Wow, folks. The Man About Town got hit hard this morning. Got a phone call from the doctor. Seems old Tanus Peluski here is exactly one shot of whiskey short of a brain hemorrhage. “The next drop will kill you instantly,” is the way he put it. Now, I don’t know about you guys, but whiskey is the blood of Christ in my book. I don’t even have a book. Been doing this drunken journalism thing for a long, long time. Not a thing to show for it. Not even a computer to type this on. I’m writing it down on a sheet of photocopy paper that I stole from Kinko’s, sorry, FedEx Office. Paper that is still slightly damp from my tears and a brief moment of phlegm.
She was 74, had the heart of a gorilla, and a shrill laugh like a harpy. That was my first ex-wife, and I was 30 years her junior. Made a man out of me, that is, made me pay for everything without promise of sex. My first non-whore. I learned a few things the hard way, folks. Being married to her was a lot like having a pair of barely-working kidneys. Every time it hurts when I pee, I think of her. In other words, every time I pee. In addition to unexplained rashes, doctor assisted heart attacks, and brown teeth, she also introduced me to whiskey. Old Crow was her brand. Still, though, sitting here having sober thoughts, I realize that it was not her fault I became a drunk. It was whoever invented whiskey’s fault.
Then again, my Doctor has been wrong before. He said I’d never have another erection once, and wallah! Viagra! Now I just need to wait for the Viagra of drinking problems. Here’s what apparently qualifies as quality health care these days for those of us without considerate employers.
Me: Hey, Doc, here’s my wallet. Please take everything I have, and bill me for more in a few weeks.
Doc: Drop the trousers and show me your ass.
Doc: Don’t worry, I’m wearing a glove.
Me: Mother of Mary, I think you put it in too far!
Doc: Stop moving around!
Me: This is rape, you know, rape! Won’t you at least hold me?
Doc: Whoomp, there it is!
Me: I can taste your hand on my tongue.
Doc: Peluski, you can never drink whiskey again.
Me: Say it ain’t so, doc!
Doc: The next drop will kill you instantly!
Me: Does your finger really need to still be up my ass for this conversation?
Please, anyone that is out there listening. Tan Peluski can not go on without whiskey. Might as well just give up right now! But, see, the Man About Town is calling out for a miracle. Please, someone, anyone out there. If you are smart and good with chemicals, please dear god invent a pill that will let me drink whiskey again! I’m begging you, I swear on everything I hold dear and sacred that if I could just drink whiskey again I will change my ways as a person. I will stop marrying and divorcing twice a year, I will settle down, have some kids, maybe finish that book I never have time to write. Tell the whole world what’s going on, break it down for them. Oh, sweet Jesus, I swear it, I’ll run for Portland Mayor if you don’t give me back my whiskey! I’ll make life miserable for everyone! Give me whiskey, and I will leave the people out of it. Tan the Tomorrow Man Peluski for Mayor of Portland. You don’t want that, but I’m here to give it to you.
You can avoid all of this by inventing a blue (or other colored) pill that allows me to drink whiskey without meeting my own death. Otherwise: Vote for Tan. This is not a threat, this is a negotiation. You do not want any more of this sober Tan Peluski thing. Just trust me, you like me better as a drunken failure, help me be that again. I don’t want to have to win the mayorial race against Sam Adams next year. That will be a lot of work. Actually, it probably wouldn’t be that much work. Whiskey. Whiskey. Give me my whiskey. Or I will give you my best. Thank you, and God Bless.