THE SALTY SAILORThis guy has stumbled out of every bar he's entered since the 1920s and licked his gums to pass those awkward silences on the bar stool vis-à-vis
himself. Then, a few years ago, for whatever reason (free coffee, warm room, available toilet) he decided to transplant himself in the front row of my Wednesday night meeting. He doesn’t sit
with the other pirates, because the meetings and the bar share the same social
circumstances for this turd: loners are left alone. Salty Sailor drank himself
out of the relationships he had, from family to work to friends to his
landlord. That's why it’s easy not to feel sorry for this toothless asshole in
the front row of my meeting; people don’t abandon people for no reason.
And you know what changed now that he’s at an AA meeting? Absolutely fucking nothing. This fuckball still smells, talks to himself, and sponges off of the establishment. Instead of polishing off half-empty beer bottles, while exhibiting a form of DTs which never went away, he mosies over to his chair with a handful of cookies while leaving a trail of coffee behind him. Then when he manages to pillage his way to the podium, incoherent drivel spews out of his gum-riddled mouth. But one thing he wants to make clear is this: his enlightenment is goddamn magical, his bottom really was bottom he earned his spot. According to him, you will never get it the way he does. Salty Sailor likes to inform the group that he was always drunker than we could ever imagine, his hangovers shittier, his drunken spins spinnier, and his relationships destroyed with a way bigger cloud of nuclear destruction than any puffs of trivial despair we may have encountered. His message is clear: you’re not enough of an alcoholic to be there. Get out and drink some more. Lose your house and your wits. Live on the fucking street and get AIDS before you enter another meeting you sober piece of shit. Walk the plank!
And you know what changed now that he’s at an AA meeting? Absolutely fucking nothing. This fuckball still smells, talks to himself, and sponges off of the establishment. Instead of polishing off half-empty beer bottles, while exhibiting a form of DTs which never went away, he mosies over to his chair with a handful of cookies while leaving a trail of coffee behind him. Then when he manages to pillage his way to the podium, incoherent drivel spews out of his gum-riddled mouth. But one thing he wants to make clear is this: his enlightenment is goddamn magical, his bottom really was bottom he earned his spot. According to him, you will never get it the way he does. Salty Sailor likes to inform the group that he was always drunker than we could ever imagine, his hangovers shittier, his drunken spins spinnier, and his relationships destroyed with a way bigger cloud of nuclear destruction than any puffs of trivial despair we may have encountered. His message is clear: you’re not enough of an alcoholic to be there. Get out and drink some more. Lose your house and your wits. Live on the fucking street and get AIDS before you enter another meeting you sober piece of shit. Walk the plank!