Yes, ol’ Drunk Unk is at it again.
He recently celebrated his 51st birthday, and I had the inclination to send him a birthday card, with a letter enclosed.
I wasn’t mean or horrible, I just told him the truth. That he needed to get some help for his alcoholism, that he was probably well on his way to being a complete mental case, and that his “poor, pitiful me” act had seen better days within the confines our little family. I explained that we no longer had the patience or the stamina to put up with his helpless routine and that he’d have to bear the burden of his own life all by himself.
I explained that he can no longer refer to himself as a “drunk,” because most drunks get up and go to work every day. He does not.
Do I feel sorry for alcoholics? Yeah. Right. Never have, never will. Especially when its someone close to me. There is no excuse for it. With all the help that is available for wretched souls, there is no excuse not to take it.
As always, the truth hurt.
He lashed out at my oldest brother, calling him throughout the night and leaving whacked out drunken messages about how we were all attacking him and it was all Hubs’ fault (huh?), and that Hubs was conspiring against him blah blah blah. This tirade was endless and chock full of profanities. But hey, my own mother used to tell me I swore like a sailor, so that part doesn’t bother me.
The morning after his drunken birthday pityparty, he calls Numbah One Son (big bro) and leaves a contrite message, apologizing for his behavior, sorry for all the phone calls, et cetera, and then, to cap it all off, he says, “If I am an alcoholic… (didja catch the ‘if’ part? There is no question about it, he IS an alcoholic, trust me), then what Ellen said was the worst thing you could say to a guy like me. I’m trying my tail off (in lieu of what he really said) to find work, and no one knows that.”
Obviously, he ain’t tryin’ hard enough. I mean, McDonalds and Burger King are equidistant from his house, and he hasn’t made a move toward either place. That kind of work is beneath him.
The most work he can muster up is to pick up the phone and whine about only having three English muffins and a can of beans left to eat. But that’s the story one day. The next day it’s “I’ve only got two eggs and a half pound of bacon til I find a job...”, and of course, big bro just rolls his eyes and says, “tough noogies.” It’s all a ruse. He tries really hard to come up with some sad, pitiful tale, hoping that one of his siblings will have mercy and drop off a bag of groceries.
I did. A couple of times. Until I realized that he was sitting there with his feet up, smoking a cig and havin’ a cold one, just knowing that some good samaritan was comin’ round.
The last time I bothered to drop by and check up on him, his screen door had a huge rip in it. I knew what had happened, but I had to ask anyway.
“Oh, well, this kid down the street did that. He come over to see ma dawg one day, and put his foot raht thru th’door. Stupid punk.”
OK, how did you get all those holes in your walls? I didn’t see those when you moved in here.
“Oh. I had this guy stayin’ with me a coupla days, some dumb GI, and he busted out them holes in the walls.”
I guess it couldn’t have been those drunken rages of yours, could it? No doubt you spend time planting flowers when you’re all tanked up.
Never admit to anything, dude, because that’s how they get ya. He has never once taken responsibility for anything. When his truck caught fire, he blamed it on his ex wife. Mind you, he was drunk, sitting behind the wheel in my parent’s driveway, and there were about 50 cigarette packs up on the dash, down on the floormats ... he was lucky that night. He passed out after putting his smoke up on the dash to fiddle with the radio. Next thing you know, POOF! Up in smoke, only not as funny as Cheech and Chong.
I went outside at 2 in the morning to watch him flood his truck with the garden hose. Still with the smoke in his mouth and a beer in one hand.
He’s more amazing than Criss Angel.
But after all, he is a mind freak.