April 1 – DATELINE: ONLINE – The wine blahgosphere fell eerily silent today when William Zinsser emerged from the heavens and told wine blahggers that the world isn’t all about them and they can only write about wine from now on.
The revered author of “On Writing Well” left hundreds of the world’s most influential wine blahggers agape as they suddenly realized they had little if anything to say.
“Well that certainly sucks major donkey bong,” said 1WineDude Joe Roberts. “Wine is just a drink, after all, while I’m the Big Kahuna and all that brilliantastic shizz. I mean, its not like I wanna sell wine, or convince yaz to buy it just cuz I get a gigantuan boner off it, know what I mean?”
In New York City, Tyler Coleman, or “Dr. Vino,” stopped stirring his evil pot of brettanomyces, then gasped in horror and keeled over from the stench.
The Wine Blahggers Conference was canceled, because if they had to talk about wine instead of wine blahgging, well, what’s the point?
In Napa, Tom Wark of Fermentation wearily turned his high horse toward Safeway and said to his faithful sidekick, “Come on, Pancho, let’s get a box of generic chardonnay from the Southern portfolio and watch the sun set over the three-tier system.”
Throughout the afternoon, wine blahgs went inexorably blank as their authors realized they could no longer inflate their stats by cross-posting and commenting on each other’s blahgs about the rise of social media and the superiority of blahggers over “journalists” like Steve Heimoff and that Eric guy. They were left to wonder if the Gravy Train of free samples and luxury trips to the world’s most aspiring wine regions had been permanently shunted to a side track in wine’s railroad graveyard.
Terroirist.com founder David White shed a crocodile tear into his glass of Napa Valley ciliegiolo — fermented to precisely 12.8 percent in a concrete egg according to the Golden Mean and racked only when Mars was waxing over Jupiter but waning under Venus. He handed over the reins of his award-winning blahg to his colleague, Isaac Baker, saying, “You’re the only one who actually writes about wine around here.”
As dusk settled, a virtual roar could be heard from Monkton, Maryland, where Robert M. Parker Jr. rattled his canes with mirth and yelled, “What? Nobody left to take potshots at me?? Shrivelled up by excess acid and left to wallow in the vapid flavors of grapes not even Jancis would catalogue, are you? Come on, cowards!! I dare’st ya! BWAHAHAHAAA!!”