The High Life

My fellow train passenger sitting next to me has a problem. He just pulled a tall cup out of a brown paper bag. Then he pulled out a 12 ounce can of Budweiser, popped it open, poured it into the cup, put the empty can back in the bag, pulled out another 12 ounce can, poured half of it into the cup and then placed the half-full can of Bud on the floor between his feet. He takes a few gulps out of the cup and then replenishes it with the can on the floor. That he cannot get through his train ride without drinking is, to me, pathetic. I won’t make any new friends with this post, but here goes.

Alcoholism is not a disease and I resent it being treated as such. It’s an insult to people who are actually battling a disease. Labeling it as a disease makes it sound like something you could helplessly fall victim to. Something that’s unavoidable. Horseshit. You can’t quit cancer. You can’t quit leukemia. But you can sure as hell quit drinking. I’ve seen it done plenty of times. And I don’t know of too many diseases that will allow you to go out on a Saturday night, party your ass off and then drive head-on into a van full of kids. I’ve had alcoholics in my life and do you know what? They tend to be a bunch of big fucking babies. As soon as they stumble into a room, they have to be the center of attention and need to be indulged and mollycoddled and understood. Meanwhile, everyone around them suffers. Fuck ‘em.

My man here sitting next to me has a problem. We are only 16 minutes into our ride and he’s already downed 24 ounces of beer. He can’t get through this lousy commute without drinking. Boo hoo. Poor him. It’s likely that he will get behind the wheel and drive home from the train station. I sure hope he sobers up by then.