The city of Santa Rosa, California is as hot as Megan Fox. The weather was in the nineties all weekend. Our wine tasting intentions metamorphosed like Star Jones' weight from winery-hopping to sitting poolside consuming eight bottles of assorted wines. Wine tasting equates drunk driving.
By absorbing alcohol and sun at a friend's house, nobody had to be a designated drunk driver between wineries.
At one point I lay by the pool on my stomach while a friend sprawled on top of me like a plastered passed-out elephant. People got pitched into the pool in their clothes. Someone blacked out at 5pm. Another urinated in the yard in front of the mother of the girl's house we were at. Somebody regurgitated in the bushes.
After hours of ingratiating ourselves with Chardonnays, Savignon Blancs, Merlots, and Zinfandels - ourselves offspring of wine country - night had snuck up on us like Mike Tyson. More friends amalgamated and by midnight we assembled around a fire pit, content as Mrs. Fields.
"I'm going in the pool!" Boozy announced and precipitated stripping.
Knowing his propensity for public naked pedantry, I intoxicatedly exclaimed, "Strip all the way!" as I made my mouth mirthful with vino.
He summarily shed his shorts, spun, and scampered five steps toward the pool. One of the girls rapturously reposed on the concrete, gazing into the fire. She raised her eyes as Boozy bound by.
"Agghhh!" she screeched like a howler monkey.
"Why did a penis just attack me?" she squealed as he leapt into a dive over her and into the pool.
Minutes later exposed Boozy exited the pool as the father of the house strolled onto the back porch. Someone flung a black inner tube towards him while the dad requested we come inside and keep it down, as it was a Sunday night and there were neighbors. Boozy stood, arms out, clad in only an inner tube as the sober man of the house returned inside shaking his head as if he had just witnessed his daughter in a gang bang.