Home > Alcohol, Bitching, Drinking, High School, Ohio, Stupidity > The Time I Stole a Bottle of Wine

The Time I Stole a Bottle of Wine

November 16, 2011 Leave a comment Go to comments

No, I didn’t steal from an actual store. I believe this was the summer after high school graduation, before all my friends dispersed across the country to go to college.

Some friends and I somehow found ourselves at one of those high school parties where the parents are trying way too hard to be cool. The parents at this house had provided booze and fireworks – a winning combination. After a relatively uneventful evening, we decided to leave before some drunk kid blew his fingers off while trying to light a Roman Candle. But before we left, I for some reason grabbed a full bottle of wine as a parting gift.

It wasn’t meant to be a party favor, but it was just sitting, unopened, on a sticky ping-pong table that had been used for beer pong. I thought it looked sad and deserved a good home. Preferably in my stomach.

But we had a long walk home along dark suburban streets, and I was worried about a passing car seeing the wine and snatching it away from me. The possibility was very remote, but I decided to call tuck the bottle under my shirt, calling it “My Bambino” in my buzzed state. I cradled my bambino close to me, rocking it like an actual child.

When we finally got to my friend’s house, we headed to the basement, and I brought out my treasure. Yellow Tail Chardonnay glinted merrily in the light, looking for all the world like someone had just pissed in a bottle and stuck a cork in it. The smell wasn’t much better, but cups were gathered and the wine was poured. We grimaced with each sip, and soon all my friends had put their glasses aside. Even free wine wasn’t worth suffering through this.

But I couldn’t stand to see my bambino lonely and rejected. I decided to bring him to my bosom and finish him myself, even if it took me half the night. My friends dropped off to sleep one by one, while I sucked down the Yellow Tail through gritted teeth. I started plowing my way through an entire box of Triscuits in an effort to clear my mouth of the bitter taste. Eventually too drunk to pour straight, I figured enough was enough, and I passed out in a sleeping bag.

But an hour later, I was up and vomiting Triscuits and Chardonnay. The two had mixed in my stomach to create a swill that looked just like yellow baby food, but smelled like death and sadness. After a good 30 minutes of retching, I collapsed back onto the floor to doze away the rest of the night.

I refuse to drink Yellow Tail to this day.

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