An expat who fancies himself as a man of culture and good taste has spent more than 30 minutes inspecting various bottles of wine at a Kirchberg supermarket wine fair before choosing one simply because it was the absolute cheapest.
“It’s got a nice label, and I really like the color,” he said to himself as he put the three-euro bottle into his cart. “Château Mon Cul, sounds fancy. I didn’t even know they made wine in Thionville.”
Even the 20-year-old cashier who rang the man up immediately knew that the wine would taste like vinegar from Aldi that you might buy to clean a stubborn toilet stain.
Later, as the man was preparing dinner, he poured himself a glass, not noticing that two of his houseplants immediately died and that his cat Fluffy ran upstairs and tried to throw herself out of the second-story window.
Upon realizing that the window was closed and locked, the cat then learned how to read and write, familiarized itself with the poetry of Sylvia Plath, and then wrote several pages of verse in very poor imitation.
“It tastes a little young,” the man said, confusing the terms “young” and “piss-like.”
“Full of tannins,” he continued, misidentifying the little bits of floating extraterrestrial death as naturally occuring and of this world.
“It’s not a Bordeaux, but it’s drinkable,” he added, referring to the only wine area in the world whose name he knows.
He then poured a glass for his wife. Upon smelling the contents, the woman dropped it, rushed out the door, and immediately consulted her Facebook expat group for advice on filing for a rapid divorce.
