Drinks

I have always found bars peculiar establishments. Watering holes sans sustenance, where one can drift slowly (or quickly if Everclear is involved) into euphoric inebriation. To get "so fucking wasted, bro," as it were. I am often invited out for a drink with friends or co-workers, and often I decline. Every now and again I will relent and throw them a bone (or boner, if you know what I mean [I apologize for the last joke, I have a court order to reference my erection at least once a day {I have a terrible lawyer, btw}]) and go out, but I always have an internal discussion over how I am making a terrible mistake. 

Drink? For what purpose? To simply be drunk? Aside from the fact I despise being drunk, becoming drunk is a solitary endeavor. Last I checked vodka doesn't provide a contact high. No need to surround myself with strange strangers yelling over a shitty Coheed & Cambria song about that one time they got so fucking wasted, bro.

Drink with friends? Then why go out to a bar? Just drink in whatever fixer-upper trash heap doubles as your humble abode and avoid the minor claustrophobia and missing phones custom to the pub/bar/dive experience.

Meet new people? Not to paint the entirety of the drinking population in one self-righteous brush but I'LL GO AHEAD AND DO JUST THAT: the typical bar patron lacks creativity, empathy, and the all important hmm-my-tattoos-are-looking-kinda-fucking-stupid-guess-I-should-stop-while-I'm-ahead sense. Those who regularly frequent bars are not my cup of tea as people go, since they are drinking alcohol, not tea.

The very idea of bars is akin to fast food playpens; a relatively safe environment for one to interact with strangers, gorge oneself on various pro-heart attack hors d'oeuvres, cry randomly, bleed mysteriously, and make bad decisions. Pinatas too. Sometimes there are pinatas.

And yet! There, near the garishly decorated pool table! Do you see the man blissfully unaware that that is actually not a dance conga but merely a line to the bathroom? The women's bathroom, no less. Do you see the man gurgling the lyrics to four separate songs that he Macgyvered into one mega-song? Do you see the man laughing at everything and nothing simultaneously? There stands the happy drunk (who is well past "so fucking wasted, bro," bro) to drown my cynicism with a parade of 50 cent wells. I once believed the phrase a misnomer. Happy drunk. Isn't one of the benefits of inebriation lowered inhibition and, conversely, lowered emotional connectedness? Wouldn't one be more numb than blithe?

Then I considered the thought of being connected, even if only tangentially, to others disconnected was enough to warrant a smile. A laugh towards the heavens. To enjoy the nether of the moment, chest bump nonexistence. That aside from the positive societal connotations a drink with friends has represented for centuries there is something more to drinking, more to dancing on tables like an asshole, that one can transcend the quiet pleasure of nursing one's last drink past simple inebriation and onto nirvana. Temporarily know the feeling of congruence between the universe and the self.

So I look at the puke-stained man carried out by friends as one who has captured a part of the essence of being. A scotch sophist, a bourbon Buddha.  Balance unsteady, world aligned.

Haiku

A few unrelated haiku

How to improve golf
Tusken raiders and sarlaccs
Who wouldn't watch that?

Her name was Candy
Studying to be artist
Likely a stripper

Jokester co-worker
The peanuts remain silent
Thank god no one's sick

Really need a muse
Would make my daydreams better
Looks good on cards too

Blood on the TV
Newspaper scoffs, Is there more?
We're working on it

Warrior, he says
Misanthrope more accurate
Off to slay dragons

I open the door
She smiles, not genuine
I am still outside

Not hungry for food
People greet me, I'm polite
Off to cook for one

Voices! There or not?
Sisyphus had it easy
Knows it's the boulder

She asked What is love?
I turned to her in reply
For motherfuckers

Question

Dear Mr. Coats,

 

     My best friend of almost 20 years, Rosemary, recently became pregnant with her first child. I am absolutely thrilled for her and her husband, and was honored when she asked me to host her baby shower. I accepted without any hesitation but now I am having some reservations. I mean, I've held one baby shower in the past so this ain't my first rodeo so to speak, but I've recently learned that Rosemary is pregnant with the Antichrist. Apparently a few months back Rosemary attended a Satanic ritual gathering she mistook for a Game of Thrones watch party. After a few rounds of tannis root punch and a brief raping by Beelzebub poof! She's carrying the Spawn of Satan. Now she's eating raw meat, speaking in Latin, and just subscribed to US Weekly. A two year subscription! What should I do?

Jumping Everywhere Seeking Ubiquitous Savior


Dear JESUS,

     Please, Mr. Coats is my father; call me Dr. Coats, I went to school. Also, your pen name feels rushed and contrived. Work on that. Now onto your question, which is a good one. As you already know hosting a baby shower can be a hectic affair, and this is never more true when said child is the harbinger of Armageddon. Now before you say 100 Hail Marys and stock up on holy water take a deep breath, chow on some raw meat, and relax. There are certain rules when hosting a baby shower, and some of them must be tweaked to appease the Beast.

1. When to Host the Baby Shower

    Timing for baby showers is important. Too late and Rosemary might be dead after the Antichrist rips himself from her stomach. Too soon and she won't have a baby bump to sport! Won't that look awkward for pictures! What you want to do is schedule the baby shower for the third trimester, third day, third hour. The 3-3-3 dating is in reverence for our Lord's true number (6-6-6) and looks great on invitations!

2. Sending Invitations

    Now I know sending hand written invitations may seem old hat, but this is your first chance to show your guests your creative flair and sedate them for the coming onslaught of death and destruction promised by the Adversary's birth. Take a man in your life who you hold dear, be it a husband, son, or what have you, and slaughter them. Using their blood write the invitations on parchment made from lamb skin (wink wink) and have them delivered in the dead of the night via raven.

3. Food and Drink

    This is where many women hosting a baby shower for the Antichrist mess up. A typical baby shower can last anywhere between 3-4 hours, so having food that tastes delish at room temperature is an absolute must. To tie into the shower's apocalyptian theme and as a sign of solidarity for the mother serve raw goat liver, sheep intestines, chicken heart, and Ritz crackers with cheese and veggies sprinkled on top. Yum! Drinks, of course, should be communion wine stolen from a church (burning down the church is a plus).

4. Activities/Games to Play

    Truth or Dare type games are safe and simple, yet expected. Why not spice things up a bit? With any party there will always be that one guest who just rubs people the wrong way. "There's not enough variety in the drinks, celebrating the birth of the Antichrist is blasphemous, wah wah wah." Take that curmudgeon (or if she doesn't exist, target the weakest amongst you) and offer her as a ritual sacrifice for the impending birth of the Son of the Morning. This game/sacrifice isn't about competition so remember to keep it light; killing a non-believer shouldn't be stressful, it should be fun!

5. This Tip Left Intentionally Blank

Well there you have it miss! Four(ish) easy(ish) tips(ish) to make sure(ish) Rosemary's baby shower is the baby shower to end them all(ish). Ave Satani!

Dr. Coats
  




Talks

The Talk- Wherein a parent vaguely describes one of the most physically basic yet emotionally complex interactions humanity partakes in to a youth who probably has more sexual partners than years. It is usually during this Talk wherein both parent and child realize the true depth of the generational gap separating one from the other. The patriarch looks into the youth's eyes, full of vigor and valium, and sees the tragedies of unfulfilled promises, missed opportunities, and broken condoms beckoning over the horizon. "Turn back!" they shout internally, "Stay young forever! Wear a fucking condom you dumbass, that pull out shit is like 50-50 at best." That is what they wish to say. What comes out, unfortunately, is much talk of birds, bees, and other animals who handle procreation with far more grace than we humans ever will. I mean, have you ever seen a horse fuck another horse? Majestic. 

Office Talk- From a distance, nigh indistinguishable from a menagerie of birds loudly squawking and white bird shitting all over a water cooler. The two defining characteristics of this Talk are a slight, disingenuous smile held throughout the entirety of the conversation and an E! News correspondent-like laughter on timed intervals rather than after something funny actually being said. Shackled to their desks for 45+ hours a week by the bourgeoisie, dreams of a better life long since dead, and someone didn't put ink in the printer again are you shitting me? Is it any wonder that the working class descends into mindlessly vile gossip about other departments, shady Machiavellian deals between enemies, and sport scores? 

Small Talk- Designating it as small should give one an idea of its place in the pantheon of talks. Purposefully devoid of purpose, all small talks can be accurately paraphrased as two faux friendly individuals affirming one another's existence. Whereas Office Talk is, thankfully, confined to the land of snazzy ties and TPS reports, Small Talk is free to bore the hell out of you anywhere at anytime. Its small stature is derived less from the subject matter usually entailed in such a discussion (You ever tried Charmin toilet paper? Because I got this coupon from my mother-in-law recently, bless her heart, and I was kind of iffy about it. I mean on one hand Cottonelle has always done right by my butt cheeks but the coupon is $1.50 off when you buy two and I'm like Hello! Cha-ching! See if I save $1.50 on the toilet paper then I can try out this new mouthwash that says it 'deep cleans' your mouth and then I can shoot myself in the fucking head.), rather, the lack of urgency inherent to such conversations proves its downfall. As far as conversation is concerned, when nothing is said with sincerity then nothing is said.  

Real Talk- Urban colloquialism (which has since been co-opted by hip young suburbanites and MTV 5) denoting speech overflowing with sincerity or realness, as it were. One equating one's words as "real" is an efficiently succinct way of saying "I'm really fucking annoying and you will not believe half the shit that comes out my mouth someone please punch this stupid Snapback off my head." While definitely not lacking in sincerity, Real Talk is almost completely devoid of rational thought. A declaration of forthcoming words being "real," are just as likely to express one's adulation for Schoolboy Q as they are to express one's desire for gays not to be allowed basic human rights. It is a buffer for stupidity, a shield; a man who wields a shield without a sword is a coward.

Crazy Talk- You seen the Moon Baby lately, baby? She followin' me all over the damn place, can't take a piss out my wallet for two seconds without BAM there go that Moon Baby again. Always askin' me 'bout "Ya' never returned my butterscotch, where my butterscotch," and I say her "Bitch! That was 20 damn years ago! Ain't never been back to the coast and you know what's what. WOO WOO!" But Moon Baby don't care, thinkin' she own the damn place what with her checks coming in everyday since the war, y'know? Cot damn war that's what did us in, yes sir I say you once that war hit? You 'member? And we done had to ration off all the carpet for the Moon Baby? Yeah, that's what it was, yup. Fuck that Moon Baby.

Good Talk- A title internalized before it is verbalized, this Talk is the penultimate aspiration of conversationalists the world over. Good in the same way the Sun is good to the Earth, having completed such a talk one is revitalized by the lack of pretension between two (or more, great conversation need not be monogamous) individuals, the total destruction of the defensive barriers we use to protect ourselves from ourselves, the unsaid yet unassailable feeling of congruence between emotion and verb. Such talks are rare, so rare in fact that after a period of time one forgets what a Good Talk feels like entirely. Self help books, life coaches, infomercials, Maury, and a plethora of you-suck-and-have-no-one-to-turn-to-but-that's-cool-we-can-make-you-feel-better-for-five-easy-payments-of-$19.95 type products would cease to exist if we were able to speak freely with our brothers and sisters.