“I will not praise your weakness. I will not celebrate your sobriety. Your failings as a human and hopefully triumphant return to the land of those of us that contribute to society in varying useful ways shall not give me cause for applause. In the next three weeks you will hurt. You will cry, beg, plead, shout, scream, and pray. Welcome to your rebirth. Now get out of here.”
What the hell kinda of rehab was this?! That lovely introduction given by Mr. W. Scott was either meant to inspire us all to be better people or to see how fast we could all race to the front desk to see if it was too late to get a partial refund on our checks.
Why would someone ever subjugate themselves to something like this? I mean, who wouldn’t want to pay $5,000 a week to have someone remind you of what a hot mess you were and how your parents wish that the condom had worked or that your father hadn’t had that extra glass of wine thus making your mother attractive enough to slide his noodle-like genitalia into her sand-like vagina?
Fuck Disneyland, this is the happiest place on Earth!
Bet you’re wondering why I’m here. Or you just don’t give a fuck and are wondering why you’re reading the story of some asshole in rehab who hasn’t even bothered to introduce himself or even explain why he is in the hoosegow. Now you’re probably wondering what kinda asshole still uses pretentious terms like “hoosegow.” Well, if you’re gonna pull my arm I’ll tell you.
My name is Alan Thompson and I am an alcoholic.
I don’t mean an alcoholic like, “Oh, I lost my job my family and all my self respect” kinda alcoholics. Oh, fuck no. I wasn’t even the kind that would get drunk and start fights. I’m the kind of drunk that you’d see walking across the highway wearing socks, a watch, Band-Aids across my nipples and wearing a rubber glove with something on the fingers that could either be chocolate or…yeah. You know. The fun kinda drunk.
I stay until everyone leaves and decide that I need to have a heart to heart with Mr. W. Scott. I mean, I’m sure that underneath that rough exterior there lies a man with heart, feelings, and real emotion. He probably comes here every day hearing about all of our problems and goes home wishing someone would just speak to him like a human being. I feel that I am that someone.
“What in the blue hell are you still doing in here, Mr. Thompson?” he says without even looking up from his clipboard.
“I just wanted to--”
“Decided to have a bit of whiskey before arriving this morning, I smell” he said. “You pathetic piece of filth. I take that back. That would be an insult to all things filthy. You are lower than filth. You are the film that gathers around the mouths of those who thirst. The matter that forms in ones eyes whence waking. The crusted haploid clinging to the end of the phallus of a whoremonger.” He placed his clipboard on his desk and removed his glasses and blew some dust that likely wasn’t even on them off and sighed. “Get out of here.”
“Here the room or here the facility?” I asked him. He put his glasses back on and continued reading his clipboard that I suspected was blank and said nothing for a few moments.
“I have a license to carry a concealed weapon.”
And with that I left the room to start the first day of the rest of my new life. Or some bullshit like that.
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