OJ Patterson, contributor
I only fux with boxed wine. It smashes bottles 10 times out of 10 —because it’s perfect. Squishy gland of red or white divinity, inconspicuously armored in ergonomic pragmatism. The bag: an electric sheep bota; a hardcore water balloon; an inglorious douche bag. The box: cardboard.
Bottles are heavy. Bottles are frail. Bottles are for babies and foolishly optimistic castaways. Also, corks are the bridge trolls of alcoholism and the obvious child of collusion between Big Bark and the screw industry. And, if you’re still looking for the answer at the bottom of the bottle, take in this chilling fact: wine bottles are the leading cause of sodomy accidents.
If you put your ear to the mouth of a wine bottle, whether its contents are full or null, it literally beckons, “Put me in your butt.” You don’t have to answer that call… but what if you do? What if the inevitable butt chug leads to the inevitable drunken pratfall? Now you got glass in ya ass, Two Buck Chuck Palahniuk! Now you got gapes and gash from Grapes of Wrath! Whatcha gonna do? Hold your breath? Count to 10? Pray to Dionysus that the brittle neck didn’t splinter into shards? Is that blood or the Cabernet Sauvignon?
Can’t do that with boxed wine.