Lost in the sauce: One last call for a swig of surrealism
"Mike, join me in a pint of Guinness."
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"Mike, join me in a pint of Guinness."
I've been back from Vietnam for seven years. I spent the first three in a drunken New Orleans haze. The next four, I drove for Hoffa's Teamsters.
My Thai friend Sith starts a lot of sentences with "Maybe America have, maybe America no have."
We pretended nothing happened. Five of us shared whiskey and a joint and just stared at the fire.
"Sith, get one of your boys to cross the Mekong. Bring back a couple of shopping bags full of pot."
I gulp a frosty mug of Pabst, wink at Gerry and ask, "Hey Hank, when are you going to start serving blacks in here?"
"Wait ‘til you try this. You won't believe it."
Editor's Note: Across the world, millions struggle with addiction to alcohol and drugs. These are the stories, as best as he can remember them, of one of those compulsive personalities.
"Hey man, aren't you from New York? A plane just hit the World Trade Center."
Anything to relieve stress: It’s scotch and smokes one night, the gym the next.
“Hey you, Spartacus. Take it outside, asshole.”
“Christ, hurry. Brendan just bet Michigan plus-4.”
“Man, am I glad to see you.”
“How much will he pay?”
“Hey man, I hate to ruin your vacation, but we got a problem.”
“Red, are you shitting me? Vegas, four days, all expenses paid for the NCAA Championship. Out of sight. Yeah, I’m definitely in.”
When I got back from Vietnam at age 22, I worked for Jimmy Hoffa’s Teamsters. I delivered appliances for Sears throughout the five boroughs of New York.
My divorce lawyer’s on the phone.
Money is like chalk to a gambler. It’s how we keep score.
Three years ago, NBA referee Tim Donaghy was busted for betting.