In Case You Missed It...

My two most recent columns, my bitten legs, and my alcoholism, which is progressing nicely thank you

I haven’t posted here in a week because I’m not kidding about that “spending the summer drunk off my ass” thing. Hell, I’m not even gonna proofread this post, because it’s 7am and I’m already plastered, but I’m sure that won’t lead to any embrassing erorrs.

When I’m drunk I get ornery, and I have to admit, I got ornery last week when a few Twitter-style haters crept onto my Substack, and one of those d-bags claimed I was lying a week ago when I wrote that I got bitten by mosquitos. And I’m like, why the fuck would I fake that? That would literally be the dumbest thing any human has ever faked, and the dumbest thing a Jew-hater has ever claimed a Jew faked. What the living fuck would be my goal in faking that? I have no GoFundMe for “DAVID COLE GOT BIT BY MOSQUITOS! GIVE GIVE GIVE!” I’m not trying to PROFIT from the claim. It’s just something that happened and I wrote about it, and it’s my life’s curse that I must forever be plagued by vermin - the human kind not the mosquito kind - who are like “a JEW claimed to be bitten by MOSQUITOS? Typical kike liar.”

Okay, smartass, here’s a photo of my bitten legs. Happy? I took this pic a week ago after your comment but I’ve been too drunk to post it. My legs are FINE now. Bug bites heal. Again, who lies about bug bites? What’s my fucking gain?

If your paranoia is such that a Jew wearing shorts in summer says “damn, mosquitos bit me,” and you’re like “hmmph, the Protocols warned us of such lies,” then please die. You’re unworthy of the gift of life that I’m pissing away on booze.

Speaking of which, I’m fascinated by the extent to which I’m no longer a functioning alcoholic. For twenty years, I could drink all day and still carry out tasks. I could go to the store, embark on idiotic chores with my girlfriend or bimbo of choice, stand erect in a bar, be erect with my girlfriend or bimbo of choice. Not anymore, Cletus. Them days is over. I drink, I pass out, I wake up and repeat the process. Last week I spoke for three hours with my lifelong friend Mark Weber of the Institute for Historical Review, and I was stunned that I stayed cogent for that long.

When managing three cogent hours in a 24-hour period is an accomplishment, that’s a sign that you’re not handling the drink like you used to.

One summer night in 2011 I was at the monthly Friends of Abe right-wing dicksuck at Barney’s Beanery in West Hollywood, and at my table I had my fetid “girlfriend” the abysmal Rosie, my beloved Vanessa (who I wrote about a month ago), and a new friend, NCIS costar Michelle Pierce (I was assisting with her career at the time…unpaid, of course. I never charge actors a dollar, but apparently I fake getting bitten by bugs for reasons unexplained). Vanessa and I were downing one after another, Rosie was doing the “tee-hee, I’ll have one little drinky-poo” shtick she always did at bars, and Michelle, a classy and stunning young lady, was tolerating the Ben Shapiro-types who kept hitting on her.

“Have you read the 1988 masterpiece by Sowell I’m the Exception That Proves the Rule? The man’s our finest intellect.”

So it’s 2am and I’m closing the tab, and the bartender says to me, “You got here at 6pm and now it’s 2am and there literally hasn’t been a moment you haven’t been guzzling straight vodka and whiskey yet you’re as clear-headed as when you first came in, and I gotta say, I’ve never been so impressed at someone’s liquor tolerance.”

It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

Still is.

But I’m not that man anymore. I can still hold booze in terms of not vomiting it out, but I can’t hold myself straight.

I hope to be able to stick to this lifestyle through September. But there is something creepy about waking up not knowing if it’s morning or dusk, or what day it is. I enjoy the passing out part because I get to dream of absent friends, but the waking up part is disconcerting.

If I didn’t have column deadlines, my entire week would be formless.

But hey, I’ll sober up again in September. So he said.

And speaking of columns, here’s Sunday’s Week That Perished:

https://www.takimag.com/article/the-week-that-perished-303/

And this week’s reg’lar column, about the attempted Trump assassination and how Alex Jones seems to have forgotten how to Alex Jones an Alex Jonesian event:

https://www.takimag.com/article/34243/

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And feel free to BUY ME A BEER. The money doesn’t actually go for beer but food. Keeps me healthy…except that I only eat fast-food burgers. Boy, I’d KILL for a steak, but I never have those delivered from the grocery store, because I like to inspect the quality myself before buying. And going to the store “manually, as they say” ain’t happening this summer. I’m not nearly that functional.

I’ve most certainly let that bartender down.

Endnote: Substack’s “trust and safety enforcement” told me that I can no longer mock the morons who unsub, because one of those cowardly losers bitched like a banshee so I’m on “probation.”

Now I hate the unsubs even more, but I’m prevented from saying anything about it.

Unsub away, cowards. You went running to mommy and you’re safe now…fucking infants.