Well hello there, Sutter Home pink moscato “wine.” I see you there on the corner of my work desk, looking all pink and feminine. I see you every day, but have never taken the time to say hello. To be honest, I always thought of you as a bit of a joke. But there’s something different about you today.
You’re not normally my type, as I’m a grown man with dignity and self-respect. But it’s 95 degrees outside and the air conditioning at work is broken. Small beads of condensation are running down your classy plastic bottle. Your cap is pink and unopened by any other man.
Pardon the old clichéd pickup line, but is it hot in here, or is it just you?
I know we’ve strictly been friends up to now, ever since my co-worker gave you to me as a gag gift, but I’d like to change the nature of our relationship. I’m no longer content just being your friend. I want to drink you, pink moscato. I want to drink you REAL BAD.
Most people don’t think of you that way. Most people use Sutter Home wine for cooking, or cleaning the gaskets in their toilets, or as a means for their teenaged children to get drunk in a safe environment when left home alone. But today’s heat wave has changed the game, pink moscato. I don’t want to leave you in a dusty cupboard so my future kin will think booze is gross. I want to drink you until I MYSELF think booze is gross, which I’m estimating to be about two sips.
I noticed it says “since 1890” on your label. In the past, I would have used that to make fun of you. I would have mentioned how back in 1890, most booze probably tasted like an old gym sock soaked in a puddle of hooker perfume. But things change when it gets this warm in the office. I’m no longer above drinking hooker juice, Sutter Home. Bring it on.
It’s very stressful in the office today, isn’t it? Just say yes. No, don’t ask me what’s wrong. I’m looking for an excuse to drink in the morning, and for you to justify that choice. Let’s try again. It’s stressful here, right? I know! So stressy! So much edge that needs to be taken off! What’s that? DRINK YOU, pink moscato? Good idea! I’m glad you thought of it.
I hope you don’t mind, m’lady, but I just checked your rear label as well. What I saw back there impressed me. I never knew you were 10 percent alcohol by volume. It seems your allure is more potent than I realized. You’re only 187 ml, but at 20 proof you have nearly twice the vigor of an average beer, and almost 37 times the potency of a Coors Light! To think, I could have been getting mildly buzzed in the office all this time! Let us not waste another second.
Oh god. Oh my sweet lord, you taste terrible. My eyes are watering! I can’t breathe! I don’t want to offend you, but you taste like an expired Four Loko I drank while a dog farted in my nostrils. Is that offensive? I don’t mean to be offensive. Would it be offensive to suggest that someone should find the guy who created you and drown him? Like REALLY drown him. I mean, the guy’s been letting this go on since 1890. I think that justifies it. Your terrible existence justifies someone’s death.
I’m not trying to be rude, but my hypothetical boner is completely gone. I have no thirst, no desires, no feelings anymore. Every emotion I have is gone now that I’ve tasted you, pink moscato. I’m sorry! I know it’s rude, but it’s important to be honest. And I honestly feel like I just drank out of a vagina filled with whiskey and strawberry-flavored Pez candy. This will not happen again. Please don’t call me. I won’t call you. I’m going to talk about you to all my friends, and warn them about how terrible you are. My apologies in advance. I’m sorry, pink moscato. I don’t even feel comfortable using you to get drunk at work, and that’s saying a lot.