Old English, Pinot Grigio

In idea, one glass of Pinot Grigio makes the mind productive. The refreshing sips of white wine should ease the tongue and calm a week's worth of stress. Each drink should increase that creative self awareness that births our poets' thoughts. One glass should be that panacea, that oracle. One glass. I drank a bottle.

Bottle gone, stumbling through the basement, tripping over cats and leather cases, plummeting down, ass to ground. And by my slumped, unwired body lied a printed, stapled page entitled "Thomas Dallum."

What was this? The reading assigned to muck and skim through? Yes it was, and I began.

The beginning paragraph was dry enough like dated wines in musty cellars. Though, now drunk, the numbers all seemed the same. Then suddenly, holy fuck, the language changed. Was it just my wine-shot eyes and spinning mind? Or was it something penned in Greek, Polish, or even Japanese? Hell if I knew, so I did what any neo-Bukowskian would do: I grabbed a sixer of Corona and started drinking.

One cap popped, one beer down, the words began to flip from page to air like ink black jumping jacks. The characters were quite phonetic, sounding how the proper spellings should, but something still seemed wrong. Problem solved, drink another beer.

And another.

The ending E's and misplaced consonants then rearranged themselves, and bam, it's English. A man in foreign lands amidst a court of honored lords. A wondrous organ sounding tones so fabulous to make Olympus jealous. Thrushes and starlings soaring to the beat of such magnificence.

Another beer.

Another.

(Elapse of God knows how long)

Then I awoke, dizzied and disoriented with a piece of paper hanging from my face.

Most say never drink and drive. I say never drink and read.