It’s sunday morning and I’m thoisty already

“No doubt about it, I can’t live without it.”

You never can quit it. You just can’t. I remember someone I know, let’s call him Doris, saying that there’s always some event that requires alkihol. Especially in Irlanda, where taking a shit or nodding at a passing postman requires at least one toast.

Stretch has been drinking most of his little life and has come to the realisation that quitting would not solve the problem. I quit smoking and now chew on the backs of chairs just to get some relief. 15 years smoking and rotten chairs is not right. If I quit drinking, god help the living room furniture. No, the answer has to be constructive. Instead of drinking less, I should go down the route of Charles Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, Oliver Reed and Brenda Blethyn and drink till the pustules on my liver pop with

Making comedy seem like something you do to a old woman during a home invasion

glee. Stretch will become famous and appear on chat shows to the delight and pity of a baying public. Crash my car into neighbours and fornicate with the great and the dim and Amy Huberman, but not Glenda Gilson.

One day I will get my own comedy roast and people like Andy Dick, Jimmy Kimmell and Sarah Silverman will pat themselves on the back as they vomit on me and women in the front row will put their hands over their mouths and scream to each other,

“OMG, did he actually say ‘cunt’ in the US of A and me a libertarian Kappa Fi with an eating disorder.”

I will sit there like a beached whale as some member of the Golden Girls, no doubt the sexy Blanche Dubois, will orate about the amount of blow jobs she has given to me and how the skin on her face can be hiked up over her head to make her look like Droopy the fucking dog. I will forcibly remove Andy Dick from my crotch and pour myself another rum and wander up to the podium wondering if the anasthetic properties of my liver secretions will stop me from falling on my face. At the microphone, I will go silent and then glare at the large room of people. I will pour the remainder of the Máximo Extra Anejo into my bloated mouth, raise the glass and quietly say,

“You are all just awful people.”

Then, I will collapse and die.

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