The older I get, the less I understand alcoholics.
For college students, OK, I get it, with their hummingbird metabolisms and raging hormones it must be nice to drink a Bud every once in a while and stop racing and play with feeling sloooooow and slushy. I remember feeling that way myself. But at my time of life, I don’t need a six pack to feel slow and slushy. By this time of the evening, I shuffle over to the fridge, open it, take one look at that neglected Pale Ale in the back and shudder. Life supplies me with all the virtual beer I need. I trip over my feet all on my own, thank you very much, and my kids will do the throwing up for me. I need to move more quickly, not more slowly. I need to think sharply, not more dully. At two pots of coffee a day, I’ve pretty much maxed myself the effect of caffeine, so I think I’ve got to move on to something harder. Maybe meth: now that oughta be the addiction of the middle aged, as long as you’ve got a good mouth guard. Or ecstasy. With a nicotene burst to top it off.
Hey there, Mr. DEA agent man fella, take it easy. I am kidding. Seriously, I’m kidding. I’m kidding seriously. Really, I’m a parent: I don’t have time to find the clothes that would make me look right enough on “the street” to be able to go up to someone and ask for drugs and frankly I stopped buying those sorts of clothes about ten years ago, which was not coincidentally about the time my first kid started throwing up sour milk all over whatever I might be wearing. Do not bust down my door. All you will find in my kitchen is an array of different flavors of children’s ibuprofen. I will offer you the cherry and the grape and the wild berry and the ill-advised key lime ibuprofen that they don’t offer any more and that sits behind the cherry and the grape, glowing a friendly green. You may have your pick, Mr. DEA agent man fella. You may also have my beer. I am moving some time in the next couple of months and I’m pretty sure the beer would get skunked somewhere on Interstate 90.