The New Wine Fairy Tales: The Magic Sommelier

Once there was a poor farmer whose only luck in life was that he had three lovely daughters. None of the three looked the least bit like him, which was probably for the best. One daughter had beautiful blonde hair like spun gold, one had raven tresses and almond shaped eyes, while the third daughter was fair-skinned, with hair the color of iron-rich soil. The poor farmer never gave a second thought to how little his daughters looked like him. The poor farmer’s wife had told him that each girl had been conceived under a magic spell from the evil wizard, Viagra. “Just another hard luck story,” the poor farmer’s wife said, “the emphasis on ‘luck’ and ‘hard.’” The poor farmer loved each of his daughters very much.

One day the poor farmer was plowing his field when his plow struck something hard and metallic under the soil.

“What the fuck was that?” said the poor farmer’s draft horse, an emaciated Clydesdale named Pferdie. The “P” was silent, like in sand.

The poor farmer bent down to look, and, there, just barely glinting in the morning sunlight, he could see something made of silver. Using his hands to uncover the buried object, the poor farmer finally revealed a silver tastevin, which he held up for his draft horse to see.

“Oh, Pferdie, it’s just a piece of crap. Shiny, but basically useless. Looks like a diaphragm for Lettie Teague.” What kind of poor fucking farmer reads WSJ? Pretty much every kind.

Before the poor farmer cast the tastevin aside, he couldn’t resist taking out his handkerchief and giving it a quick polish. The poor farmer rubbed and rubbed the tastevin. Before long, after only a handful of strokes, right there in the middle of his barren field, a Magic Sommelier appeared.

“Yikes,” the poor farmer exclaimed, “where did you come from?”

“You summoned me,” the Magic Sommelier said. “I’m a Magic Sommelier. You know how we sommeliers love strokes. We live for strokes. What can I do for you?”

The poor farmer and Pferdie were dumbfounded. What was a sommelier doing in their field? Sure, the poor farmer had walked behind Pferdie for many years plowing his field, so the Magic Sommelier wasn’t the first horse’s ass he’d seen. Yet it was still rather an odd start to the day.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Magic Sommelier. I don’t think there’s anything you can do for me.”

“I have the power, poor farmer, to grant you three wishes. But I warn you, you summoned a sommelier, you should be careful what you wish for.”

The poor farmer immediately thought about his three beautiful and beloved daughters. Maybe a wish for each would be the answer. But as much as he loved his girls, the poor farmer had no idea what to wish for them. Did they want money, or fame, or eternal youth? The poor farmer certainly didn’t want to make a mistake with his three wishes. What if he wished the wrong things for his daughters? What would his wife say? No matter, he didn’t have to worry about her, his wife had said she’d be gone all day under the spell of the evil Viagra, which, she often said, felt like riding Pferdie up a mountain wearing only G-strings for her boobs. Thongs For the Mammaries.

“Hey, poor farmer,” the Magic Sommelier said, “I’ve got other tables. You want the three wishes, or not?”

“Yes,” the poor farmer said, “I do. But I don’t know what to wish for. I have three beautiful daughters, and I want to give them each one wish. Oh, Magic Sommelier, why don’t you choose the wishes for me? That’s what you do, right?”

“Very wise of you, poor farmer. I will pick the perfect wish to go with each of your lovely daughters. But first, of course, I must taste them. Only then will I be able to find the perfect complement for them. It’s how we roll.”

The poor farmer led the Magic Sommelier to his humble cottage, where his three gorgeous daughters were waiting. They’d never seen a Magic Sommelier before.

“What’s that weird thing your neck is holding up,” asked the blonde daughter.

“That’s called a tastevin.”

“No, I know what a tastevin is,” said the blonde, “I meant your face.”

“OK, girls,” the poor farmer said, “you are each to be granted one wish by this Magic Sommelier, but first he must taste each of you. Yeah, I know, creepy, but that’s how he rolls.”

The Magic Sommelier took the gorgeous blonde’s hand and led her into the poor farmer’s bedroom. It didn’t take long, he might be magic, but he’s still a sommelier, before the blonde daughter emerged from the poor farmer’s bedroom, a look of utter dismay on her beautiful face. “What a jackass,” she said. “He asked me if I had a twin sister. He said the best way to taste is to taste double-blonde.”

Next, the poor farmer sent in his raven-haired daughter to be tasted by the Magic Sommelier. She was in the poor farmer’s bedroom for quite a bit longer than her blonde sister. The rest of her family was getting nervous about the time it was taking. But then the sexy raven-haired daughter emerged from the bedroom. She looked satisfied, but her face was covered in mysterious markings. “I think he’s kind of weird,” she said. “He went back for several tastes, and then decorated my face. I’d better get a damned good wish.”

Finally, the radiant redhead daughter entered the poor farmer’s bedroom. She was in there a long time. Funny noises were heard, and the poor farmer feared the presence of the evil Viagra. But he, and his daughters, waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt for fear of breaking the spell and losing the three wishes. When the voluptuous redhead daughter emerged from the poor farmer’s bedroom, she was one hot mess. “I got a lot more than tasted,” the redhead said. “He also probed me with his Magic Meat Thief. Though, really, I was disappointed. More of a Magic Meat Eye-Dropper.”

Before long the Magic Sommelier appeared. He brushed himself off, wiped his face, and started for the door of the cottage.

“Where are you going?” said the poor farmer’s family, all at once. “What about our wishes?”

The Magic Sommelier turned to them with a look of disgust on his face.

“When you summon a Magic Sommelier,” he said, “there are three things you usually expect. Like your blonde daughter, you expect that I will push for a second when you’re not even done with the first. Like your raven-haired daughter, you expect huge mark-ups. And, third, like your redheaded daughter, you expect to get fucked.

“All of what you expected came true. Your three subliminal wishes have been granted.”

With that, the Magic Sommelier vanished. That’s how they roll.

The New Wine Fairy Tales: The Apple Farmer and the Talking Owl

Once there was an apple farmer who was very poor. He worked very long hours tending to his orchards, and his apples were of the finest quality. But every year the prices for apples kept falling. Apples from far off lands were much cheaper, and the apple farmer couldn’t compete. The apple farmer’s wife was very unhappy. The couple was poor and nearly starving.

“I’m sick of eating apples,” she told her husband. “Applesauce for breakfast, apple strudel for lunch, apple pie for dinner, all served with apple cider. You know what apple cider is? Mouthwash for pigs.”

One day the apple farmer was out pruning his orchards. He was pruning one of his apple trees when the tree suddenly said, “Hey, fucker, that hurt!”

The apple farmer was astonished, and nearly fell off his ladder. He’d never had a tree talk to him before, only bark. Get it? Yes, even apple farmers have stupid occupational jokes.

“Apple trees can’t talk,” the apple farmer said, despite evidence to the contrary.

“Oh, we can talk alright, dipshit,” the apple tree said, “we just choose not to. We’re not chatty like stinkin’ cherry trees. Cherry trees won’t ever shut the fuck up. We only talk when we have to.”

Then the whole orchard started talking to the apple farmer. It had been many years since the apple trees had spoken, and now they wouldn’t stop talking. And it was the kind of talk that would drive anyone batshit crazy, just random noise. It was like being on the set of “The View.” Bad enough, the apple farmer thought, that I’m going broke taking care of these apple trees, now I have to listen to their stupid conversations all day.

“That’s it!” the apple farmer shouted. “I’ve had it! Tomorrow, I’m chopping down every last one of you. I’m done with apples!” And with that, the apple farmer marched back to his cottage.

“Nice going, asshole,” the apple trees said to the first apple tree that had spoken, “now what are we going to do?”

“Well,” the first apple tree said, “Don’t axe me.”

The apple farmer stormed home and told his wife about his plans to chop down the orchard. “I’ll sell the wood to the local pork smoker, and I’ll use the money to plant a new crop, a crop of something worth some actual money. Though I don’t know what that is yet. Maybe marijuana. That shit talks to you and you just don’t care.”

That night the apple farmer couldn’t sleep. He was determined to take out his orchard, but he didn’t know what to plant in its place. He decided to go for a walk, clear his head with some cold night air, and look to the stars for some guidance.

The apple farmer hadn’t gone very far when an owl landed on a branch just over his head and spoke to him.

“What’s the trouble?” the owl asked. “Shouldn’t you be home in bed with your wife? OK, I’ve seen your wife. Your wife is so ugly, when the dogs in the animal shelter see her, they volunteer to be spayed or neutered.”

“Oh, Owl, I don’t know what to do. I’m going to tear out my apple orchard and plant another crop, but I don’t know what to plant that will make money.”

The owl thought for a minute, and then he said, “Why don’t you plant grapes for wine? Everybody likes wine. And nobody from far-off lands can grow wine grapes like you can grow wine grapes here, so you won’t have any competition.”

“That makes sense, Owl,” the apple farmer said, “you’re very wise.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” the owl said, “that old chestnut. Just stand there a minute while I crap on your head.”

Soon after his meeting with the talking owl, the apple farmer tore out his apple orchard with the help of his wife and many of his neighbors. As quickly as he could, the apple farmer put in a vineyard. Way before the county where he lived could complain that he’d never filed an Environmental Impact Report. He’d received more sound advice about that from the talking owl. “Fuck them,” the owl said. It was a very special vineyard, intended to make the finest wine grapes. Almost 2500 plants were planted to the acre. Oh, shit, I forgot. Almost 6250 plants were planted to the hectare. Fairy tales are on the metric system. Duh. The vines were tighter than a Tokyo subway car at rush hour. Why this makes better fruit, no one knows. But it cost the apple farmer all of his savings.

The apple farmer’s wife was not happy. “Are you crazy?” she asked her husband. “The wine business is worse than the apple business. At least you don’t have to talk to the people who buy the apples. Have you ever MET any winemakers?”

Yet the vineyard thrived, and the apple farmer’s grapes were soon in big demand. He added more and more vineyards, meticulously farmed them, and sold the fruit for premium prices. Soon the apple farmer and his wife were living in a big house on the property. The apple farmer wasn’t home much. After his vineyard became famous, the apple farmer had started making his own wine. Wine the apple farmer spent a lot of time trying to sell in the marketplace, to little avail. But the apple farmer was happy. And since he was never home, the apple farmer’s wife was happy too.

One day, after a long trip trying to sell his own wine, the apple farmer returned home to a quiet house. Tired from his trip, the apple farmer climbed the stairs to his bedroom. He was about to open the bedroom door when he heard a familiar voice.

“Don’t worry about me, Baby, I’m always up all night.”

The apple farmer recognized the talking owl’s voice. He burst into the bedroom. The talking owl was making love to the apple farmer’s wife. And she was obviously enjoying it. “Wow,” she said, “you are a great horned owl. Do that thing with your eyelashes again.”

The apple farmer lunged for the talking owl, but the owl was quick, and flew out the bedroom window. “She’s ugly,” he said, “but a talking owl can’t be that fucking picky.”

A few months later, the apple farmer and his wife were divorced. The vineyard had to be sold in the divorce settlement. And sold at a loss, to a wine company that specialized in buying vineyards with money problems caused by divorce.

“I’m a damned good predator,” the talking owl said, “but those guys make me look like a pussy.”

The New Wine Fairy Tales: The Hound and the Magic Squirrel

Once there was a blind man who loved wine more than anything in his dark and lonely world. All day and all night he dreamed about wines from the far corners of the world. Wine was all the blind man would talk about, which would explain why he was so lonely.

“Will you shut the fuck up about wine?” his faithful guide dog would say. He wasn’t just any guide dog, he was an enchanted guide dog, and was very knowledgeable about wine. The guide dog would have been an M.W., but during the service exam he ate his own poop. With white wine.

“No,” the blind man said, “I will not shut up about wine! Wine is all I love in this miserable world. Now get your leash and take me to the wine auction!”

Every month the richest men in the realm auctioned off the rarest and most famous wines from their collections, rare and famous wine they had purchased a few years previous from other rich men in the realm. The precious and magic bottles had changed hands many times, for most of the richest men had no intention of drinking such rare and famous wines. The wines were for trading, like their much younger wives. Rich men need expensive hobbies. Most preferred wine as a hobby to women, because locking a wife in a cellar to collect dust was considered poor taste, plus, wine actually gets better with age.

The enchanted guide dog walked his blind master to the wine auction, where, at first, the blind man who loved wine wasn’t allowed to enter. The security guard questioned the blind man’s money and credentials.

“Have you seen my master’s wine cellar?” the enchanted guide dog inquired of the security guard.

“Can’t say as I have,” said the security guard.

“Well, neither has he!” quipped the enchanted guide dog, and with that, the two were permitted on the auction floor. No one can resist a funny dog. They’re so enchanting.

Many very rare and famous wines were being auctioned that day. The blind man wanted all of them, but was outbid by a different rich man on every lot. “Why can’t I be rich?” the blind man lamented. “I’d give anything if I just had enough money to buy all the rare and famous wines in the world!”

Downcast, the blind man was led from the auction by his faithful guide dog. When they were almost home, a squirrel jumped onto the path in front of the blind man, and the faithful guide dog, unable to control his instincts, sprinted after the squirrel, dragging his master several yards before the blind man released the leash and stumbled face first into a tree.

“Oh, shit,” said the enchanted dog, gripping the squirrel between his teeth, “I am so screwed.”

“You’re screwed?!” said the squirrel, “I’m the one who’s a furburger.”

The talking squirrel startled the enchanted dog, who’d never met a talking squirrel that didn’t hang around with a moose. “Hey,” the dog said, “You can talk!”

“Yes, I can talk,” chirped the squirrel, “I’m a magic squirrel. I was just out for a June Foray, and I get caught by a fucking guide dog. My life sucks rodent dick. But if you release me, I’ll grant you a wish.”

The enchanted wine connoisseur dog immediately realized that he could get out of the doghouse with his blind master with one wish. “OK, magic squirrel, I’ll release you if you fill my blind master’s wine cellar with all the rarest and greatest bottles of wine in the world. So no New Zealand wines, OK?”

“It’s already done,” the magic squirrel said, and, having been released by the enchanted dog, he scurried up the nearest tree. “But I took his nuts as payment.”

“All three?” said the enchanted, and funny, guide dog.

When the blind man arrived home, a bit bruised and now a soprano, his enchanted dog immediately took him down to the wine cellar. “Look, Master, the magic squirrel was telling the truth! Your wine cellar is enormous! Every great and rare wine in the world seems to be here. There’s a complete vertical of Chateau Margaux! Cases of each year! And Henri Jayer Burgundies! And Vega Sicilia! Is that Sassicaia? What’s that crap doing in here? Fucking squirrel.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to start tasting them!” the blind man exclaimed. “Fetch me a corkscrew!”

For the rest of the day, and every day that week, the blind man and his faithful dog opened the rarest and most famous wines in the world and drank them. The blind man had never been happier. He owned the greatest wines in the world, his wine cellar was the finest in all the land, he was finally Somebody. Even a blind man can see that wine is a measure of prestige and power and sexual potency. If you had nuts, that is. But your friends, and other wine collectors, didn’t know you were emasculated. Except, maybe, for how much you talked about your fucking wine all the time.

“I’ll never get tired of this!” the blind man proclaimed. “I love wine, and I love these great wines from great producers, rare and unobtainable. It’s like having sex with every Playmate of the Month! If I could see their gigantic boobs, and that magic squirrel hadn’t cached my nuts somewhere.”

But the enchanted dog wondered. Did the blind man really love wine, or just the idea of wine? One day he decided to play a trick on the blind man.

“Let’s try this old and rare Burgundy,” the dog said.

“Which one?” the blind man said.

“Guess,” the enchanted dog said, and opened a bottle of old Côtes du Rhône instead, pouring the blind man a healthy glass.

“Amazing! It’s almost like I can see the vineyard where the wine comes from. Let me see, it must be somebody's Gevrey-Chambertin! Probably a '35, or maybe older! It’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. Oh, thank you, faithful guide dog, for making me the happiest and most important man alive with this glorious wine cellar!”

From that day on, the enchanted dog poured his master swill and told him it was a rare and famous wine. The blind man was happy, which pleased the dog, and, meanwhile, the enchanted dog schemed to take the actual wines and sell them. That faithful thing only went so far.

One day while the blind man was asleep, the enchanted dog had a wine expert come look at the wine cellar to give him an estimate of the wines’ worth. After a careful inspection, the expert told the dog, “80% of these are fake.”

“Fake!” the enchanted dog howled. “Fake? What do you mean, fake?”

“These aren’t even clever forgeries. Where did you get them?”

“That fucking little squirrel. I’ll kill him!” And the enchanted dog rushed outside, where the squirrel was hiding up in a tree, laughing, and hurling rich guys’ nuts at the dog.

“Hey, magic squirrel, you screwed me and my blind master! Come down out of that tree.”

“I didn’t screw you or your blind master, you ignorant BurgHound. I gave you what you wanted. His cellar is full of rare and famous wine bottles. What’s in them, well, that’s your problem. Your blind wine connoisseur isn’t the first one this magic squirrel has fleeced. And I’ve got the balls to prove it.”

The enchanted dog, derisively called a BurgHound by a goddam little squirrel he gave life to, gave up on his dream of riches and went home, tail between his legs, to his blind master. Who spent the rest of his life happily drinking fake wines, never knowing the difference.

The magic squirrel is serving 25 years in a nuthouse.

The New Wine Fairy Tales: The Prince and the Raven

Once there was a prince of a very large kingdom near the sea who had accumulated a wealth so vast it took

ten men to add it up every day. Everything the prince touched turned to money. But though the prince was rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, he was unhappy. On the rare occasion he might stroll among the peasants in his kingdom, rare because the peasants would often inconvenience the prince by asking for food and affordable health care, the prince was certain that even the peasants were happier than he.

After great thought, the prince decided that he was unhappy because he didn’t have any children. The prince had spent so much time building his great fortune he had never taken a wife. Now he wanted children, children to share his great wealth and carry on his princely legacy. So the prince summoned twelve young women to his castle and set out to impregnate them all.

“I could get used to this,” the prince thought.

But a month later, not one of the twelve young women was pregnant. This seemed impossible to the prince. The prince began to believe that a curse had been put on him. Though banging twelve young women all the time was hardly the worst curse he could think of. Being a wealthy prince of a very large kingdom near the sea had its privileges. Yet, still, he was miserable.

One day when the prince was counting his gold, a raven flew in his window and spoke to him.

“You will never have children,” the raven said, “until you own your own winery.”

“Oh, crap,” the prince replied, “I don’t want kids that bad.”

“There is a curse attached to your great riches,” the raven told him. “To remove the curse, you must choose between three wineries to own. If you choose the wrong winery, your wealth will disappear and you will spend the rest of your days alone. If you choose the magic winery, your days will be marked by the envy of your peers and the laughter of your children.”

“Do I get to keep the women?”

“Rich asshole,” remarked the raven. And he flew away.

That night while he slept, the prince was shown three wineries.

The first winery was a humble estate in the mountains, with a ramshackle old building where the wines were made, but beautiful and impeccably farmed vineyards. The prince couldn’t see himself owning this property. There really wasn’t room for him to erect a magnificent chateau as a shrine to himself, and what good was a winery like that? And the vineyards were planted to Syrah. “Really?,” thought the sleeping prince, “Syrah? That will most certainly make my wealth disappear faster than Viagra at a Wineberserkers reunion.”

When the second winery appeared to the prince in his dreams, the prince thought it was breathtaking, though the sound of the waterfall made him wet the bed. There were acres and acres--wait, this is a fairy tale, right, so--there were hectares and hectares of meticulously manicured vineyards. Fairy tales use the metric system. The winery itself was state of the art, and there was a lovely home on the property, a home, that with a little tinkering, might be fit for a prince. “Wow,” the prince thought, “I knew I should have used the rubber sheets.” The second winery was almost perfect. Until the prince noticed a billboard on the road nearby. The billboard read, “Now entering the Commonwealth of Virginia. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

“Virginia?,” thought the sleeping prince, “oh, hell, no. Having Viognier as your signature grape is like having bad breath as your best feature. No matter how beautiful it is, a winery in Virginia is definitely out of the question. I mean, first of all, Donald Trump has a winery in Virginia, so it has to suck.”

The prince’s dream moved to the third winery. It was magnificent. Perched above a famous valley in a golden kingdom, one of the most famous places in the realm to make wine, it was next door to very famous wineries owned by very famous men. “This must be the right choice,” the sleeping prince thought, “there’s even a hillside where I can dig the most amazing cave in the wine world, alit with chandeliers, ten stories high, and sporting a grand wine library with a hot wine librarian. And I’ll build the grandest home on the property at the very highest point so that everyone can admire my wealth and taste, if I only knew where to buy taste. The winery will be spotless, so clean you can eat off the Mexicans. Oh, this is perfect! My name will be on the label, and only the richest wine connoisseurs will be able to buy my wine, and, for once, I’ll be taking money from rich people instead of peasants. I’ll buy this winery.”

And so he did. Soon all twelve of his young women were expecting children. The prince built his perfect new winery above the blessed wine valley in the golden kingdom. It was strange, the prince thought, that so many other people had been given the same curse. Everywhere in the blessed wine valley rich princes were building magnificent shrines, each one needing to be grander than all that preceded. The prince couldn’t skimp. He planted one hundred hectares of vineyards, tightly spaced, built a winery that would last for all eternity, a castle on top of the hill that towered over his wealthy neighbors. His children grew, his wines were released, and, finally the prince felt he might soon be happy.

But the twelve young women grew angry at the prince, and all twelve left him when their children were teenagers, and all twelve got very large child support payments. The prince was soon alone in his gigantic mansion at the top of the hill overlooking the blessed wine valley. And the wines weren’t selling. The prince had to pretend every vintage that his wines had sold out, that his mailing list was full, but his wine library was overflowing with every vintage he’d produced. And his wine librarian wouldn’t let him play “Hide the Meat Thief” with her anymore, she was so tired. No one wanted him, or his overpriced wines. His vast fortune was dwindling, his children had brought him nothing but heartache, and it was beginning to look like banging twelve young women at a time wasn’t such a good idea after all. Who did he think he was? Shaquille fucking O’Neal?

Broke and destitute, he sat outside the winery, the winery he had just sold to a rich real estate prince who prayed upon cash-strapped rich guys with wineries who got divorced twelve times and couldn’t pay their bills. Up in a nearby tree, he heard the raven laughing.

“Oh, Raven,” the prince cried, “what has happened to me? Did I pick the wrong winery to buy?”

“No,” the raven replied, “there was no right winery, you formerly rich butthole. Any winery you bought was going to fail. Welcome to the wine business, genius! I hope you learned your lesson.”

“But you said the curse would be removed,” the prince wailed, “you said I’d be the envy of my peers and I’d hear the laughter of my children.”

“And so it is,” said the raven. “Your peers envy you that you’re out of the wine business, and your children are most certainly laughing at you.”

The prince, in his anger, hurled a rock at the raven, which, caught unaware, took the rock to the head and fell to the ground dead. The prince was finally happy.

The New Wine Fairy Tales: The Talking Fish

                                                                   The Talking Fish

Once there was a young boy who lived in an enchanted valley in the far north of a golden state. One day the young boy was walking along the river when he heard a voice. There wasn’t another person around, and the young boy wasn’t prone to hearing voices in his head, not like his cousin who had pierced his body with several hundred toothpicks and claimed to be a magic washboard. The voice was asking for help.

“Help,” the voice said, in a tone that registered as fishlike. Not baritone, but bass.

The young boy walked in the direction of the river, towards the voice, and came upon a fish stuck between some rocks. “You must be a pretty stupid fish,” the young boy said, “to get stuck between rocks.”

“Fuck you,” the fish said. “If you help me out from between these rocks, I’ll give you a magic power.” The young boy was impressed at the fish’s command of the language, and he stepped into the river and kicked the talking fish until it was freed.

“Cod-dammit,” the fish said. “You could have been a little gentler, asshole. But you’ve freed me, as I asked, and so I will grant you a magic power.”

“Do I get to pick my magic power?” the young boy asked. “Because if I do, I pick being able to lick my nuts like a dog does.”

“No, moron,” the talking fish said, “the magic power you now have is that you are a Super Taster!”

“oh.” the young boy said.

“What?!” the fish said, “that’s not good enough for you?”

“Can I taste my nuts?” the downcast young boy inquired.

The talking fish paused for a moment, and then said, “Listen, son, manta man, I think I’m wasting this magic power on a dumbshit like you. But a deal is a deal.” And with that, the talking fish swam away.

Now it happened that the enchanted valley where the young boy lived was the most famous place in the world for wine. The enchanted valley was covered in vineyards, and people came from all over the world to taste the wines. Almost everyone who lived in the enchanted valley was a winemaker. Of course, this stood to reason, because no one can stand to be around a lot of winemakers except another winemaker.

Being a Super Taster was amazing, the young boy thought, but not really very much fun. It was kind of a stupid magic power. He could taste things that nobody else could taste, but that didn’t get him laid. And, really, the young boy thought, what’s the good of having a magic power if it doesn’t get you lots of strange. One of his friends had a magic power. He had twelve inches of tongue. He got lots of strange, and a recording contract. That was a real magic power.

One day the young boy stopped at a nearby winery to talk to a winemaker he knew. The winemaker handed the young boy a glass of his newest release of Cabernet Sauvignon, even though he knew the boy to be dumber than an awards show.

“Wow,” the young boy said, “I’ve never had a wine like this. I can taste blackberries that a bear slobbered on, green olive from a Leccino olive tree, sweet Santa Rosa plum, vanillin from a lightly toasted Francois Freres oak barrel from a tree once hit by lightning, your wife’s lipstick, a whisper of your neighbor’s happy spurt, a #2 lead pencil with an eraser nearly gone, Kenyan coffee slightly overroasted, and cassis. And,” the young boy said, thinking of his friend the talking fish, “on a scale of 100, I’d give it 96.”

The winemaker was floored. He made the young boy write his description on a piece of paper and he took it to the local wine merchant. The wine merchant posted the description in his store, and the winemaker’s wine sold out in one day.

Soon every winemaker wanted the young boy dumber than a roomful of ball bearings to taste their wines and write about them. The young boy started to ask for money for his words. “Oh,” the winemakers said, “we can’t do that. That would make you look like a dishonest young boy. Charge the wine merchant!”

“No,” the wine merchant said, “I can’t pay you for your super taste. Make the people who buy the wine from me pay!” And so he did.

Soon the young boy was tasting hundreds and hundreds of wine every day and writing long and detailed descriptions of what he tasted. He tasted dozens of flavors in every wine. His descriptions baffled the people who buy wine, for no one could taste all the flavors the young boy could taste. And, for the most part, the people who buy wine didn’t even want to taste the weird shit he tasted in the wines. They gave up reading his words. It was the scale they loved anyway. The people who buy wine didn’t even care a little bit about all the descriptions he wrote, about his magic power, they only read the numbers. In the back of his head, the young boy, as he assigned the numbers to the hundreds and hundreds of wines he tasted, could hear his old friend the talking fish speaking his words of wisdom.

“Fuck you.”

The young boy knew he had been right. Super Taster was a stupid magic power. He was wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, famous and powerful in the enchanted valley in the golden state. But now people made fun of his words, and insulted his magic scale. The young boy, now not so young any more, yearned for the days before he’d stumbled upon the talking fish stuck between two rocks, for the days when he could just enjoy the enchanted valley and all the winemakers who lived there. Well, maybe not the winemakers.

One day when the young boy was very old, he was walking near the river again when he heard the voice of his old piscine friend. Could the talking fish still be alive? The young boy, now old, hurried to the river. And, there, waiting for him, was the talking fish.

“Talking fish! How are you? I’m so glad to see you.”

“Who the fuck are you?” the fish said.

“You don’t remember me? Forty years ago I rescued you when you were stuck between two rocks and you gave me the magic power of being a Super Taster.”

“Idiot,” the talking fish explained. “I didn’t give you any magic fucking power. I just said that so you’d help me.”

“You mean I’ve never been a super taster?”

“Hell, no. Man, you’re dumber than a school of anchovies. There’s no such thing as a super taster. Who the hell thought you were a super taster? Douchebags. You’re no different than anybody else.”

Soon after, the young boy died.