You don't have to be a tough guy to appreciate this wine. But if you don't want anyone else snitching a sip, it might help.
His real name was Claude. But his father thought that sounded sissy, so he called him Jake instead. Everyone else knew him as THE BONESHAKER.
His no-holds-barred attitude shook people to the core. He reeked of ripe plums, blackberry jam and sweet tobacco, an aroma that could reach out and grab hold of ya. And if it ever did, you counted your blessings, my friend. Because that's when you knew your days of garden-variety discount wine were numbered.
The Boneshaker was as dark and full-bodied as they come. He was deep purple. SO HELP ME GOD, DEEP PURPLE! He mostly kept to himself, and claimed he was just fine on his own. Because the one time he did oblige an invitation to a dinner party, rumors spread like wild fire. They say he devoured an entire dry-rubbed pork tenderloin WHOLE.
I knew him better than anyone, and truth be told, he was just a big ol' teddy bear. But he liked that people were intimidated by him. Said it made him feel tough. And that's why I never revealed his deepest, darkest secret … until now.
The Boneshaker was TERRIFIED of needles. Yep. Made his knees quake like a scared little girl. That's why he never got inked for real. He just wore temp tats like this one, and a matching patch on his jean jacket.
Some say on nights when the moon is full but partially obscured by clouds, and you've got a confit of slowly cooked pork shoulder roasting in the oven, that patch will appear for a split second in the reflection of a freshly poured glass of Zinfandel. But if you ask me, that's just superstitious nonsense.