The Week That Perished: It's a Gas Gas Gas!

Black Nazi becomes Mr. Burns.

This week:

Blackened Hitler cooked too well-done,

Hurricane brings out the worst in everyone.

“I was a sailor” RIP,

Black slice-and-diceman’s soul set free,

And the cucumber rapist…this you gotta see.

The Week That Perished

I’m back on the bottle so I’m not proofing this. I miss my ability to handle drinking binges even more than I miss my hairline or chin. Yet, it needs to be said, my new relationship with booze (it puts me into a deep sleep) is kind of what I want. I drink because I don’t want to be here, but I also don’t want to die.

That’s the artistry of it. How I dearly wish I was not here, yet here I choose to stay. Is there a, I don’t know, magic potion that can put me in a place of being here but not being here?

Rum, you’re a buddy.

I woke up at 6:45 — so it said on my phone — and I realized I had no idea if it was 6:45 am or pm. It was overcast outside. Was it evening, or morning? I was lost in a netherworld, a Schrödinger’s catatonia in which it was at the same time Sunday morning and Sunday night.

But Sunday night’s my Takimag deadline so I had to find out because I can’t get docked.

Why does my phone not say am or pm? You’d think with a record number of young people being stoners, it would be useful for phones to assist in telling day from night.

In theory, I’d love to stay drunk for the rest of the year. But in practice, just based off what the poison’s already doing to my body the first four days, I hope I can at least make it to the election.

Yes, I’ve already written my post-election piece.

No, I don’t know who’ll win…but I guessed.

And if I guessed wrong, I’d better be sober enough to write a new piece on the fly.

Hey - BUY ME A BEER!