Issue 3 Contents


Dear Reverend McStretchy,

I've always tried to lead a good holy life but recently my drinking has gotten me into a good deal of trouble and I fear that I might be an alcoholic. I've been drinking to the point of unconsciousness nearly every day and, though I live alone, my empties have taken on the dimension of a very large, messy roommate. My friends are very concerned and they often suggest that I seek substance abuse counseling or join a 12-step program, but I feel that you're the only person I can trust. Please help me because I'm......
Plastered in Pawtucket

Wait a second here Plastered. You say you put on a pretty good buzz every day. Sounds good to me. What's the problem? You say your friends are concerned. If you're anything like me, and it sounds like you are, you've already subjected your pals to all the regular stuff a bonafide, howlin' at the moon, saucebag puts his compadres through. You've already sat next to them at the neighborhood pub, slobbering "I love you" as you drool into your Jaegermeister. And they're still your friends right? Don't worry about them: they're not going anywhere. Any flack they give you can be written off as sheer jealousy.

You see Plastered, you're one of the chosen few. Monks, saints, sages, yogis, and the like have labored through the ages to achieve a blissful, divine, state of consciousness which allows them to directly experience the ecstatic majesty of their oneness with the cosmos at large. To achieve this state these poor folk must endure intense disciplines which involve ceaseless prayer, dietary restrictions, breathing techniques, and horribly uncomfortable body positions. But for you this would all be a tragic waste of time. You just crack a beer and the gates of heaven open before you. The unwashed among us call this a "problem." Clearly this is merely the deceiver working through them. Ignore them and keep chuggin', for the kingdom o f booze is at hand.

No Plastered, you do not need professional help or the corrupt fellowship of lapsed alcoholics. What you need is a girlfriend. Don't be foolish enough to think that the devotional life of a dipso-mystic necessarily precludes the presence of a significant other, nothing could be farther from the truth. In reality, no cosmic booze-hound's sacred lifestyle is truly complete until he has taken upon himself the daily responsibilities of an intimate relationship.

Ideally, a truly gifted person such as yourself will eventually find his perfect match, the other half of him which he had always felt to be curiously absent from his life, his bar-mate. The bonding among bar-mates is truly among the most elegant experiences available to mortal man. They tend to recognize each other instantly, hastily coupling in tavern parking lots before even exchanging names. From there they go hand-in-hand through life, joyously discovering the sacred joys of transcendent drunkenness.

But alas Plastered, it seems that this is not to be. Not for you. Not in this lifetime. If your bar-mate hasn't shown up by the time you reach legal drinking age, it generally can be assumed that she died shortly after receiving her driver's license. But don't despair, there is no reason for you to lead a life bereft of romance. An adequate replacement for your prematurely departed mate can be found, and you won't even have to cough up a rib.

Don't succumb to the temptation to choose a like-minded believer who has her own personal relationship with distilled spirits, that way lies madness. In fact the ideal help-mate for you would be a mature, stable woman, several years your junior, who has absolutely no sense of self whatsoever. In order to attract a mate such as this, you need only perfect the art of appearing to be the ideal "fixer-upper." You must work to maintain the illusion that you are the ideal man, although you may be a little "rough around the edges." Whatever psychological strategy you employ to ensnare the love of your life, you must always strive to keep her thinking that she need only sacrifice a bit more of herself to transform you into the mythical super-spouse.

Many of today's modern women are ideally suited to play a water-carrying role in the passion play that is dipso-mysticism. Once you have your true love firmly entrenched in this cosmic cycle, just watch those empties disappear from your apartment. A trusted companion can make many other worldly concerns disappear from the life of an ardent booze-monk, ultimately confirming that any devout juicer need not ask where he will get clean sheets, folded laundry, food in the fridge and beer on Sunday, but need only seek the kingdom of drunkenness and all the rest shall be added unto him.

Party On,

Reverend Gills