The perpetual bar stool is our God.
It faces an altar of twinkling lights,
and magical multi-colored bottles.
The altar is also adorned with...
nicotine-stained packets of slim jims and beer nuts.
I worship wall placards advertising Tombstone Pizzas.
Our tombstones are not very far away,
so prayer is appropo.
So many of us sit from dawn to dawn...
or is it from dusk to dusk?
We do crossword puzzles or watch Maury Povitch.
We like impressing fellow drunks with our knowledge.
Does Jeopardy's Alex Trebeck really give a shit?
Nobody gives a shit.
We already know this.
We just take a shit, if we're lucky.
The drunken mind is never constipated,
and physically, we learn to live with the runs.
We meet bums, bimbotic Barbie Dolls,
who were once Homecoming queens.
We meet the jocks, the academics, the laborers...
the shoulda' beens...
who all have an excuse...
and the shame is that you agree with them...
and you smile with them, and their insane laughter.
You listen to shrieking, crying, fighting.
All is normal in our fog.
'Cause these are your friends.
They are your friends until you need them.
"Hey, who's gonna help me move at eight o'clock,
They all offer to come over and help.
After all, they're your friends.
You're being evicted.
You sit on your stoop at eight the next morning,
alone with a cup of joe, and the shakes.
You sit all alone, while workers pile your junk in the street.
All you can think of, is getting back to your barstool.