Whatever happened to Rex? Part 2

I’m as confused as you are, buddy.

As I mentioned in last week’s post there were two major concerns I have when people name things. The first was alliterative naming and the second… giving animals “Human” names!

Why people have the need to name pets after human beings is beyond me. Whatever happened to Fido or Rex or Whiskers or Rover? Why name your dog, Simon, or your cat, Arthur? You might not think it’s that big a deal. Surely, it’s the owner’s prerogative to name their pet whatever they want? Since most pet owners give their pets a human personality why not give them a correspondingly human name?

Well the problem is that like with most pet owners zero regard is given to those around them. If its not the constant barking or faeces on the lawn or public places it’s having to hear you shout at your pets.

This still might not seem like such a big deal except if the name of your dog happens to be our name. It’s pretty damn confusing to hear someone shout at you “here Gareth, here boy!” “Poppa’s got a treat for you!” I keep thinking “You are one sick bastard!”

“STOP WHISTLING AT ME!”

It’s even bad when it’s not your name they’re calling. I’ve often had to hear my neighbours shouting at their pets and its sounds like they’re housing uncontrollable drunks and the mentally deranged.

“No Christopher! I’ve told you a million times not to shit in the house! Go shit outside like a good boy! Don’t make me rub your nose in it!”

“Arthur! Stop humping the cat!”

“Oscar! Don’t lick your balls in public!”

At least I can only hope that my neighbours have named their pets with human names otherwise I’m too scared to even look over the wall.

Of Cheese, Wine and Sobriety tests

flogging a dead sarah jessica parker

Having given up drinking for little over two years, one thing that has certainly increased is my “friend stock”. This is a kind of valuation of your net worth to your friendship circle. Like the guy who always invites hot girls to the party or the guy who manages to get free tickets to parties and events. My “friend stock” has been at an all time high not only because of my role as witty raconteur and provider of facts miscellaneous, but now probably most tangibly as the designated driver.

No more so was my VIP status in the group endorsed than at the national Cheese and Wine festival held in Stellenbosch in the Western Cape were guests are met with as much free wine samples as they can stand (provided they can muster up the patience to pretend they are actually interested in the wine and not just on its intoxicating effect). There is also as much free cheese as you can carry provided you are able to lift it with a tooth pick.

Regardless after the festivities of cheese and fermented grape the grand exodus out of Stellenbosch occurs as it approaches 5pm and as would any savvy policeman would do there were plenty of roadblocks eager to punish those who had feasted all too heartily.

Being the designated driver and recalling my last drink to be approximately 2 years prior (a few slices of tiramisu at Christmas not withstanding) I felt I would get through any roadblocks without too much hassle.

I was of course correct, but I did notice an inordinate amount of people (I did stop counting after 3 to be honest though) were waiting to have blood tests/breathalysers etc. This was holding up several lanes of traffic and causing numerous delays.

The point, I guess, which unfortunately has taken over 300 words to get to, is that surely there are quicker ways of assessing someone’s sobriety. I’m not even talking about the obvious signs, like slurred speech, smelling of alcohol or vomiting on the dashboard as they are pulled over. I’m talking about quick tests policemen and women can conduct to save a lot of time and prevent delays to other drivers who may be hurrying to the next pub to avoid losing their “buzz”.

For one could the police officer not simply hold out any sort of rope or pole and simply say to the driver “I bet you can’t jump over this”. The ability to jump over the rope/pole is not even that important the fact that a drunken person would attempt to jump without any further coercion would prove their intoxication.

Similarly the officer could hold out a picture of Sarah Jessica Parker and ask “do you think she’s hot?” No sober man alive would answer in the affirmative. Quick drunk test completed.

Another quick drunk test would be to ask them to sing the lyrics to the Macarena (including dance moves) – a feat that is entirely impossible while sober.

Can you think of any other ways to speed up sobriety tests?

My First Tour of NAM

War... it changes people... (into helmets?)

“Bloody, brutal and life changing” they said.  “Changed the face of a generation”.  This is what I was told through film and documentaries about Nam and the 70’s. So was I excited to be going there myself? Was I nervous that I would come back a changed man, that I would be leaving my soul and innocence behind? Perhaps, except I wasn’t going to Vietnam, I was off to NAM-ibia! (An altogether different kind of war).

I arrived on Wednesday morning after catching the 6h30 flight from Johannesburg and was immediately astonished at how boring Namibia was. I’m not sure what exactly gave it away that I wasn’t headed to the Mecca of entertainment. It may have been how everyone would burst out laughing when they asked are you going for “business or pleasure”. It may have been when I was told that I had to go visit some famous sand dunes but it definitely dawned on me when we arrived to see a giant billboard at the Windhoek airport saying “YOU IN NAMIBIA” (welcome to the birthplace of grammar).

Luckily I had decided at that point to simply make up my own “wonderful facts about Namibia” (that may or may not be based on reality) because if I was stuck here I was going to at least make it interesting. The strange thing is that members of my travel party actually believed many of these facts including the following:

Did you know that Namibia has over 7000 varieties of sand?

The streets of Namibia are paved with Dragon Scales.

Namibia brought us some of the biggest fashion breakthroughs such as Camouflaged Evening Wear and the full length Paedo-coat

Believe it or not none of those are true although it would be great if they actually were. Namibia basically reminds me of the Free State in South Africa (which is not necessarily a good thing) except about 20 years ago.

Namibia invented Magic

Did you know the most poisonous variety of Chicken, the “pollo del la muerte” (chicken of death) is indigenous to Namibia

I had my first traditional meal of Mahangu (porridge) and some other things I can’t even hope to pronounce which tasted of salt and regret (and more salt). It was hot, dry and if it weren’t for the fact that I had my imaginary fact book I would probably have lost my mind.

Namibia invented the saying “just desserts” except it was originally “just deserts” which is the dictionary definition of Namibia.

Sadly my visit only lasted a day (sad in that I had plenty more facts to make up), but we were on to greener pastures (not that that’s saying much)

As I sit here at the Namibian “International” Airport getting ready to board through gate “Only” I have to say that Nam certainly did have an effect on me.

Not in the horrific way a generation of young Americans experienced it in the 70’s, but because from this day forward I have never been so proud to be a South African. So next time someone says something bad about South Africa you punch that old lady in the face and you say go to Namibia then! – Land of Sand and Dragons!

I’m not a racist, but

 

A graph with only one colour? must be racist

 

This blog is dedicated to comedian and friend, Neil Green and a certain “lady” who cornered me after a show on Saturday, who needs to realise that this is not the 1950’s anymore. (Even though she will never read this as computers and the internet are “tools of the devil”).

What is it about old white people that think that young white guys and girls are also hardcore racists and can’t wait to drop racial slurs whenever they get the chance? Like the minute the door closes they do the surreptitious look to the left then to the right as if crossing the road into racist land.

So here we are in racist land where I am cornered into a conversation about how everything has just been downhill since whatever particular event in world history “ruined their lives for all eternity”, like the black guy who passed them in traffic or the Asian lady who got a higher mark in their high school science project.

Why is it they just assume that young white people can’t wait to share similar stories about how the country is doomed and how next chance we get we should all just emmigrate to Australia (as if there are no other race groups in Australia besides white people).

Please canvas me a little first. You know, maybe ask me a few questions to profile me a bit, see if I maybe hold some minor resentment towards other races and ethnicities before you go around dropping N-bombs and K-bombs all over the place. Ask me if I drive a tractor or wear military camouflage or khaki in public. Ask me if I’ve ever dated my sister or know anyone with the nickname Grand Dragon. At the very least use the caveat that you use in public before revealing your racism– you know the one that starts “I’m not racist, but”.

Sometime I’ve even experienced what I like to call “potluck racism” – where someone is just so hell bent on marginalising a race group it doesn’t even matter which one. He/she will just keep dropping racial slurs until the group even just kind of agrees. They’ll walk into a group discussion and just get right to it with something like “you can’t trust an Irishman”.

“Okay?” – is usually the response – partly because we’re surprise that that is his opening line given the fact that in no way, shape or form did the conversation about the latest Lady Gaga video have anything to do with the Irish, but also because usually we’re wondering who the heck this guy is in the first place.

Of course after explaining (poorly) why you can’t trust an Irishman, pot luck racist will at least have the savvy to realise that no one else shares his disdain for the denizens of the Emerald Isle and move on. Unfortunately, this is where that savvy insight ends and he will then just throw a dart at his figurative map to racist land and burst out with something like, “but it’s the Mexicans that are the worst” (he says after his 10^th shot of tequila)

This will generally continue for the rest of the night until we either all leave or someone makes the mistake of agreeing with him/her usually out of absolute pity. At this point pot luck racist will then hone in on the agreeable party and corner him for the rest of the evening. Seeing the opportunity to cut their losses, the rest of the group will leave the poor soul who showed a bit of pity to a potuck racist and leave them to fend for themselves – scared – nervous – nodding (out of fear and boredom) – alone – in racist land.

 

Dreams

a dream inside a dream inside a blog inside your computer

“Why sleep, when you can live your dreams?” – Advice from a sugar packet

I love sleeping – day; night; around it doesn’t matter. I love sleep not because I’m particularly lazy it’s just I am so freaking good at dreaming. I’d like to think my dreams make Tim Burton movies like Accounting Companies’ Orientation films (although I would really like to see him direct one of those).

I don’t know what it is that I like about dreaming the most, is it that fact that you can do it anywhere? – in bed, on the couch, while driving or at work. Is it the fact that it doesn’t cost anything? I guess it’s the fact that my dreams are just so much better than my waking life (well most of the time).

Some people and arrogantly rhetorical aforementioned sugar packets will tell you that sleeping is a waste of time and that instead of sleeping one should live or follow your dreams.

I hate it when people tell me to “follow my dreams” because I have some pretty freaky dreams. If I had to follow my dreams half the time I’d be naked covered in chocolate and M&M’s and the other times I’d be chased around by ex-girlfriends wielding chainsaws and riding a giant half shark, half tiger monster.

Luckily sometimes rational brain comes in to save the day and remind me that the chances of any of my ex-girlfriends being able to ride a giant half shark, half tiger monster are highly unlikely, but that the chainsaw bit is quite feasible. One can always count on rational brain to bring me back to reality, he’s kind of like that friend who reminds you at a party that what you’re about to do will get you in jail (whether you listen to him or not is another story though).

Rational brain can be a bit of a downer and has often ruined some of my best dreams. I remember once having had the most epic action hero type dream. I had beaten the odds; defeated the evil monocle wearing East European racial villain stereotype; saved the World from certain doom; rescued the virginal, but sexually provocative princess and had been rewarded by the president of the world with all the money (all of it). I then get home carrying my prizes with me, when I am greeted by my dog Jasper (names have been changed to protect the innocent) when all of a sudden rational brain steps in and says “that dog has been dead for 7 years” (49 dog years).

Noooooooooo! All of a sudden the entire dream starts crumbling as if a fatal error had occurred in the software and I am left poor; alone and awake. Damn you rational brain! Couldn’t you have let this one slide?

Sometimes when your dream is so intense and real, you actually speak out loud. I’ve been known to have entire conversations in my sleep. What I hate is when you speak and you actually wake yourself up. Once on the eve of my birthday as a kid I remember dreaming about receiving all my presents and I woke myself up saying “THANK YOU” out loud (at least I was well mannered).

Another time I was dreaming about something funny like Zebra on a unicycle (HAHAHA! Cracks me up every time), and I actually LOL’d (not the kind of LOL you type to someone in a message when actually all you did was KOLOTIBIWATF – Kind of laugh on the inside because it wasn’t actually that funny). I woke up from laughing, this woke my girlfriend too who asked what was so funny. It was at that point that I simultaneously realised that it was a) a dream b) going to be too difficult to explain the situation and c) I wanted to get straight back to the dream, so I simply said “Dreams” and rolled over and back to sleep. Of course she lay awake thinking she was dating a deranged lunatic, but I was back to sleep.

Just writing this blog makes me want to go back to sleep and I’m sure if you’ve been reading it you’re probably pretty sleepy too now. So to you fine reader, may all your dreams come true – especially the one with the threesome on the pile of money under the marshmallow fountain (that’s a common one, right?)

The ultimate contraceptive

Screw Condoms... (well duh)

It happened… it finally happened. I have discovered a way to remove every ounce of libido from a man. I have discovered the ultimate anti-aphrodisiac able to turn even the most single minded sex crazed lunatic into a mentally castrated celibate.

I would love to tell you that these findings were after intentional experimentation resulting in a desired scientific finding, but alas this was not the case. You see, this unfortunate discovery was an accident and will forever stain my memory until the forgiving “ctrl+z” of old age or amnesia takes it away.

Enough of this unnecessary elaboration let me tell you how it all happened.

It was an ordinary day of work; ordinary in the sense that it was already 2pm and I had done almost no work. I was walking to a meeting from the canteen, having survived another fancifully named stew containing meat of species unknown. I was certain that the meeting was in the aptly named “yo-yo” room (apt in that during most meetings I felt like hanging myself from a length of rope) and so simply walked in to room (in a bit of a hurry I might add as I was a tad late).

I simply walked into the room and took a seat without realising that I had stepped into the wrong room. Instead of walking into the finance meeting I had been dreading all week I had stepped into something beyond my wildest dread filled nightmares – a baby shower and I was the only guy.

My immediate reaction was to apologise for barging in and to simply leave until I realised that this was the baby shower I had actually been invited to and had sensibly avoided RSVP’ing for.

And that is where it happened the most un-aroused I had ever been; a black hole of libido; the antithesis of horniness. I feared that somehow I had actually broken my sex drive forever. Most women will think that I’m overreacting and most men, well pray you have never experienced a baby shower otherwise you know exactly what it’s like.

As each gift was opened the shrieks of female delight tore through me like… like…um… some sort of really powerful tearing machine moving through something that is very easy to tear (NOOOOO! Even my imagination has been shattered by the horror of that day). Nappies; bibs; baby clothes; each and every gift brought out a shriek of excitement and an echo of “aaaaaaaw that’s so cute” as well as some sort of crazy gibberish including that’s so “noo-nee”.

I didn’t realise the full horrifying affect on my libido till one of the gifts was a life like looking set of plastic breasts supposedly for “dad” so that he could breast feed if mom was sore. I’m not sure whether it was the mental image of a man wearing plastic breasts to feed a baby or if someone had dropped a glass on the floor but I could’ve sworn a heard a loud crashing sound which I think may have been my last shred of sex drive shattering into a million little pieces.

I may never truly recover from what I saw that day; I could be trapped with voices screaming “oooh that’s so shnookie wookie” every time I close my eyes; I may remain a hollow listless shell for the rest of my life, but with the help of some of my friends who have prescribed a rigorous regime of watching woman’s volleyball, beer commercials and late night movies hopefully one day I will return to the man I once knew.

The Men’s room – part 2

Hey presto... sex change

When we last spoke I was describing the wonderful world of the men’s room – truly the factory of dreams. Follow me if you will as we indentify a few more of the mythical beasts that call this place “home”.

 Perhaps one of the most awkward “personalities” (term used in the broadest of senses) is the “starer” or the “comparer”. It is usually as one is about midstream that you would notice the looming shadow of the starer cast over the urinal in front of you. Their vision is based on movement it would appear, for to simply glance out the corner of your eye doesn’t interrupt their gaze. It is only as you move your head to see if they are in fact lurching over you that they snap back into what one would consider the normative stance for urinal usage.

 Although not always the case, I find that the “starer/comparer” is often also the “shaker”. The shaker is the guy who is either so incredibly diligent at ensuring the last drop of urine is dispelled from him or gets some sort of strange stimulation from flicking it about like the wand of an epileptic wizard at a trance party. (There is supposedly some rule about not shaking it more than twice, but that sounds like the same sort of nonsense as the people who described the Hokey pokey as being “what it’s all about”)

 The tuneless whistler/hummer/singer is another denizen of the men’s room whom I only wish was more rarely spotted than is fact. If you thought that the awkwardness of the men’s room was confined to the urinal area you would be quite mistaken for some of the strangest moments are found elsewhere including but not limited to the cubicle stalls and the wash basin mirror and these minstrels provide its soundtrack.

 In fact there is nothing quite as heart wrenchingly terrifying as lifting the lid on the public toilet – to witness the terrors that may dwell within. The infamous floater, chocolate life raft or survivor turd – whatever you call it we all know the fear it instils in our hearts as it stares at us mockingly while you reach to flush again (or for the first time depending on the abhorrent manners or hygiene of the prior stall patron).

 My final objectionable personality that ruins the sanctuary that is the now ironically named “restroom” is the “far too comfortable groomer”. I understand that mirrors in restrooms are designed for one to check that you’re looking presentable. To fix one’s hair; check if there is anything in your teeth; and maybe fix your shirt or tie, but some individuals take the opportunity of self grooming to a whole other level as if they were in their own private bathroom.

 Checking your hair is one thing, but plucking your eyebrows is another. Washing your hands or even your face is one thing, but popping pimples on the restroom mirror is something entirely different. My only hope is that they can’t see me and wouldn’t be so comfortable if they knew I was there or that these individuals are in fact not in possession of a mirror at home and so the public bathroom is actually an event for them and a momentous occasion in their personal grooming calendar.

 There you have it ladies (and men), the inner workings of the men’s room and without having to result to dangerous espionage, pornography or using your imagination.

The Men’s Room – A collection of “Personalities”

Ladies you're making this um "harder" than it needs to be

There has always been a level of intrigue from the male gender towards the goings on in ladies public bathrooms. We are intrigued as to why woman travel in groups to the restroom and why they are so frequently require a “powdering of their noses” (as frequently as a cocaine addict might use the same euphemistic pardon).

  As with most situations our only glimpse into the inner workings of ladies’ restrooms is through what we are told by woman, regaled by brave men who have snuck behind enemy lines and whatever the pornography industry chooses to have us believe.

 Little do we know that women are as eagerly intrigued by what happens in Men’s restrooms and so to appease my female demographic here is my account of the everyday men’s restroom and the personalities within.

 Unlike my imaginings of a female restroom, a men’s room has far less instances of conversation, potpourri or homoerotic fondling (thank you porn industry). It is a room designed purely for the functional use of relieving oneself of bodily excretions and in fact conversation is in many ways frowned upon. There is something a little odd about standing a few inches from another man and having a conversation knowing full well that you are both holding one’s exposed (and hopefully flaccid) penis – not exactly a conversational norm in any other setting.

 That doesn’t stop several distinct personality types from indentifying themselves. There is of course the philosopher who will take the opportunity of awkward silence to let you know his view on the world – the quality of this philosophical discourse is inversely proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed (as with most things) and so do be warned that most of these philosophers will be found in nightclub restrooms. Some of my favourite pearls of wisdom which have been imparted on me in the past include “you don’t really buy alcohol, you just sort of rent it…look there it goes!” or “Chicks… you can’t live with em…” (that was all).

 Thankfully the “Philosopher” isn’t really looking for conversation merely a congregation so a few “aha’s” and “amen, brother” is all you really need to reply before you slink away unharmed. Far more troublesome is the conversationalist who feels that standing a few inches with one’s penis one’s hand is the perfect time to chat about the weather, the political climate or the local sports team’s chances this year. Unfortunately one is forced to respond in these circumstances and it is at this stage one can be quite thankful for the small talk skills one develops from years of government skills, low paying jobs in the service industry and visits to elderly relatives have bestowed.

 The awkwardness of this “conversational” interaction can be exasperated by the introduction of one of my personal pet peeves of ingenuity – the blue tooth headset. You see because one is generally looking straight in front of you and not able to see the moronic little ear tumour, when the gentlemen next to you suddenly says “Hi there” you instinctively think he is talking to you and not someone on the other end of the phone. It does get a little strange I find when this individual starts doing a running commentary of what is going on at the time – but then again, weird means something a whole lot else in a men’s room.

“Yeah hi there, I’m just in the men’s room taking a piss. That beer is going straight through me.”

 Yeah, thanks for reminding me….

Bad music + Bad Parents = Bad life choices

"I'll take you to the candy shop..."

Look I love skanks as much as the next guy as I’ve mentioned before every guy needs a practice girl, but there has been a definite increase in the skank population over the past few years and while I’d love to place the blame squarely on the Kardashians and Paris Hilton, some of the blame has to go towards the music industry.

The South African government is trying its damndest to prevent a local porn channel airing, but have they seen what is on MTV and Channel O these days?

I first realised music videos had maybe become a little too sexy when the video “Britney Spears – I’m a slave for you” first released. It’s not really known as being the most provocative or raunchy video, but the one thing I will always remember it for is the architectural masterpiece known to me as the “sex wall”.

In its basic form the “sex wall” is a writhing mass of half naked sweaty bodies panting, lurching and lunging to the beat. It didn’t seem to shock me at first; in fact I was completely oblivious to it. Only after my elderly grandmother walked in, looked at the TV, immediately walked out and was found 10 minutes later seated in the kitchen simply staring catatonically out the window, that I realised that I had been desensitised to the kind of raunchy sex that would warp the sensibilities of someone a few generations older than me.

Perhaps that is why parents these days don’t even seem to realise what effect this “music” is having on their kids. They still proudly call their kids into the living room to sing to guests (an embarrassment I recall all too often from my childhood), but instead of some musical number from Annie or the Sound of Music it’s whatever sexcapading young tart is rocking the charts at the time.

There is something deeply disturbing about having someone’s 6 year old daughter sing you “her favourite song” only to have her grind up on your leg singing “I’m wanting you to push up on my buttons. Saying what you gone do to me, but ain’t seen nothing.” (I’m not even talking about their poor grammar). The parents will often simply say that “she’s too young to know what she’s singing” (at which point I can’t help, but picture them on a future episode of “16 and pregnant”).

Unless these parents are so stupid that they also don’t realise these lyrics are overtly sexual. (The kind of people who think 50 cent was actually singing about a candy shop and really did want you to “lick the lolly pop” or that Christina Aguilera was really singing about a genie in a bottle that you had to “rub the right way”)

As creepy as it is to hear little girls singing along, sometimes it’s even worse hearing old woman singing along. There is no more powerful antiaphrodisiac than hearing an elderly woman sing along to “don’t ya wish your girlfriend was raw like me?” I can only hope that they also don’t realise what the lyrics are…

Some of my recent favourite sing along lyrics for kids and the elderly alike include…

1) 50 cent – Candy Shop “Got the magic stick, I’m the love doctor”

2) Christina Aguilera – Woo hoo “You know you really wanna wanna taste my woohoo, you know you want to get a peak”

3) Akon – Sexy Bitch “I’m trying to find the words to describe this girl without being disrespectful Damn you’s a sexy bitch”

4) Kelis – Milkshake “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard”

5) Rihanna – Rude Boy “Come here rude boy, boy can you get it up? Come here rude boy, boy, is you big enough?”

I Quit! (and what I miss about drinking)

Hair of the dog... or some clever pun...leave me alone I'm hungover

So I gave up drinking on the 1st of January 2010 because I couldn’t think of any other decent new year’s resolutions and there was no way I was giving up any of my real vices. I immediately added the resolutive clause (go legal studies) that I would not drink until my Birthday, which only being the 6th of February (mark that down) didn’t seem like too much to ask…

And it wasn’t. The month of sobriety sped past like a rollerblading midget walking an energetic Great Dane. Then I didn’t have anything to drink for my Birthday, nothing for St Patrick’s Day, nor Easter (not even one of those Liqueur-filled Eggs alcoholic diabetics love so much). Next thing I knew an entire year had passed without me having a drink; it had it become a way of life.

There were obviously some distinct advantages. For one, I now new that there was such a thing as a Saturday morning (since I was 18 I thought they had  discontinued  Saturday mornings and that Saturday only started at around 2h30pm). I also found that I had lost about 10kg, which for those of you who know how skinny I am, is quite a mystery as to where exactly the weight came off – my earlobes I think.

I had more money, looked and felt healthier, was sharper on stage and best of all wasn’t finding out about stupid stuff I did the previous night based on pictures I was tagged in on facebook.

But it hasn’t been all Saturday morning breakfasts and care free breathalyser tests, there have been a few downsides and not just the obvious ones like being everyone’s designated driver.

Some of the disadvantages of being sober include the fact that now I remember everything that happened the night before even if I’d rather forget it. Girls will never look any more attractive than when I first meet them and you can’t exactly whip out the “good stuff” when it’s time to celebrate because no one wants to drink 100 year old orange juice.

There are a few things I miss about drinking. I miss being an incredible dancer or at least being able to enjoy dance music. I miss having an alibi for everything. When a drunk guy does something stupid, gross or inappropriate, it’s hilarious or “colourful”, but when a sober guy does the same he’s “being a dick”. I miss being able to eat things I couldn’t dream of stomaching sober. I miss being impervious to ridicule, judgment or pain – where the only memory of any pain was trying to recall the cause of unidentified drinking injuries in the shower the next day. Which is why I’m not surprised that my doctor recommended I actually started drinking again – not for my personal health, but for his financial health.

I’ve tried drinking non alcoholic beer so that at least I “look cool” but what’s the point of drinking non alcoholic beer that’s like getting a blow job while wearing a condom. I know its technically the same, but it’s not the same. You’d get more buzz by eating a handful of dead bees than drinking non alcoholic beer.

Regardless I remain sober but Alcohol: love it or hate it, I have to agree with Homer Simpson in saying it really is “the cause of and the solution to all life’s problems”.