Dancing With the Bars

You think you’ve blacked out before from drinking too much? Do you think those ten shots of blueberry schnapps you had last weekend put you at a level of intoxication once thought unreachable? You don’t even know what blacking out is until you’ve taken Xanax bars. Not that I’m bragging…these little fuckers are no joke.

For you prudes out there who don’t know what Xanax bars are, they are bar shaped pills that are prescribed for anxiety and insane nights of debauchery. Any teenager can tell you, obtaining illegal prescription medicine can be easier than getting alcohol in most cases… and alcohol is as legal as a blowjob on a Sunday morning. In high doses, these little bastards take any problem you have and make you forget it ever happened. That is generally the problem with bars. They make you not give a shit about anything or anyone and usually lead to big problems.

One particular sunny summer day, I got my hands on some of these white little beauties and decided to take them. A local crack head had been prescribed them as a means of helping him kick his awful crack habit. Anyone with any sort of street smarts will tell you, if you give a junky some drugs, he’s just gonna trade them for the drugs that he wants.

I gave the crack head $10 for six of the pills, which was well below street value and indicated he was hurting for a quick score. We parted ways and I decided to take one, washing it down with a shot of scotch. I wandered around the park for a little bit just people watching while I waited for the pill to take effect. I started to get very relaxed and I soon realized that everything around me was moving very slow. Chuckling to myself like a little schoolgirl, I took another swig from my scotch. If I had actually been prescribed them, I would have seen the warning written all over the bottle that it is a bad idea to take these guys with alcohol.

Sitting down quickly became a priority as my stomach finished dissolving the bar that was in my stomach. As the world around me became a dizzying blur, the only rational thing I could think to do next was eat the rest of them. I reached into my pocket and swallowed the rest, then propped my feet up and waited for a nice day of relaxation.

That was the last thing I remember. I woke up on the bank of the Schuylkill River wearing nothing but my skin and a pair of mismatching dress socks. I was miles away from my cardboard box and lost everything that I had on me hours before. I stood up with my penis flapping in the breeze and noticed that I was surrounded by all sorts of weird objects.

There was a deflated blow up doll, a box of unopened rubber gloves, a bottle of green colored Heinz ketchup, a half drank bottle of Pinot Grigio, and a Monopoly game board. None of it made any sense or linked together in any sort of rational manner. There was nothing I could do but hitch a ride back into the city limits. So I walked up the hill onto the highway, stuck my dick out, and hoped someone would pick me up.

Severe Wiping Problems

You ever have those types of shits where no matter how much you wipe your ass, you can never get those last little remnants of shit out of the cracks of your asshole? It’s usually an extremely violent shit with all sorts of high fiber madness that just doesn’t want to cooperate with the rest of the log. I had one of those fuckers come out of my butt the other night. Usually a few swipes with a newspaper and I’m clean as a whistle. But for some odd reason, after multiple swipes with multiple sections of the paper, I was still full of crap.

In order to get to the bottom of this issue, I leaned over and began to examine my shit. It was a chaotic mess that was sprayed all over the concrete. There were even a few splatters on the brick wall which was only a few inches away. I immediately came to realize why I was having such a problem with clean up. The consistency was an unimaginable mess that I never thought possible.

I had a quick flashback to the night before when I pulled an expired Cobb salad out of the dumpster and ate it. There were bits and pieces of bacon bits and watercress surrounding me. As a matter of fact, I could feel the individual pieces grinding between my butt cheeks as I examined the crime scene of feces. The obvious culprit had been found by means of deduction.

Since I had failed at the arduous task of cleaning myself after such a terrible anus eruption, I needed to find something or someone that could accomplish the task. I pulled my pants up and began down the street looking for a kind soul that was willing to help me with my predicament. There were few friendly faces that seemed approachable since it was dusk. Most people were on their way home from work and didn’t want to be tied up with the likes of me.

I had a feeling I would eventually find a willing person and boy was I right. In the distance, I saw a slightly overweight woman wearing blue hospital scrubs, a sure sign of a nurse. She had her head down, so I startled her a bit when I stopped her to ask for help.

“Hey miss, do ya’ think you could do me a favor?”, I asked her politely as I could due to the awful nature of my request.

“Sorry honey”, she replied in a very kind tone. “I don’t have any change to spare.”

“Actually, it’s not money I need. Ya’ see, I ate this wicked awful Cobb salad yesterday and it made me shit all over the alleyway. I’ve wiped and wiped and I can’t seem to get all the poo out of my ass crack. I was wondering, since you seem like the nursing type, could you wipe me clean….please?”

Her jaw dropped nearly to the sidewalk. I didn’t know if she was going to run away or pepper spray me, but I kind of expected the worst. But to my surprise, her response was actually positive. She reached into her purse (at this point I was expecting the pepper spray) and she pulled out some baby wipes. Her smile was all the answer I needed.

That woman had the touch of God himself, I swear. She told me to drop my pants right there on the spot, bent me over, and wiped me cleaner than my mother did when I was fresh out of the womb. While she cleaned me up, we had a wonderful discussion about the importance of cleaning up after yourself post-defecation. Using her awesome nurse intellect, she described how a dirty rear end can lead to disease, infection, and at the very least an awful smell.

I pulled my pants up and she kissed me on my cheek. She told me that if I ever needed anything, to come see her down at the hospital around the corner. I ended up taking her up on that offer and went to visit her a few weeks later when I had a hangnail. Turns out the person I ran into wasn’t a nurse. He was a drag queen that was on his way to a gay club down town. Oh well, in the end I got my ass cleaned and the shemale nurse from hell got whatever sick pleasure it wanted from me.

Don't Drink The Punch

Rum is without a doubt one of my least favorite liquors. Not that I don’t particularly like the taste of it, but the sugary sweetness of it turns me into a raving lunatic when I drink it. I get myself into that garbage about once every few months, not out of desire but usually out of necessity. Rum is also one of the few drinks that I have to use a mixer to be able to stomach it. The sweetness of the rum combined with the good taste of whatever mixer I decide to use, is probably the reason why I get so fucking wasted off of it. I don’t taste the bite of the liquor, so I drink a shit ton of it.

One time, some asshole wasn’t paying attention and left his bottle of rum outside of the liquor store. He went to tie his shoe and when he rose back up, the dumb bastard just simply walked away. Score one for Frank. I ran over as quickly as possible, before one of the other local bums scooped it up, and took off running with it. When I got to a safe drinking spot far from the guy who owned the bottle, I pulled off the brown bag and came to find out that it was a very shitty bottle of rum. Like six dollars a bottle shitty. Well, I thought to myself that I wasn’t going to turn down any free liquor ever, so I cracked the top and poured the whole bottle into a two liter of sprite that I happened to have with me at the time. Believe it or not, I do like to drink things other than scotch.

I was cruising down the sidewalk, taking giant swings from my mixed drink, when I came to the end of the street. Right in front of me were some guys with shaved heads and big, wavy, black robes on. They were yelling some nonsense at people as they passed by, but they all seemed to ignore. I noticed that they were handing out pamphlets, which also no one seemed to want. It then dawned on me that these were a group of street prophets, which are sort of a staple on the streets of downtown Philadelphia.

I love to fuck with these idiots, so I went over and grabbed one of their pamphlets from a small table they had set up. One of the shaved head goons tried to talk to me, but I just waved him off as I walked about twenty feet away to read in peace. I looked at the cover page which read, “Welcome to the World of the Cryontologists”, as I really began to lace into the bottle of rum and sprite. I chuckled a bit but was more intrigued than ever. I had to keep reading, so I opened the pamphlet up.

It read: “Welcome to the wonderful world of Cryontology. Our mission is to deliver the wornderful word of Fagedich, our God from the stars who will one day save us. We hope to gather enough members and earn enough money to be cryogenically frozen, put on rocket ships, and sent into the cosmos, where he will rescue us and take our human bodies to a realm far away. There we will be treated to delights that this world can never deliver. Join now, before the time of reckoning passes you by.”

I fell off the bench laughing hysterically. At this point I was fucked-in-the-ass drunk and only had about a mouthful of drink left. It was decided while I was lying in the grass, that I had to rouse these guys up a bit, so I started to walk over to them. They were delighted to see that I had not only read their garbage, but was actually coming over to talk to them.

I started the conversation by asking, “So who’s this Fag-Dick guy you guys believe in?” The tallest of the three assholes seemed a bit offended by my translation, but answered back.

“It’s actually pronounced ‘Faj-Deesh’, sir. He is our savior upon high who has given us his word to ease the suffering of human kind…”

He kept telling me his little spiel, but I stopped paying attention because things around me were really starting to spin. I did notice that one of the other men poured me a little fruit punch and tried to give it to me. I thought these fuckers were trying to go all Jonestown one me, so I flipped out, did a pseudo karate kick and knocked it out of his hands. The three were shocked by my actions, but didn’t move. Neither did I, until I projectile vomited two liters of cheap rum and sprite all over their literature. The men asked me to go away, but I passed out and crashed through their little table.

Consciousness hit me about five hours later in a pile of pamphlets and my own puke. The cheap ink they had used to print their literature had leaked off and transferred onto my head. I walked around with “Fag Dick” on my forehead for two days before someone finally told me. I haven’t seen those guys around since then, so I’m assuming they were rescued and taken away to another galaxy. Which is good for them, because if I ever see those bastards again, I’m gonna kick them in the balls.

12 Step Dickheads

In the years that I have been on the street, I have been arrested a countless amount of times. The justice system stopped wasting its time on me a long time ago because I was deemed “unsalvageable” in the eyes of the courts. Now, they just release me after a mug shot and some time to sober up, when they actually take the time to arrest me.

But a long, long time ago the assfaces at the courthouse used to sentence me to all sorts of programs and punishments in hopes of getting me sober. Lots of good that obviously did. There were hundreds of hours of community service, weekends in jail, presentations to Middle School kids about the dangers of drinking, and fines out the ass. But the one thing that bothered me the most were court ordered support groups for alcohol dependency.

Drug and alcohol support groups draw a strange collection of people, which makes sense because it is full of crazy fucks that are addicted to drugs and alcohol. These bastards have done all sorts of crazy things to score drugs like stealing from their families, robbing strangers at knife point, and sucking cock. But for some reason, the cult of sobriety always seems to look down upon those who are forced to attend by court. The very people who have had a fat, throbbing dick in their mouths for a nickel bag of heroin have the gall to pass judgment on me.

A few years back, the cops found me passed out, face down in a Philly cheese steak from Pat’s (American Without…If you don’t know that means, go Google it…it’s a Philly thing.) I drank waaaaay too much that night and the cops didn’t appreciate having to take care of my drunk ass. So they forced me to attend my first Alcoholics Anonymous meeting by the order of the city of Philadelphia. I gathered what I thought I would need for the meeting like cigarettes, a notepad, and a fifth of Cutty Sark. I moseyed on down to the church center where they were holding the meeting to find quite a large amount of people in attendance. I figured out that night that I wasn’t the only drunken asshole in the city.

When I walked through the old, painted chipped door there were roughly sixty alcoholics socializing and consuming more coffee than I thought possible by the human body. Since I was a bit naïve back then, I couldn’t understand why no one was drinking. I thought this was a hotspot for alcoholics. I figured I’d wait a bit before I broke out the scotch, so I headed over to the coffee pot and filled up a Styrofoam cup.

Everyone seemed a bit on edge for some reason. I sipped on my coffee and thought about approaching someone to maybe get in the social spirit that everyone else seemed to have. But as I looked around, no one really seemed approachable enough to talk to, so I just grabbed a seat in the back by myself. Everyone took a seat as the leader of the group took center stage and control of the meeting.

“Hello everyone”, the lady up front said followed by a unison greeting from the crowd. “My name is Tammy and I’m and alcoholic.” Tammy was overweight, had tattoos all up her arm, and looked like the type of woman who smelled like old cheese. I couldn’t imagine why they chose her as the group leader.

“I’m the head of the First Presbyterian chapter of Alcoholic Anonymous. I have been sober for five years this up coming fall.” The crowd applauded Tammy for her superior “not getting wasted anymore” skills.

Tammy continued to jammer on about a bunch of shit that I had no interest in. I knew I wasn’t going to make through an hour of this self righteous, happy-to-be-sober propaganda. I didn’t want to be sober, so this was a huge fucking waste of my time. I had about half a cup of coffee left, so I didn’t hesitate to top it off with my booze. This would keep this meeting interesting.

After a few dozen refills, Tammy began to catch on to what I was doing. She stopped in mid sentence while addressing the group and turned her sober fury on me.

“What the fuck are you doing!?” she yelled at me as if I were a twelve year old being disciplined by his mother. “Are you drinking at an AA meeting?!” I had no other choice but to put her in her place.

“What does it look like I’m doing cunt? I’m drinking some scotch. Now go get a cup a sit your fat ass on my lap and lets have a drink.”

Tammy and about five other members ended up having to physically escort me out of the building because they didn’t seem to find my behavior acceptable. It was okay though. A few weeks after this incident, that bitch fell off the wagon and I ended up seeing her at a bar. We did shots together and I ended up railing her that night behind a dumpster. She was a lot cooler drunk then she was sober. And surprisingly, she didn’t smell like cheese.