The other day, one of my West Coast wine buddies brought up The Wine Goddess; not in terms of her skill as a wine writer nor her eno-acumen, but regarding the size of her jahoobies—her neener nay-nays, her wopbopaloobops, or, for those of you with a more technical vocabulary, her mammatocumuluses.
They are, apparently, quite transcendently magnificent.
Although I have no objection to tit-for-tat tata-talkage among healthy, horny manchilds, in this case I had no particular reference point for said brace of bristols, and thus, was unable to weigh in my studied assessment (pun noted). So I went to The Wine Goddess web site and was somewhat nonplussed to find no simulacrum of splazoingas, no photos of flapdoodles, no pictures of pushmatahas, but instead, a veritable convenience store of Wine Goddess knick-knackery, tchotchkes, baubles—or for those of you with a more cynical vocabulary, snake oil.
And in that hallowed moment I did have an epiphany, brethren and sistren, and one that did not involve the pre-incarnate Christ, the shekinah glory, Gabriel with his flaming sword or those naked selfies of Scarlett Johansson that were immediately removed from the web but not before I could download them, praise be to my personal savior, Jesus.
No, this was instead, an apocryphal revelation as to what I have been doing wrong in my wine blog for all these years:
I Haven’t Been Maximizing My Maximus.
Case in point: Go to my website with your pockets overflowing with discretionary spending cash and what can you buy? Some old book on Paso Robles I wrote while in the throes of alcohol withdrawal. That’s it. No bracelet charms in the shape of Bacchus, no plush lush toys to dangle from your key chain, no Cracker Jack miniature of the Château at Haut Brion, no Disney yarmulkes with mouse ears and your name sewn on back.
In short, no souvenirs.
On the other hand, go to the Wine Goddess’s site, et voilà: A giant flea market where you can impulse buy all sorts of fancy-schmancy geegaws. You can order small lot wines (so-called ‘hand-tilled gems’), or you can sign up for pricey (if ‘celebrated’) seminars, buy greeting cards by the carton, gift boxes of Scharfenburger chocolate goodies and yarmulkes that not only have mouse ears, but also thick Hassidic glasses and those giant Groucho Marx noses blacklisted by the Jewish Anti-Defamation League.
Better yet, everything is emblazoned with the Wine Goddess logo, which (by the way) is Venus from the Botticelli painting and displays but a single, unmagnificent, areola-free dinglebobber which isn’t even in the right place, anatomy-wise.
But that’s marketing, baby. What I am doing on my wine blog—and let’s be honest, for the most part what I’m doing isn’t even writing about wine—is stagnating and missing opportunities.
All That Changes Now, Loyal, Long-Suffering Sycophants…
So, in the spirit of Wine Goddessery and Eno-Immortality and Supreme Beingosity, I am hereby offering the following mementos of my passage through this blogosphere, the Mecca-like pilgrimage that I shall (gratefully) make but once.
Everything, of course, is heavily stamped with my trademarked logotype, which (by the way) is proportionately correct, anatomy-wise.
Intoxicology Report Homeless Person Sign, $12.95 or two for $30: Hand-printed by yours truly to reflect your particular set (or a made-up set, which I offer at no additional charge) of unfortunate, life-altering mishaps you may (or may not) have suffered. Words are strategically misspelled to indicate that although you are trying your best in this vale of tears and sin, you’re just not bright enough to make it work. Guaranteed to elicit sympathy, pity, guffaws and generous handouts from suckers.
Intoxicology Report Prosthetic Tongue, $18,000: What do you give to the wine lover who has everything—except a tongue long enough to lap up Screaming Eagle from the glass of the poindexter standing behind you at a fancy dinner party? This.
Intoxicology Report Beekeeper’s Shower Cap, $35: Who am I? I’m the guy who finds a niche and fills it, that’s who. In this case, my target demographic are those avid hipster honey addicts involved in the growing ‘fad’ of keeping hives in the shower stall. Now you can practice the gentle art of apiculture while simultaneously maintaining proper hygiene and not worry that you will get stung anywhere other than the 90% of your body that is still exposed.
Intoxicology Report Coffin, $75,000: Move it on over, Gene Simmons—your fifteen decades of fame is up. If Kiss can offer a custom casket to the die-hard fan, why not moi? And what makes my coffin worth ‘just a few pennies more’? Simple: It’s fitted with a mechanism to prevent premature burial or allow the occupant to signal that they have been buried alive. I may not have as many fans as the Kiss Army, but at these prices, I only need one. Besides, believe you me, if you are accidentally pronounced dead when you are not quite there yet, you’ll be glad you shelled out the extra fortune.
That’s just a sample, readers. I will gladly sell you the right to comment below at a mere $1.00 per word. If you like what you see; if you ‘like where I’m going with this’, my entire line of Kustom Kassel accessories and designer useless souvenirs is available in the Intoxicology Report Fall Catalog 2014.
Best of all (valid until Labor Day), I am offering a 15% discount to any reader who sends me a picture of The Wine Goddess’s squatchie tishomingos—preferably without the Johansson censor star.
* Thanks to Steve McConnell. It’s easier than thinking…