Taking a Winter Olympic Moment, here, tearing myself away from the bedheaded Canadian mimbo dressed up like a clove-studded apple curvetting about impersonating the Afternoon of a Faun. Given the uncustomary luxury of an idle moment I just popped into the Jingo Statcounter Account (because it's the sort of thing one does once in a while).
Turns out a Certain Someone who shall remain nameless (mostly due to the ineluctible truth that I have no idea of the person's name) arrived at the Friendly Confines of the Jingosphere through the sort of Google search that would turn a more jealous man than I a delicate shade of Kelly, Lincoln, or perhaps Bowling Green:
Why is everyone in the wine industry a pompous asshole?
Indeed. To such a Solomonic query one has no immediate, predigested answer -- but it gives me a quiet pride to note that on this bejeweled night By Neddie Jingo! is the fifth item on the list returned by Google.
This means, children, that if your personal list of Eternal Questions encompasses the pompous assholaciousness, the bombastic buttholery, rhetorical ringpieceitude, self-important starfishiness or imperious itchy-brown-eyedness of the world's purveyors of Bacchus' pride, then of the universe's experts I am numbered among the Top Five.
I am suffused with pride.
Now hush, children. They're restarting that engrossing event wherein six lithe mushroom-headed young men skate in single file, in perfect lockstep, each attempting to insert his face into the fundament of the fellow ahead. I don't know how one wins at this event, but I really don't want to think about the Sweet Taste of Victory.
I'm reminded of this halcyon album cover...