As the season of feasting descends upon us, we must warn you of a terror far greater than dry turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, or the chilling sound of your cousin saying the words, “Have you done your own research?”

This particular nightmare creeps up softly, packaged in a glass bottle.

As you take your place at the holiday table, you brace for the usual horrors: casseroles congealing in real time, gravy boats bubbling like cauldrons, relatives sharpening both carving knives and political opinions. And then, with a thud that echoes through your bones, it appears: Yellow Tail.

A bottle of flabby chardonnay plunked down like the villain in a straight-to-DVD slasher film. Your pulse quickens. Flashbacks flood in — college headaches, oaky regrets, the metallic taste of shame on your tongue.

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