Warning to all innocents and those easily influenced by the ramblings of raging writers. I am about to spew from my storage bins of persona
l prejudice, based upon my own experience. It is not racial, ethnic or gender-based.
It is an abiding distaste for wine. Or really, any alcoholic beverages.
When I was a young boy, I had bronchitis all the time–something my parents referred to as “the croup.” It produced this horrible hacking cough that sounded like I had run out of mucous and was banging the back of my throat with a ball-peen hammer.
The only medication the doctor recommended for my condition was Pertussin Cough Syrup.
It tasted terrible. It gagged me. Every time my mother threatened me with a spoon, bottle in hand, I tried to wrestle it from her, spilling the contents, in hopes that the family funds were too depleted to purchase another bottle.
So you can imagine how surprised I was when I went to a party with friends, and they asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?” I had seen people drinking wine in movies, and they seemed pleased with the taste, so I agreed.
Just imagine how shocked my friends were when I started to gag on the wine, insisting it was my old nemesis cough syrup.
They comforted me, saying that some people found red wine to be a bit strong, but that I would certainly like a white wine–a Chablis.
Finally, at one party, somebody gave me orange juice with a little bit of wine and said, “Try this! It’s a spritzer!”
It was somewhat better–but still tasted like someone had left the orange juice in the sun for three days and was trying to pass it off as freshly squeezed.
Let us just say, I am not a drinker of wine, nor any kind of alcohol. I feel no self-righteousness about it; I don’t even think it makes me unique.
I just feel, if you’re going to taste something that rancid and foul, you better damn well be sick.