Uncle Sean’s Story Time… Quitters Never Wine

Gather ’round, gather ’round, kiddies… it’s time for another one of Uncle Sean’s drunk stories… this one is about how determination isn’t always the key…

After testing my vertigo at the Eiffel Tower, your Uncle Steve had the bright (two-days-late) idea of finding cheap wine.  We were in Paris, France, after all, and so far at the local restaurants, les verres de bière were not proportionate in regard to their size and cost.  During his stay in London, he had heard a rumor from someone that there were bottles that cost three Euros – and it tasted good.

As we rounded the corner to approach our hotel, I wondered aloud where we might find some of this mysterious vin bon marché that tasted bon.  I mean, we hadn’t noticed any place up to that point that carried any such thing.

Then there it was, right smack dab on our route.  We had passed it more than several times the past two days, and we had no idea.  It had an inviting chalkboard out front and everything.  We were probably too busy paying attention and trying to figure out these bikes:

Are they community bikes? Do they charge by the minute? Do you have some kind of pass key or can you use your credit card? Aaah!

Are they community bikes? Do they charge by the minute? Do you have some kind of pass key or can you use your credit card? Aaah!

Quoi qu’il en soit (I’ll give you this one – anyway), we entered the shop, meager and apprehensive.  “Bon soir!” the attendant proclaimed.  “Bon soir!” I replied.  As my eyes scanned one half of the store, Steve scanned the other.  I spotted nothing but produce and weird imports before settling upon a 6-pack of Heineken cans.  I began to convince myself this was good enough, and I readied to convince Steve when the old man came out from behind the register to interact with us. 

“Are you lookeeng for zum affordeeble wine for thees evening?”  We nodded and he madehis suggestion.  (It was a choice red wine, fresh from the countryside.)  We completed our purchase and continued on our way, one bottle each

As we neared our home base of operations, a thought occurred to Steve (again it was late, but to his credit, it didn’t occur to me at all).  He was reminded of the fact that we didn’t possess a means to open our grape beverages.  Quite frankly, I didn’t feel like turning back.  And even though we could clearly see the bottles had those newfangled rubber stoppers buried deep in their necks, somewhere in my mind I knew we could open them.  Again, upon entering the hotel lobby, he wondered if he should ask the concierge for a corkscrew.  I didn’t know what the on-site drinking policy was, and I didn’t want to find out.

In our room, I scrambled through my belongings, surveyed the room.  Steve rummaged through his stuff for any options.  As I opened the drawer below le télévision, I turned instantly into MacGyver.  I unscrewed the knob off the drawer, and even though the screw was flat, I started twisting it into the cork.

Steve readied to do the same, but my effort proved fruitless.  He excused himself to run downstairs and ask.  I decided to start pushing the cork in.

I retreated to the bathroom in preparation for any chance of spillage.  I had to use my other hand to shove my finger into the bottle.  As I made more headway, the more difficult the shoving in became due to the mounting pressure.  I was pot-committed now – there was no turning back since no cork could reach it.  Almost there, I kept telling myself.  Almost there… There!

Purple juice exploded out the top past my finger.  It sprayed like a aerosol can, hitting everything.  The mirrors, the tile, the walls, the towels… me.  It looked like a murder scene.  As I promptly began cleaning to prevent staining (it discolored everything instantly), Steve returned, corkscrew in hand.  We eventually plowed through those bottles, and took to the streets to seek out two more. 

Our shop had closed, but a restaurant we stumbled upon sold us some of their stock.  A customer/regular in that place recognized us as Americans and asked where we were from.  We answered: Michigan, and he asked: Detroit?  He had visited our home town often, and was fairly knowledgeable about the region.  We soon parted ways after getting our second doses, and we almost missed the train to Belgium the next morning. 

The rough ride coupled with my hangover caused me to do an impersonation of my first bottle.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Find out what kind of drinking deals a foreign city/country has way before you get there.

Can I Get A Pair Of Those Rose-Colored Glasses?

Not her.

Not her.

Not me.

Not me.

My friends have a friend that lives in a world the likes of which none of us has ever seen. 

In this world, she looks like Drew Barrymore (she does not), I look like Christian Slater (I do not), and everyone around her is lucky to be around her. 

Why this diatribe now when I’ve despised her for so long?  Because she may have cost my Trivia Team instant entry into our seasonal tournament.  (More on that nerdery to follow.)

There’s a things about Jerkica you need to know (I disguised her name for her protection, although she might still find this post flattering).  My last extended encounter with her occurred at her wedding.  These are some highlights:

  • She invited the woman she allowed her husband to have an affair with to her wedding.  This woman hung all over her husband the entire night.  Uncomfortable: check!  Strange: double-check!
  • People weren’t really dancing to her music selection.  Once the crowd started getting into it, they put in requests to the DJ for things like Elvis and the Beatles.  This kept them on the dance floor, but the bride was sure to put a stop to it.  “Those songs were not on my play list!  That’s not what I’m paying you to play!”  Coincidentally, people stopped dancing.
  • It was that special time of the month for her, which is no excuse for her behavior.  But the fact-of-the-matter is she made her bridesmaid change out her tampon – the same bridesmaid she forbade to drink because she was making her drive the groom and her home, and otherwise bossed around the entire night.  Ironically, the DJ played old rag time music while this occurred.
  • The camera man came around to ask our table to say a few things.  I commented that none of them would be nice, and he lost it.  He simply cracked up.  I told him to talk to the DJ.
  • Some random people wandered into the reception to dance, as guests happen to do when halls are connected.  Like the place had trip wires, she shot across the dance floor and kicked them out.  Later, I heard her complaining to a member of the staff.  “My party was so great, I had to get rid of strangers that were trying to enter.”
  • She took nude pictures of herself and mixed them in with her wedding pictures, which she then sent out to EVERYBODY.

Deep breaths and relax.  Simply put – I can’t stand her.  I’ve been happy to not hear or see from her in a very long time.  It’s not that she has ever done anything directly to me; it’s what she’s said and done to my friends.  But now she’s broken that fourth wall.  She stopped by my friends’ house and prevented them from going to trivia, thus hindering them from getting precious points we need to secure our spot in the tournament.

I’d still dry-hump the hell out of her though.

With these glasses, the economy is looking up!

With these glasses, the economy is looking up!

(More people I’ve been told I look like after the jump.)

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