What is it about the great Northwest? Everyone who visits here falls in love with the sea-to-ski scenery, the “livability” of the area, and the accessibility to fresh ingredients. This, of course, has brought on congestion and increased home prices from the influx of non-natives and the inevitable dilution of liberal politics that once led the nation with progressive ideas. But, that’s not the whole truth. We conveniently sidestep the facts that this area is a last bastion for the truly creepy, and I’m not just talking about a 43 year-old wine blogger stalking at twenty-something wine events. For instance, we own the macabre category as leaders of harboring the steeliest of serial killers. Oh sure, San Francisco has the Zodiac Killer. New York had the Son of Sam. But, they’re bush league loners compared to our homegrown cluster-killers in: the Green River Killer (49 murders and counting), Ted Bundy (22 known out of an estimated 50), the Port Coquitlam pig farmer (15 of 63 confirmed), Robert Lee Yates (15 of 30), and an assist to Lee Boyd Malvo and John Muhammad who gunned down ten in the other “Washington” but honed their talent in Tacoma.
But, let’s not limit ourselves to the vagaries of the human condition. Our region also appears to be a haven to misfit, antiquated, and largely forgotten microbials and their accompanying epidemics. Despite readily available vaccines, whooping cough has flourished with over 2000 cases reported this year in Washington. Not to outdone, Orygun is the newly adopted breeding ground for a version of Europe’s most infamous epidemic—plague. Back here in western Washington, we can’t seem to let go of hantavirus, listeriosis, E. coli O157:H7 (the “Jack In The Box” disease), and that prostitution classic, syphilis. Speaking of STDs, we should notably add scabby wine bloggers to this varmint population. Sean and Paul would be honored if you mentioned it to them.
Speaking of the Sulligutts, let’s name this… the fart issue.
Does this happen to you? Every Sunday before I replace the kitty litter lining, I make sure the quality of the newsprint is down for the task by making sure there’s a wine column. After reading the bullshit nonsense and “recommended” wines, I heave a blustery bomb of brown thunder that could be heard all the way to Waitsburg.
I checked with my physio-sociologist and she stated that through all the federal studies on understanding the origins on the humor of hydrogen honks, scientists have failed to reveal why we find humor when in the vicinity of anal vapor. However, she promptly tooted a list of eleven categories of farts… (1) the PMF (pull my finger)—this is the classic laughing gas as many a gullible child or girlfriend has been the victim of tugging on my index finger; (2) the Machine Gun—a rapid fire AK-47 of fecal heaven caused by high-humidity gas bubbles hidden in numerous folds of a forthcoming turd with the record longest-timed-in-a-tasting-room belonging to my homey, Mark; (3) the SBD (silent but deadly)—a ninja’s foul fume that arrives without warning, leaving a deadly wake of panic and destruction. Tradtionally, the one who laid it weakly blames the dog for the noxious nose death; (4) the Shock Wave—this is normally reserved for the demure woman who lets the pressure buildup during cocktail hour only to run to the ladies room during intermezzo, resulting in one looooong release of magnanimous power. The extended subsonic wave has been reported to cause broken mirrors and cracked marble thrones; (5) the Trumpet—for the artists in your circle, this is a series of pronounced farts that vary in pitch and tone that, with practice and proper diet, can reproduce simple musical compositions such as “We Are The Champions;” (6) the BWO (big wet one), aka the Redneck Special, as the perpetrator tends to care less about the consequences of pushing the puffdoozer so forcefully that precipitate often accompanies the distinct wet sound. There’s nothing that can empty a room (or fill your pants) quicker than a BWO; (7) the Carbonator—a favorite of the hot tubbers while sipping on cheap champagne; (8) the Blowtorch—for the science guy who likes to impress at a party. This is his way of starting a social conversation by lighting a limited-edition Zippo next to his exhaust pipe as he’s about let ‘er rip, igniting his man-made methane; (9) the Oopsie-Daisy—famously applied by pretentious hipsters at work when they think no one is looking only to find popping heads out of the nearby cubicles glaring back at them; (10) the Amplified Commode Blow—this is the trait of those who spend their entire break time on the marble throne. The product of time and acoustics, the mother of this fart receives both instant gratification and a hulkish sound that reverberates five times as loud as the leading brand; and (11) the Beer Fart—aka the Cerveza Niebla for my fellow homeys, due to its carbonation and other effects on the digestive tract, beer is one of the top fart-making foods found in nature. Sure, beans may have its own designation as “the musical fruit,” but no one goes to a cantina to order a glass of kidney or black.
The next time you speak with your sphincters, be creative and use the following street synonyms: 1-man salute, 7.4 on the Richter scale, after dinner mint, air bagel, anal anthem, anal oxide, backdoor breeze, baking brownies, barking spiders, blampf, blat, brown horn brass choir, brown speckled mallard, butt bleat, can o’ cheddar, cheek flapper, crop dusting (a favorite of the cube farms), death breath, float an air biscuit, floof, fowl howl, ghost turd, hailing emperor crush, insane methane, jockey burner, low tide, meat loaf, mud duck, odorama, one cheek bench sneak, one gun salute, one man jazz band, morning breeze, padonkadonk pistol, paint stainer, panty burp, party in your pants, playing the trouser tuba, pop tarts, scud incoming, shopping at Wal-Fart, smelly jelly, sphincter song, squeeze cheese, tail wind, taint ripper, the dog did it, the toothless one speaks, thunder from down under, thunderspray, tiptoeing through the toot-lips, who let the dogs out, or your voice has changed but your breath is still the same.
Milbrandt Vineyards. The Estates. Buy at Costco. Nuff said.
Food pairing was USDA Prime ribeye and dark chocolate-covered raisins. Harmonious.
Tasted at 54 (blue fruits)-66 degrees (dark chocolate) on the IR temp gun. Color: dark magenta. Nose: dark, dusty, cocoa, lush Bing cherry. Mouthfeel: full, dense, slight alcoholic sting. Tail trail: 6 seconds. Flavors: black fruits, blueberry, rustic, sweet extract of tumbleweeds, finely grained spices, mild tannins.
Alcohol: 14.5%. Wahluke Slope AVA. Estate vineyards. Harvested September 8, 2009. 9% cabernet sauvignon. Aged 18 months in 77% USA and French oak. pH 3.76. TA 0.45%. Power: 2/5. Balance: 3/5. Depth: 3/5. Finesse: 3/5. Rated: 91. Value: $20. Paid: $15. Music pairing: “Set The Night On Fire” by Camryn. This is WAwineman… uncorked, uneducated but not uncouth.