My Alcoholic Handicap

By contributing writer James Pearson

I got back from my vacation this summer broke as fuck. Now, when most of my rich fratastic friends say broke, what they really mean is, “Dad hasn’t sent me my 1000 dollar spending allowance for this month.” What I mean is, “I’ve got .83 cents in my bank account, and about 400 dollars on my credit card that wasn’t there before I left.” Strip clubs are the fucking devil, and I might be the most ignorant motherfucker ever for going to them. Seriously, how dumb do you have to be to spend that much money and walk away with blue balls? My 9^th grade girlfriend gave me that for free (thanks a lot, bitch).

So I arrive in the great town of Athens with absolutely no fucking money, and I email my boss something along the lines of, “Yaddah, yaddah, yaddah, I’m back, can I start work Monday?” I get the following response within 10 minutes:

James, the position you once had is no longer available. Take care.

Signed,

Bitch

Goddamnit. I guess showing up to work on time, and actually performing some of the mandatory duties, is a prerequisite for jobs. Too bad that doesn’t line up with my life goals. Now I’m in a bit of a predicament here. The love of my life is alcohol, hands down. I could live without my girlfriend, my fraternity brothers—fuck it, I could probably live on the streets if I had a bottle of Southern Comfort. However, that evil bitch money won’t let me have my love without her. So I’m fucked.

I did a lot of contemplating (and by a lot I mean, I thought about it in between loading up porn on my computer) and came to one conclusion: I can’t work at a bar, simply because I won’t be able to get as fucked up as I want. I know they’ll let you drink, but I like drinking until I begin talking to the bar stool sitting next to me. For some reason, I think my boss might have a problem with this convo:

So, in between my hand clicking on a mouse and massaging my shaft, I came up with the great idea of working at the dining hall. Crack fiends who haven’t had a hit in 3 days have made better tactical decisions.

I showed up for my first day of work and they immediately threw me in the fucking dish room. They should call the dish room “‘Tard Room.” I’m not even fucking joking, this place was filled with retards of different shapes and sizes. I got the pleasure of working in between Johnny and Todd. Johnny is about 250 lbs and 5’8. I honestly could not understand one fucking word he said all night. This was how we met:

Johnny (in a high voice): Youkead beachnted wizorking ack ereya ooznite?
Me: Dude, what the fuck did you just say?
Johnny (smiling now): Ozkod mene ya.
Me: Okay man, just keep your fucking tard claws off of me and we’re gonna be great.

By this point my brain had begun to believe it was plugged into The Matrix.

Brain: Get out! Get out! You’re in the wrong place! You don’t belong!
Me: Chill the fuck out, we’ve gotta drink don’t we?
Brain: I can’t handle this! Look at that fucking guy, he’s playing in the soap suds like this is a fucking bath tub.

I looked over, and sure enough, Todd was fucking playing with the water like we were at an amusement park. He had this big amused look on his face. I politely told him he needed to start doing some work and help us out.

Me: Todd, fucking quit playing in the goddamn water and start washing shit.

I’m not even joking, this fucking retard glanced over at me with a look that would’ve scared Satan shitless, and flicked me off. Now, I’m not afraid of much, but I have heard of Tard Strength, and I have no doubt that Todd could have thrown me through a brick wall at that point in time. I quietly looked down at the glass I was cleaning and moved away a couple of feet. The one thing I refuse to have on my tombstone is “Killed by a Dishwashing Retard.”

In between looking up to see if Todd was coming to rip my skull from my spine and washing dishes, I started seriously considering selling drugs. Here’s the debate that went on inside my head

Doubt: Don’t do it man, it’s not worth the risk. If you get caught, you are completely and utterly fucked.

Optimism: Look, you’ve got to do this. It’s the only way out of this shit hole, and you might be fucked if Todd decides he’s had enough of your tard bashing ways. Think of all the money man.

Doubt: You’re throwing your career away because this retard flicked you off? Grow some fucking balls and wash these goddamn dishes. You’ll have enough money to get drunk, probably not pay your dues for your fraternity this semester, but fuck it, who does that any way?

Optimism: You have two options here. One, sell for a couple months and get out. Or two, stand next to Todd, the man with the strength and IQ of a gorilla for a semester.

That did it for me. I started racing through my mental Rolodex of who I could hook up with some weed. My student manager, that’s who. I know this kid smokes a ton of fucking bud.

By that time my shift was over, so I raced around looking for my manager. All that went through my head was the amount of dope I’d be able to sell, the alcohol it would supply me with, and the freedom it would provide me. Where is my fucking manager?? He is the key to all of this! He is going to set me free from this hell!

Then I saw him. Thank God, it was almost over. I walked over to the table where he was sitting by himself.

Me: Hey Bill, you smoke bud right?
Bill: Yeah man, you want some? I can get it for you cheap as fuck…

FUCK. Everything was gone. My only hope turned out not to be a pothead, but a fucking dealer himself. I looked to my right. There was Todd, glaring at me as he flicked me off once more before walking out.

Yep, I’m fucked this semester.