
09/05/2025
They told me wine was art.
Bu****it.
And the little guy?
No magic dirt. No golden waitlists.
Just sweat, bad luck, and a middle finger
to the sky when it decides to f**k him.
The cult wines?
They’ll always land soft,
cradled by critics and hedge-fund pricks
who wouldn’t know hard work
if it kicked them in the teeth.
But here’s the thing—
the little guy learns.
He adapts.
He doesn’t give a f**k about scores.
He makes wine for people
who drink to feel something,
not to impress some somm
with a stick up his ass.
Drought comes?
He digs deeper.
Floods?
He pumps faster.
Hail?
He patches up the vines
and spits in the storm’s eye.
And—
when the distributors lowball him,
when the supermarkets bury him
between the boxed s**t and the flavored p**s
he bottles it anyway.
Because somebody out there
still wants wine that tastes like honesty,
not some overpriced lie
sold by the ounce.
Yeah, the rich stay rich.
The earth doesn’t care.
But the little guy?
He’s still here.
Still pouring.
And that’s the vintage
they’ll never put on their f**king lists.
By Sierra Wine Guy
Ultra-premium cult wines are surprisingly resilient to weather fluctuations, unlike many other wines which had prices and ratings more affected by climate variability.