drink, drank, drunk

I've been drinking more recently. I blame it on my parents. Unlike most 33 year old progeny who direct blame at their ripened counterparts, I have reason and right. If you doubt me, you shouldn't. You will be wrong upon reading the following sentences. Think about the last time you spent time with your parents. Did the thought, in any form, 'I could use a drink', ever cross you mind?

A beer might taste good right now?

I sure do like vodka?

A Camelback with tequila sure would go with these shoes?

The only acceptable answer is 'Yes'. If you say otherwise you are a liar. If you are not a liar, you must have one of those unnatural, my-parent-is-my-buddy relationships that defy nature and we could never be friends so I don't care. In fact, parental loathing is a common trait in nature. The back story on that diseased monkey from the movie Outbreak (95, Wolfgang Peterson) is quite interesting. One day, after monkey school, the OB Monkey had gotten into a verbal scuffle with his dad-monkey, who, as a result, had thrown some scat toward his branch. Luckily it didn't hit him but the OB Monkey jetted the jungle anyway, did the good thing with a bad monkey, became OB, and to make a long story short caused millions of human deaths and Dustin Hoffman's dismissal from the SAG.

So we've established that we all think that very thought during parental visits. Now do the math. Multiply the seconds by the minutes by the hours by the days by the months and when you connect the dots on the page they form the picture of a frickin drunk bum named Me. But really, this is a copious amount of booze and one crazy guy sitting at the bottom of the bottle. I currently store a pint of whiskey in my bedroom just so I can get through the morning conversations before my peaceful shower. I built a sub-drawer underneath the upper drawer of my dresser. If you are underage and you want the design, please contact me via email and I'll send over the CAD drawings. I'm drunk right now so please wait until morning... afternoon please. I pour Bailey's in my Cheerios. It's the only way I can look in the mirror and smile anymore.

Being a smartie, you know I say this in jest. My parents don't actually make me drink. They make me think about drinking. And after thinking about drinking for a long time I have a drink. So it's on my back. Don't blame my mom and dad for my liver problems, blame the thoughts that they cause.

Damn The Enablers.

jb

Femullet In the Roost

There is a femullet in the roost. It's about 3 inches length on the top, which is flat, with a smooth, 12 inch running board down the back. It comes accessorized with a bossy, commanding personality reminiscent of a a miniature Hitler that hates men instead of Jews. As proof the man-hate I've been shown emails from my mom's yahoo account. The messages most often end in a joke that bashes males. Angry, singular male bashing jokes. She is small, wiry and I have a strong suspicion that she can handle herself in a fight. Really.

So I think you get the picture. She likes the ladies. And I think you understand the dilemma.

I now have competition.

Until recently I had envisioned myself as the sole alpha-playa in the midst of hundreds of lovely octogenarian babes at my beck and call. I walked the walk of a king proudly addressing his servants.

'How're the new gums, Gerty?'
Hey there, Sugar Wrinkles!'
'Who loves ya, Martha'.

I'd fire off trigger fingers and throw out sexy man-winks to the throngs of seemingly hungry-for-me, wrinkle ridden, goddesses. I'd walk at half pace to keep speed with their maxed out Lark scooters, rub their shoulders and whisper into their new-age listening devices. I'd invite them over (while my parents were out, of course) for the weekly Pectoral viewing and Bicep rub down.

I was proprietor of Hobbly Town. King of Depend-ville.

Maybe it is my blatant overconfidence that is making this such a harrowing experience. Yes, it is true. Even the Gods can fall from the heavens. Well maybe I should just take a breather. In reality, there is no proof that the mullet has yet to succeed in touching the hearts of any of my loyal fan base. She has, in fact, shown some affection for my mom, which could work to my advantage. And i think my mom might be into it. Therefore, while my mom temporarily occupies her heart I could grow my flock and extend the fan base beyond the Pelican. I could step up to alpha male for all of South Jersey's 55+ communities. I could sell my services! I'll advertise in the AARP magazine! I'll start a website and take reservations and provide feedback to my customers and allow them to rate my service (5 stars is the only option)! I'LL MAKE AN INFOMERCIAL!

I rock. I feel better now. I'm back. Thanks for helping me talk through this almost-issue.

Knock Knock Knock. I think a Pruny Minx is knockin and Daddy is home.