Me - just hanging out before a tasting
With my stoutly black, cheap plastic figure I’m not much to look at and, yes, I am a receptacle for rejected wine and backwash. And, consequentially, I’m also a bit of an inebriate. But I have feelings too.
I prevent car accidents and faux pas. I graciously offer up my belly as a place to dump that punch-in-the-face Chianti, that way-too-sweet Chardonnay, that cat-pee Russian champagne you did not care for before rinsing your mouth with water and desperately reaching for the cracker-plate. I allow for long lists of tasting notes sensibly written by clear-headed wine connoisseurs. Without me these would look more like this:
