Filibuster Alito! And pass on the Pinot.

The other day I unleashed a withering and largely unprovoked attack on Pinot Noirs for which I feel the need to explain.

It was like this: I had a rough day. A challenging day. A day where I inadvertently mailed a smarmy Web link to some friends; gave myself a fat lip; and scraped a cocklebur over my face. On such a day, let's face it, Pinots are an easy target.

The porn-ish URL I sent to some email buddies was the result of being a fan of rudepundit.blogspot.com. Which is over the top on the best of days. And on THIS day, AFTER I'd sent the link, I discovered Mr. Rude Pundit had written a new post. About our esteemed Commander in Chief being a serial masturbator, about which I can offer no information, except to apologize again to my friends for the very very very detailed depiction of the aforementioned activity. If "activity" is the right word.

On this same day, I had developed a little blister on the inside of my bottom lip, aggravated by salty foods at a potluck. I love salty foods. I don't love cold sores or fever blisters or whatever the heck this annoying little thing was. So I dabbed it with a solution given to me by a friend for just such a purpose. I thought. This liquid, Ora5 I believe it's called, is actually copper sulfate. Which apparently is a chemical developed to burn human skin. What it did was annihilate the blister, oh yes indeedy, in about three seconds flat, the same amount of time it took to give me a lip that puffed up like a poisonous toad.

My day was not over, sadly. Later that evening, I selected a clean washcloth from the laundry basket and proceeded to wash my face. Oh what a selection that was: As I was rinsing, I felt a big owie on my forehead. And stared at the washcloth in disbelief. There, embedded in the dark fabric, was a cocklebur. This was not an ordinary, flea-sized cocklebur, but a largish cocklebur. A cocklebur on steroids. Which had left its marks, nay its RUNNELS, on my face.

Following the tearful icing of my lacerated lip and grooved forehead, and leaving aside the unanswerable question of how Atlas Cocklebur came to live in my clothes hamper, I reflected on my misfortune. 'Twas then I realized that it was no ordinary day, no, for I had sipped a Pinot Noir with dinner. I had my culprit.

I also have fresh gashes on my neck courtesy of my step-cat Jake, who has taken to using me as both rickshaw and rickshaw driver, soaring to my shoulder to hitch a free ride anytime he dam' well feels like it. As his mother was ignorant in her youth and so had him declawed, which is essentially like having the first joint lopped from one's fingers, Jakie clings with his back claws. Clings for dear life.

But really, what are neck scratches when compared to, let's say, the lower right quadrant of a mouth that is shedding flesh like a legless reptile? And what is THAT shredded flesh set next to the prospect of Samuel Alito protecting our Lawbreaker in Chief and other corporate miscreants from his lifetime perch on the Supreme Court? (Interestingly, it is Rude Pundit who offers the best summary of the Much Scalito Ado About Nothing brouhaha. So go here, if you dare: rudepundit.blogspot.com)

And now, dear reader, I head into the weekend, scarred and humbled, sure of only one thing: 'Twill be a while before I again try a Pinot.