There was an article on NBC news not too long ago saying that one-third of those who end up in the ER have been consuming alcohol, and that the number one drink of choice is Budweiser.
My friend who used to drink a lot of Budweiser used to be friends with an ER doctor, and that friend said there were a surprising number of people who came into the ER with things lodged up their butts. (It might have only been two, but at the time, it surprised me.) That doctor was married to a flight attendant who never wore underpants no matter how short the skirt and was like that John Prine song: “You oughta see his wife, she’s a cute little dish. She smokes like a chimney and drinks like a fish.” I haven’t talked to this couple in over fifteen years and wonder every now and again if they’re still married. There was another guy in that group who was a tree surgeon and was kind of built like a tree, a big one, and he was married to a lawyer with a funny name who had big, sexy hair, and by god, they could whoop it up. When someone got caught having sex in a field during one of the group’s wedding, they were the couple everyone thought of first.
I was on the fringe of this group–not really one of them–but I desperately wanted to be part of their clan. I think about that every now and again, too.
What’s this got to do with anything, I don’t know, but it’s what’s swirling around in my head as I start a new story.