“It was called “The Horrors of Alcohol Abuse,” and was hosted by a man named Will Stevens, who the film said was a big deal comedian, but I had never heard of him.”
Dwight Goes to Rehab
by Michael Frissore
Next thing I knew police were telling me I crashed into something. They said what it was, but I was suddenly distracted by a Gallagher routine going on in my head.
“What was that last part?” I asked.
“A building,” one of them said.
“I crashed into a building? What was the other part you said?”
“It’s a twelve-story building.”
“Okay.”
“And you crashed your car into the seventh floor.
“That’s bad.”
“Yeah. No shit, drunkard.”
I didn’t remember it happening. I didn’t remember driving or even the fun drinking part. The police said that people on the seventh floor looking out thought it was a terrorist attack because a.) I was flying, and b.) Both front doors of my car were open, giving the look, from a distance at least, of an airplane.
What they thought happened was that I somehow drove into the freight elevator. This made no sense because I would have been inside the building. Or some building. And there was no evidence of my car exiting a building, only entering. So I baffled law enforcement and everyone else with my flying car.
I didn’t kill anyone. This – and the pseudo-comical, Evel Knievel-like nature of my crash – were among the reasons I received minimal jail time along with a judge forcing me to go to rehab for thirty days.
Thus, I was forced to attend The Betsy the Cow Clinic. This very prestigious clinic was founded in 1983 by a group of farm animals in Vermont. Farmer Charlie had one hell of a drinking problem himself, the poor man, and, when he got so drunk one night that he beat one of his cows to death, some of his other animals got together and had an intervention for Charlie. It was a touching one, very reminiscent of the famous "Intervention" episode of Party of Five. Three years later the animals built their own facility. At least this is what I was told.
It was a pretty somber place, this clinic. When I arrived all this lights were off and you could hear a pin drop. Well, I could hear a pin drop. Why do people say you when they mean I. That bugs me.
I sat waiting for about a half hour until Gertie, the manager, who looked amazingly like the granny from the Sylvester and Tweety cartoons, showed me to my room. She opened the door and the smell of marijuana was undeniable, but Gertie appeared to not notice. My roommate sat Indian style on one of the beds. His name was Zeus. He was a balding hippy, probably my parents’ age. He stood 6’5” and, for as long as we roomed together, when we were in our living quarters he wore only tighty whities.
“Hey,” I said to him. “Have you ever been caught with the weed?”
“What weed?” Zeus said.
“Come on. It so apparently smells like pot in here.”
“Listen, narc…”
“I’m not a narc. I’m just curious as to how strict they are around here.”
“I don’t share, man,” he said.
“I’m not asking…” I started to say, but changed direction. “What do you mean you don’t share? Weed is supposed to be about sharing.”
“My supply is scarce.”
“Do you sell it at least?”
“No, that’s illegal.”
“So is smoking it.”
“No way.”
“You’re thinking of sex.”
“Hey, you’re not a fag, are you?”
“I am, but I don’t want to have sex with you.” I really didn’t.
“Why not?”
“You’re not my type.”
“What type am I?”
“The aging hippy pothead type.”
“I’m not a hippy. Hippies are fags.”
“Can you not use that word?”
“What word?”
“Are.”
“I can’t use are?”
“No, fags.”
“Why?”
“It’s offensive.”
“What about cocksuckers?”
“That’s fine.”
“Really?”
“No.”
“Queers?”
“Can we just pretend I’m straight?”
“Whatever, fag.”
He rolled and lit a joint, not offering it to me.
“Can you believe we’re in Room 213?” he said.
“What’s wrong with 213?”
“That’s the room number they found all those body parts in Dahmer’s place, fag.”
“Stop calling me fag.”
“Sorry.”
“You mean Jeffrey Dahmer?”
“No, Prince William Dahmer IV of Edinborough.”
“You don’t usually hear sarcasm from hippy potheads.”
“I told you I’m not a hippy.”
“I’m Dwight, by the way.”
“You played right field for the Sox.”
“No, that’s Dwight Evans, but I was named after him.”
“Ah,” he said. “I’m Zeus.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Can I call you Dewey?”
“Sure can.”
“Can I call you Dewey who likes man spewey?”
“No, you can’t.”
Gertie came into our room without knocking and invited us to orientation. For me, it wasn’t an “invitation,” per se, as it was mandatory. Zeus has been at the clinic for more than thirty days, though he wouldn’t tell me why. He never missed an orientation.
Once we got started there were four of us. There was a midget or dwarf sitting in the back and a man in a suit who looked to be about seventy up front. Gertie turned the lights off and showed us a short film. I started to wonder if she was the only one who worked here.
The film was a real downer as it was all negatives about drugs and alcohol. It was called “The Horrors of Alcohol Abuse,” and was hosted by a man named Will Stevens, who the film said was a big deal comedian, but I had never heard of him. Mr. Stevens began:
Do you love beer? Do you wake up every after-noon and have a drink of breakfast? When a beer ad comes on, do you lick the television screen? Have you been in a trance since I said the word “beer?”
Zeus began throwing pieces of paper at me.
Now, I’m not anti-drugs and alcohol by any means. In fact, I’ve got a big vial of crack in my back pocket that I plan on smoking in about two minutes. Ahahahaha-haha!!! Just kidding.
I rolled my eyes and looked over at Zeus. He had produced, from underneath his shirt, a bong he had made out of a Bic pen.
But wherever does all this excessive drinking get you? You shower, put on a pair of drawers, spray Glade under your arms only to find yourself doused with Key-stone and clam dip the second you enter the door.
A woman who wasn’t Gertie came in and tried to confiscate Zeus’s bong but received a punch in the stomach for her efforts.
“Dude, that’s not cool,” I said.
“Neither is sucking a man’s cock,” he replied.
You dance the waltzing pissant for a couple of hours, get into a spoon fight or two, pass out, and wake up somewhere across town wearing someone else’s drawers and feeling like you’ve been eaten by a wolf and excreted off a cliff.
I tried to help the woman as Zeus kept shouting “Sit down, faggot.” Gertie finally came in and asked what happened.
“He punched her, Gertie,” Zeus said.
“I did not, you son of a bitch.”
The fallen woman started to speak, but Zeus leaped off of his desk like Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat onto all three of us and said “The fag pushed me.” Some security men came in and grabbed Zeus while medics attended to the woman. Gertie told me to behave myself and watch the rest of the film.
I believe it was John Seldon who said “’Tis not the drinking that is to be blamed, but the excess.” Moderation is the key. And if you decide to transpose it into a higher key, you might as well be singing with the fat lady, ‘cause it’s over.
The midget, who, like the old man, had been sitting quietly through the whole incident, applauded at the end of the film. Gertie entered the room once again and told us to gather up front for a discussion about this important movie.
“I loved the film,” the midget said. “Will Stevens is brilliant.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“How should I know?” the midget replied. “He’s the guy is the film.”
“Just seems to me he might have been doing this as community service for something is all I’m saying,” I said.
Gertie then asked us to introduce ourselves. As it turned out, Patrick, the midget, was not a midget at all. He was actually sort of accordionesque due to a skydiving accident. His parachute wouldn’t open and he landed feet first onto a field.
“So,” I said, “Did dinnerware come out of the chute, like in cartoons? And can you play Frank Yankovic songs?”
“I got a song for you,” Patrick said. “It’s called ‘Taps.’”
He lunged at me like a rabid dog. Gertie was quick to pull him off of me and made him stand in the corner. It was now just me and Gerald in the group. Gerald was a former president of a state college who had gone on a bender of his own. He lost his job when news of the incident was printed in the school newspaper. Gertie, to my delight, had printed copies of the story and handed one to me, asking Gerald to read it out loud. Gerald, tears forming, read:
There will be new rules regarding alcohol on campus thanks to student protest and a two-week drinking spree enjoyed by the president recently.
The college will now be known as Booze University, according to the president, who now wishes to be called “Captain Cognac.”
More and more tears came as he read the first quote.
“College without drinking is like…college without drinking,” the Captain said. “In fact, I’m drunk right now. I’m drunker’n a hootin’ owl at a turkey shoot.”
While the majority of the campus responded to this news in bacchanalian glee, the Captain’s plan does have its opponents.
“I believe this is an error of intergalactic proportions,” said a student who was then smashed over the head with a beer bottle.
The Captain let everyone into his office as he prepared to sign the plan into being.
“I’m gonna bign the sooze bill,” he said. “Hello, Mr. Elephant. Is the bean dizzy? Get the bean. Wanna sing a song. I have a bootiful songing voice. Jeremiah was a bullfog. Mrs. Hildebordebuben, what’s your name? Take a memo. All potesters to the will bill be hebedded. Ha, I said hebedded. I meant…Mrs. Hooderhoafen, get me another bucket of scotch. No whammies. No whammies. Stop.”
There was a pause as Gerald placed his head in his hands.
As the Captain fell off his feet he scribbled a giant “X” on the floor with a blue crayon and yelled “Party!”
The Captain’s plan is supported not only by 384 percent (his figure) of students at the college but also by his “new trusty sidekick” Horace. Although many staff members assure us that Horace does not exist and is a figment of the Captain’s imagination, he issued this written statement:
There was another pause so we could each read the “statement,” which read:
“craptinn carfo9n is aa genis*/ $crapcarp! I lik cheeeez jjj the quik brow foxxjumpd ooove69”
I was very proud of myself for controlling my laughter, but it wasn’t over. Gerald finally continued reading.
Despite the debate over Horace’s existence, the Captain’s approval rating has gone up 93 percent (actual figure). Here are some student comments:
“Captain Cognac cares about the state of this institution.”
“This is a big victory for students.”
“Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrr!”
“Lick me. Liiiiick meee.”
The Captain has a vision for this college, and as he looked out of his office window at the campus community, he held his head high and said, “I can drink any student here under the table.”
Then he fell out of the window.
As Gertie patted the Captain on the back, my laughter could no longer be held inside. I was literally on the floor, hysterical. I wondered if Zeus knew about this.
With the orientation over, Patrick asked me if I wanted to play basketball with him.
“Seriously?” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied. “What, you think I can’t shoot hoop because of my condition?”
“No, I just thought…”
“Let’s go. I’ll kick your ass.”
We went to the gym and played a little one-on-one. Patrick was amazing. He was like a Slinky. He could dunk from the free-throw line and his feet didn’t leave the ground. He beat me 11-0 and asked if I wanted a rematch. I told him I’d try to find Zeus and make it a fair two-on-one.
When I got to our room, Zeus was sitting on the floor, staring at a blank television screen and caressing a gigantic bong. I entered to him laughing at nothing in particular and trying to catch what I guessed was a fly, although I never saw it.
"Hey, man," he said, looking up at me. "What are you doing with Heathcliff the cat’s severed head?"
"It's a basketball," I said.
"Oh. Hey, come here," he said as I sat on the bed beside him. "You know what?"
"What?" I asked.
"Chicken butt," he answered before laughing hysterically.
"You got me on that one, Zeus," I said, staring at him blankly.
"Listen, listen, man," he whispered. "Shhh...It's in the air."
"I'm sorry?" I said.
"Shhh...It's in the air," he repeated. "Shit's in the air, get it?"
"Ah, brilliant," I shouted over his insane laughter.
"Shit's in the air," he continued. "There, satisfied? Are ya? Huh? No? I didn't think so."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I shouted.
“I don’t know.”
“Hey, did you hear about Gerald?”
“So what’s with the giant orange?”
“Oh, do you want to play some b-ball? You and me against Patrick?”
“The midget?” Zeus said, laughing again.
“Funny thing about that…”
"Hey,” he said, pointing. “It's in the sky, man.”
"Oh, God. I’m not going through the ‘Shit’s in the sky’ bit again, Zeus.”
"No, really. Look,” he said. “It’s her.”
It was Emilie, Princess of Paddington County, named, for some reason, after the adorable Peruvian cartoon bear. She was the only English, vegetarian, lesbian, gothic superhero in the entire state. She had been away for quite some time, and now had returned, and with new tattoos and piercings. This was all according to Zeus.
"Princess Emilie," Zeus said. "You've returned, but wherever have you been?"
"I’ve been on tour, fighting alien evildoers like Alf and the Great Gazoo. I am your god. You shall not worship any gods but me. And don't eat meat."
”Yeah, man," Zeus exclaimed.
"I must go now," she said. "Remember, don't get run over, and Jell-O shots next party."
# # #
Michael Frissore is the author of a poetry collection called Poetry is Dead (Coatlism Press, 2009). He writes for SlurveMag.com and his work has most recently appeared in Monkey Kettle, Fast Forward Volume 3, The Toucan, and Errant Parent. He also blogs occasionally at
© 2010 Michael Frissore, All Rights Reserved
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