Alcohol Is Not a Toy

But it’s sometimes fun to play with anyway.

Last night I took advantage of my wife’s Wednesday night church-going detail to get caught up on my drinking while watching a movie called Carnage, about two nifty little marriages that disintegrate on screen after the son of one couple takes a swipe at the face of the other’s son with a stick–echoes of Jack Nicholson in Chinatown, getting his nose sliced open by director and exiled child-enthusiast Roman Polanski, who also directed this flick.  

I hadn’t touched a drop of the stuff in weeks, which must have been why I was feeling so despondent last week (you’re in denial, dude; thus spake Stew’s shrink).

No, the real reason was I hadn’t done any writing for several days; the not-drinking was actually a wise choice, not that I would have made it myself, certainly not without the helpfully relentless pressure of my wife Jina’s indefatigable nagging–er, sage advice.

Now I’ve got a hangover and my lower back is killing me, probably because my fat stomach is trying to pull the invertebrate portion of my cellular structure off my frame, and not doing a bad job at it either.  In fact–and please don’t gasp at this–I may have to do something I hardly ever resort to, which is go out and invest in another can of Japanese beer (as a comedian I saw on TV a long time ago, unless it was in a comedy club, said, “If you drink foreign beer, at least you give your brain cells a decent burial”) or two, using the coat of the bear that devoured me as a quick and effective cure for self-inflicted suffering (not to mention a great way to entrench life-long addictive tendencies).

Two tall cans of beer and a bottle of makkgeolli (Korean rice wine) were last night’s poison of choice, the beer chilled in the freezer along with a couple of frosted glasses to make the evening complete.

I probably shouldn’t even have been drinking anyway as I’m susceptible to depression and alcoholism (cheers!  Here, let me have that rope and I’ll show you how to tie a noose).  There’s a bit of both in my distant family history, although I suppose no family is bereft of these particular demons (except in Saudi Arabia, where everyone is sober and happy, an oxymoronic phrase if there ever was one, at least according to Dionysus;  by the way, thanks for those 911 suicide bombers; maybe if you guys drank more you’d lighten up a bit–and that goes for you too, Adolf–no, I wasn’t talking to you, Pope Benedict; saaayyyy, that’s a sexy dress you’re wearing!  I guess every day is Halloween when you’re the Pope; now all you need to do is put a condom on your head to stop your crazy ideas from proliferating–it’s always worked for me).

Anyway, I’m glad Mitt Romney lost the U. S. presidential election, not that I have anything against him personally (or his Ayn Rand-worshipping running mate Paul Ryan, whom I have a bunion named after), or that I’m thrilled by the prospect of four more years of Borat Obama.  Of course, there’s always the possibility that he’ll surprise us all and give peace a chance instead of being Mr. Smarty-Pants Control Freak all the time.

(Incidentally, Barry, please don’t incinerate me with a Predator drone again; my wife and I still haven’t finished rebuilding our house from the first attack.  You could at least have the decency to wait until we’re done.  That way we can drink a non-alcoholic toast to Albert Camus for writing the book on futility, The Myth of Sisyphus.)


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