So…who’s enjoying a nice alcoholic beverage tonight? WELL FUCK ALL OF YOU!!!
I’ve been sober for 5 years now. No alcohol and no drugs. Of course I didn’t do this because I wanted to. I did it because I’m a mean ass blackout drunk and I’m allergic to prison… rape gives me hives.
For those of you who don’t know what blacking out is…it’s when your soul passes out, and your consience passes out…but your body keeps rampaging on like a weapon of mass destruction that was fired off with a faulty guidance chip…and all of the sudden every human being in the room starts looking alarmingly like a school house in Baghdad.
A lot of people think the worst part about being a blackout drunk is never knowing what you did, or never knowing where you are when you wake up, or the vicious beatings you can’t remember taking, or waking up in police custody, or possibly the vicious beating you are taking when you wake up in police custody. It’s none of these things.
The worst part is the fucking voicemails.
See…you never know how long you’ve been under, could be a day, could be a week, could be a month, and there’s always the voice mails. They normally say something like: “I’m Pregnant”, or “You have AIDS now”, or “You son of a bitch this is the last time you do this to me, I’ve kicked you out of the house, Changed the locks and burned all of your shit as a sacrifice to the gods of fuck off and die”, or “THE COPS FOUND THE COCAINE”.
One of the worst ones is the voicemail explaining why you mysteriously find yourself in the hospital: “Someone cut off your dick…but it’s okay…we found it…in your ass. Anyway the doctor did a great job on the stitching.. Apparently he worked his way through college repairing doll clothes so he’s really good at sewing small things back together. He says you’ll hardly be able to tell in like 19 weeks.”
Even worse is the family intervention phone call: “Honey…we know what’s going on so don’t even try and lie to your mother. We’re sending you to a zen recovery center in the himalayas for 9 months where they’ll heal your fractured soul through the power of crystals, chant away those awful addiction demons, and give you endless warm yak milk ememas for no apparent reason at all. Feel better…Love mom.”
Having been through versions of…well…pretty much all of these I decided it was about time to straighten my ass out before I ran into every alcoholics worst nightmare…the voice mail that keeps us all awake at night with our tiny Jack Daniels bottle night light turned on…the dreaded combination voicemail:
“YOU SON OF A BITCH…I’M PREGNANT…WE ALL HAVE AIDS…THE COPS FOUND THE COCAINE THAT WE SOLD THE HOUSE FOR…AND SOMEBODY CUT YOUR DICK OFF…I HOPE ZEN MONKS RAPE YOU WITH A YAK…Love mom.”
(This is just me field testing a new comedy routine…so try not to get too upset)