Wining from a Castle

I think I’ve learned what it’s like to be famous. No, my vagina ping pong tournament DVD co-starring my friend Sarah hasn’t hit stands yet. SPOILER ALERT: Several ping pong balls were lost to her flame-spewing volcano pit. The balls would barely fit in my poongyna because I’m so virginal. Anyway, the reason I feel the pain of a celeb is that I work in a place where people say the same inane comments to me, day after day, hour after hour, tempting me to shoot them in their stupid faces with cooter ping pong balls. Much like Ashton Kutcher wants to crush the skull of the next person who asks him where his car is or what it’s like to change Demi’s diaper or scrub her dentures, I too have heard enough stupidity.

I recently acquired a soul-eating job in a winery that is in an “authentic” castle. It took 14 years to build, it’s enormous, contains a church, etc. I can’t tell you the name otherwise I’d be besieged by bloodthirsty fans with raging erections. You, however, could figure it out with 20 seconds of Googling. This place is extraordinarily impressive the first time you see it, but after months of dragging my hungover soggy flapjacks across the authentic Italian cobblestone, attending work gets tiresome and I want to grind away at my wrists with a lady Bic.

It’s suffocating the number of comments I hear countless times a day by drunk tourists in Bermuda shorts, loafers, visors, and rhinestone tee’s that say “Wine Chick” “Got Wine?” and the like.

"What happens if you don’t sell enough, you go to the torture chamber?! WAHAHAHAHA!!!"

First off, the owner has a large German Shepherd who is with him at the castle every day. I can’t tell if it’s on the verge of death, or he has dog angst/depression issues, or if he just hates the tourists like I do. He lies in one place like a lifeless blob. So these drunken Midwestern tourists waddle up, their neon green fanny packs submerged in a pair of epic front butts, and one of them hollers to his equally obese wife, “Look honey, it’s a guard dog! Bahahahaha!!”

First of all, that is not even funny. Not the first time, not the second time, not on a train, not in the rain. Yet people say it all day and burst into uproarious laughter like they’ve stumbled onto some comedic jewel and can’t even believe their own cleverness. I hate them so very much.

Here’s another treasure: “What’s it like to work in a castle??!” or the similar, “What do your friends say when you say you work in a castle?!” with their eyes beaming, anticipating my answer. I think to myself, “It’s either colder than a witches tit in here, or hotter than Court Sullivan’s hot ass (Jesus H, he makes my bean swell), plus I have to listen to assholes like you all day while I’m battling a hangover and my brazier is filling with sweat,” then I settle for a sarcastic, “It’s bitchin’,” and watch the twinkle disappear from their eye, delighting in the fact that I’ve sucked just a little bit of joy from their day.

But the all-time visitor favorite is (because there is an actual torture chamber underground), “What happens if you don’t sell enough, you go to the torture chamber?! WAHAHAHAHA!!!” I can’t even bring myself to smile at this anymore. The madness has driven me to Lord of the Flies-style fantasies of barbequing them in the iron maiden and placing their head on a stick.

The thing I don’t understand is how the other employees seem unphased by this torture and can effortlessly spew the same enthusiastic diarrhea day after day. One tool in particular always says, “Yeah, this is my office, can you believe it?” The rest launch into an anus-licking speech about how the owner is a God-like figure with the humble hardworking ethics of a gentleman farmer. They even encourage the customers by saying, “He’s the king of the castle! Har har haaaaa!!”