Sort of like Christmas

I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but I have a bit of a problem with the booze. Actually me and the booze get along great, it's just that as a team we don't get along so well with people or life. So I attended my very first AA meeting today. It was weird. There were chants and everyone was ridiculously friendly. I had to hold hands with two guys and pray. They gave me a one day sober key chain which will apparently gets exchanged for different color key chains the longer I attend their sobriety cult. I'm not really sure key chains are the best motivator, but I guess these folks really like them, and they are probably a better idea than the color coded bottle openers I suggested.



A fellow who shared my first name told his saga of addiction and recovery and everyone clapped. I personally found it almost as depressing as it was encouraging. But I clapped too because if there is one thing I have learned it's that you should never piss off a cult during one of their ritual story times. I'm going again on Friday because I was told IHOP is involved, and I am a total pancake and bacon whore. I might consider joining NAMBLA or Scientology if I had the promise of mapley goodness and hash browns with coffee. Plus I always wanted to be in a cult.



I jest of course, it was actually a very pleasant experience. If you think you want to try and quit I would suggest it highly.



And since I can scratch off the cult from my list of things to do before I die, and KY-jelly wrestling Brittany Spears still looks to be pretty far down the road, I'm working on my next life goal. I would like to make out with a zombie. I might get the chance this Halloween. I don't really know why I find this idea so attractive, but it turns me on. Of course it would have to be a really attractive zombie, but I got that covered. This Halloween is going to be so bad ass. And I'm going to have to learn how to apply make up, because I'm going to be Captain Spalding from the Devils Rejects, possibly the best horror movie ever created. It was some what lacking in zombies come to think of it. But none the less, it was a scary ass roller coaster of a mind fuck, from the first scene to the last. Anyway, enough with the Rob Zombie plugs, here's the bad mofo I'm gonna be:







Oddly enough this will not be the first time I have put on make up. In fact it will not even be the second or third. There have been a good handful of times in my life I was coerced into dolling up for the good of society. Hell I wore make up for my mom once.



That comment really needs an explanation. You see what happened was I was sitting around the house polishing off my third 40 oz. of Hurricane or some other equally gnarly beer-ish concoction, and had been watching Fight Club every day for the past two weeks. These two seemingly innocent yet borderline destructive activities came together with an evil synergy that resulted in me bouncing around the back yard bare knuckle boxing my completely sober and much larger roommate, whilst my other roommates stood around with lights and a camera to record the festivities. I should note for the sake of historic accuracy, just in case this ends up in my Wikipedia biography after I croak, We were not technically bare knuckled at this point. We had wrapped a sock around each hand and duct taped them in place, you know, because safety always comes first.



Well a minute or so into the ass kicking I received (I'm not even a very good fighter when I'm not wasted) My room mate, who never wanted to do this to begin with, popped me hard right square on the nose and broke the shit. I started bleeding everywhere and they stopped the fight. Well I got a black eye, and severe facial bruising from the broken nose. This was not really a problem because I sort of got a kick out of looking violent in public, but in a twist of timing that couldn't have gotten much worse, Mothers day was three days away.



You see, my family had not gotten a family portrait all together for somewhere around ten years. This was to be our present to our beloved matriarch. And now I looked like some dumb ass who had gotten the shit kicked out of him. So I manned up and out of love for my mother I put on make up. And I looked damn good. You couldn't even tell I was bruised all to hell. And the best part was that we went to this really ritzy joint over in the snooty rich section of town. Because there are no portrait marts over on our side of town. We like to use our own cameras for this sort of thing. So my brothers and I, who all hate upper class establishments with a passion, and tend to get rowdy when forced into them, were messing with the other patrons as much as we could without getting kicked out.



After the photos were photographed and the parental units were hemming and hawing over which prints to buy, i immediately went to the little boys room to wash the whore paint off my face, cause it was driving me nuts and I could almost feel my nuts shriveling from the sheer wussyness of wearing it in the first place. As far as anyone else knows I went into the bathroom with a regular face and came out looking like I just fought a bear. (another life goal for another blog) I actually made it all worth it because not only was my mom happy, but I got to scare little rich kids with my face, which made Mothers Day sort of like Christmas that year.