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Wednesday, 26 September 2012

I may not be the brightest bulb on the porch, the sharpest knife in the drawer; I'm no Edison; my philosophy may not be up to Kant's; but I am not as dumb as a bag of hammers either, except when I'm drunk at 0-dark-30, and decide to call up some old gal I haven't seen since 1969, and tell her husband that she's mine and "I'm a-comin to get her!" Or worse, I cry and tell her I never stopped loving her, and I'm a-coming to get her.

It's not my fault; oh hell no, it's not! Well, maybe getting drunk IS my fault, but with the internet and search engines at my fingertips (that is not my fault), I've been able to reconnect with over 4,229 of my ex-flames-all of whom, when I'm fubar, remain legends in my mind. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why so many of them get really pissed off when I call. I mean, I still LOVE them, WANT them, and NEED them, despite their constant whining about how I never HAD them.

Two things apparently piss them off at 3:45 a.m. when I call. Number one: I called them at all, at 3:45 a.m. Number two: I didn't come and get them as I promised, at 3:45 a.m. when I was drunk on my ass.

To be fair to me, I generally don't remember making the calls, and I've told the phone company to stop billing me for the calls because, obviously, a man of my stature would never make such calls.

On the few occasions (629) that I actually remembered making the calls, and followed up by visiting the gal of my drunken dreams, I found out why alcohol and recreational drugs are not necessarily the most appropriate modifiers of memory. Sober, I wouldn't have ever contacted the women because I hated them in the 60's and 70's (and no doubt the 80's as well), and still don't like them one bit today. To be fair to them, they feel absolutely the same way about me; they hated me then--and they hate me now.

I had sex with one of them two months ago and, when it was all over, she asked me when we were going to get started. Then it hit me; she said the same thing to me in 1967, in the back seat of my 59 Ford Fairlane.

From now on, I'm randomly picking women from the phone book, calling them up while I'm still sober, and telling them that I knew their brother in Vietnam; that he told me about her in our shared foxhole; and that he wanted her to marry me-and told me this just before he died in my arms.

It could work. Nothing else works.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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