Wine is by far the best party drink. Forget your 4lokos and your (now plastic) bottles of mickeys those are for frat boys and teenage girls, respectively. You want a man’s drink better come prepared with a corkscrew and a muscly arm because no spindly little twig arm is getting to that sweet sweet merlot.
Now imagine this you’re at a party, your bro’s hitting it off with a 9, you walk over to give him a cheers. You’re long thick glass bottle taps against his puny tin can, and even though those mountains are bluer than the mediterranean on a clear day, you catch her eying your thick long bottle of sauvignon blanc. She bites her lip but you don’t notice because your enjoying that translucent yellow liquid splashing against the back of your throat.
You walk away so as not to put a damper on your bro’s game, even though it would be no contest. You find a group of buds and push your way into the circle. They’re all clutching frosty cans except one, he “forgot” to get beer again. He’s been trying to bum a brew from the other responsible party goers. Your eyes lock, you know whats coming so you put your mouth around the mouth of your big bottle of cabernet sauvignon and take long slobbery draught. You catch his eye again, he looks away.
That conversation went stale, much like the taste Natty Ice. So you turn around try and find that gorgeous pair of legs and breasts that intimidated you half a bottle of syrah ago. Now, however, your cheeks are ruddied and your step is wobbled and you got balls as big as John Cena’s and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson’s put together. There she is right over there, by herself, you can fix that. So you swig a mouthful of chardonnay move toward her.
But what’s this? Some pussy steps up first and in his hand he’s clutching a plastic baby bottle of Steel Reserve. Pah, he’s some kind of bitch, so you step between them and start laying down that vagina moistening game harder than you thought you could. That guy taps your shoulder and starts swinging, sayin that’s his girl, but you’re a classy motherfucker so you tell him you can’t own a girl, and that she has the free will to choose whoever she wants to rail her. He brings that bottle of Steel Reserve down on your head, but the plastic crumples and bounces off with hardly a tickle. You ain’t mad but he mussed your hair so this loser’s got to learn a lesson. You cork your thick glass bottle of zinfandel swing it hard into his ear. He goes down, she draws closer and tells you to take her to your house.
Now you’re getting laid and that malt liquor drinking barbarian is lying on the grass with cauliflower growing out the side of his head. You wanna know why, because you’re that classy motherfucker who brought wine to a party.