At a local winery, the regular taster died and the director started looking for a new one to hire. A drunk bloke with a long, ratty beard and torn, vomit-splattered clothes turned up to apply for the position. The director decided to humour him, so he handed the hobo a glass of wine and asked him what he thought of it.
The bum took a sip and said, “It’s a riesling, three years old, grown on a north slope, matured in large, old barrels. Low-grade but acceptable.”
“That’s correct,” said the director, surprised. He handed the homeless gent another glass.
“It’s a cabernet, eight years old, grown on a south-western slope, new oak barrels, matured at eight degrees. Requires three more years for finest results.”
“Correct,” said the shocked director, handing the fella another glass.
“Oh, that’s a non-vintage pinot champagne, high-grade and exclusive,” grinned the alco. The director was astonished! He walked over to his hot, young secretary and whispered in her ear to go outside, pee in a wine glass and bring it back. She did that, handed it to the bum and he drank it in one gulp. The director looked on, fascinated, as he licked his lips and contemplated.
“It’s a blonde, 22 years old, three months pregnant,” said the vagrant, “and if you don’t give me the job, I’ll name the father.”
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