The day my precious Canadian Cream got poured down the sink, something inside of me died.
It’s been hard to get back on track, my fellow inebriates, especially with the thumb-equipped humans in the house preoccupied with NaNoWriMo and Candy Crush Saga respectively. So much so that booze has been forgotten. OMG! And that’s why today’s review is not of booze but of something that <*sniff*> could have been booze.
Yes, I found the wretched stuff on the counter beside a Webkinz dog painfully tethered to a paper-towel holder, hanging from which were two Chihuahuas. If you think that sounds like Miss V’s work, you’re correct.
So what’s the deal with WELCH’S GRAPE JUICE? It kind of looks like wine, especially when poured into a nice crystal glass. But it’s all a lie, MFI. V says it’s “yummy,” and perhaps it is if you’re six, but if you’re an eight-year-old alcoholic bear, it’s a little glass of torture. It’s everything that could have been…