A cow was calmly grazing in her pasture when she was approached by a winemaker with a chainsaw and a bucket.
“I need your horns,” the winemaker said.
The cow ruminated a moment, then responded, “Go fuck yourself.” Obviously, this cow was Jersey.
The winemaker fired up the chainsaw and made to remove the cow’s horns from her head. The cow was spooked, and she immediately took a steaming dump. The winemaker turned off the chainsaw and quickly scooped the manure into his bucket. “Thanks,” he said to the cow, “I needed that for my biodynamic tea. Now hold still while I borrow your horns too.”
With that, the cow lowered her head and gored the winemaker. When he fell to the ground, she kicked him repeatedly. Then she dug a hole with her front hooves, nosed the dead winemaker into it, and buried him with his bucket of manure.
MORAL: Live by shit, die by the shit.
The Critic and the Gnat
A famous wine critic was reviewing wines, but every time he assigned points to the wines, a gnat spoke in his ear.
“Hey, Tubby, you don’t know what you’re talking about.,” the gnat said, buzzing in and out of his ear, making as much noise as an insignificant insect can make, “and assigning numbers to wine is stupid. Plus, I know you’re on the take from big corporate wineries, you have no integrity, and you like big, oaky, stupid wines that winemakers make just to please you.”
The famous wine critic ignored the gnat, mostly because he really couldn’t hear the worthless insect. He decided to score his friend the screaming raptor’s wine 99 points.
“Moron,” the gnat screamed, though the famous wine critic couldn’t hear him, “I’m going to expose you for what you are to all the other gnats. I’m going to start my own Intergnat blog and tell everyone what a phony you are, how they shouldn’t listen to you, that they should trust their own taste, or, better, they should believe me and all the other gnats on the Intergnat. Soon you’ll be as insignificant as I am.”
Glancing up from his tasting notes, the famous wine critic finally noticed the gnat. With amazing reflexes, the critic brought his two hands together and extinguished the gnat.
MORAL: Most of the annoying insects on the Intergnat will die of the clap.
The sommelier was touring wine country, searching for the Next Big Thing in grape varieties no one cares about, when he spotted a zebra standing in a field. Normally, you spot a leopard, but that’s a different fable. The sommelier wasn’t touring South Africa, Pinotage is so pre-Apartheid, so a zebra was a strange sight.
“Zebra,” the sommelier asked, “what are you doing in wine country?”
“Leave me alone,” the zebra said, “I hate sommeliers. They’re all such phonies.”
The sommelier paused, not from the insult, a sommelier is used to insults, but because this zebra had a strange accent for a zebra. He sounded like a horse. Neigh, he had to be a horse.
“You’re not a zebra! You’re just an ordinary horse painted to look like a zebra.”
“And you,” retorted the zebra, “are just a glorified waiter who’s been interested in wine for about eight years, took some stupid online wine course, bought a tastevin, and actually just locks the restaurant doors at night. I’m as much a zebra as you are a sommelier.”
The sommelier replied, “I’ve fucked nicer horses than you.”
MORAL: Zebras and sommeliers have to earn their stripes, not just pretend they’re real, because once you speak, everyone knows you’re a fake.
The Vixen and the Grapes
A vixen who was famous for her beauty made a career out of having sex with as many reynards as possible in front of a camera. Sometimes other vixens too. When she was young, it was mostly silver foxes she had sex with. As she got older, it was kits. She was the most famous tail in foxdom.
One day, while strolling around the hillsides near where she lived, she came upon a vineyard. It was September, and the vines were pornographically endowed with grapes. The vixen was aroused. She had grown tired of ignorant and musky reynards inserting themselves into her various organs. Turns out there are atheists in foxholes. She’d felt most of them. But now, in this mystical vineyard, she had found her true calling. Grapes.
The vixen had saved a lot of money from her reynard sexcapades, and the next day she bought the vineyard and vowed never to have public fox sex again.
The vixen hired the best winemaker she could find, paid him handsomely, and then used her renowned beauty and promiscuity to sell her wines. And it worked. Soon people began to write about her story. In fact, her story overshadowed the wine, which, if truth be known, was rather pedestrian. Once again, she laughed all the way to the bank.
MORAL: If you can fake orgasms, you can fake Brunello.
