental looks; I’ll admit I have a problem when I’m good and ready.
Speaking of problems; I was at an extravagant gala a few weeks ago (because you know how I LOVE wearing fancy clothes and acting all pretentious with strangers) and the bartender there must have had wrist problems. I ordered a scotch straight up. That means no ice, no mixer, just straight up; like me as a teen looking at my first nudie mag. The bartender gave me a strange glance and asked, “Just the scotch?” I knew what he was trying to do. He had been skimping on the liquor all night and just adding more mixer and ice to each drink like he was rationing provisions after we crash landed in the Alps. I replied a little snippy with a, “Yeah! Just the scotch, Chief” because I was Jonesin’ for some Johnny Walker and it wasn’t rocket science. Well he decided to show me who was in control there. Instead of just eyeballing a generous splash of scotch in a glass, he pulled a measuring cup out of nowhere like he was F***ing Martha Stewart and gently poured the liquid inside, taking extra care not to spill any extra into my glass. As he finished emptying the contents of the Chapstick cap-full of scotch in my glass and handing it over I seriously had to look from the bottom of the glass to even realize there was any liquid in the cup. He then gave me a smug smile and said, “That’ll be $11 please.” We’re at a charity gala, where’s the generosity?!?!? This alcohol Nazi even had the fortitude to have a tip jar next to him. So I dropped the tip of my testicles into his jar and said, “Keep the change!”
Okay, so that last part was made up but can we agree to stop calling it a glass or drink. At least be honest with me and just call it was it really is: Robbery. That way I can be prepared to be let down. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a 3 ounce steak and 2 baby carrots I have to finish in 2 bites. Good thing Jen eats and drinks like a baby bird with anorexia so I can finish her stuff. Cheers!