From the August 1998 magazine.

Mr. High Bottom

I thought I was a high-bottom drunk. A pint of scotch in one hand and a sixteen-ounce Budweiser in the other. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I liked to take alternate sips of one or the other--sips! What am I saying? I mean slugs. I was a gulper, a gulper who hung around with guzzlers so I'd have somebody to feel superior to. Once in a while I'd find myself drinking with a sipper. The guy would drive me nuts. Why doesn't he just drink the damn thing and get it over with? What's his problem anyway?

His problem, mind you, not mine. I didn't have a problem. I just liked to drink. I liked to drink because it was fun; I had a good time when I drank: except when I got punched in the face (often by a woman); or when I made a fool of myself; or got arrested; or went into a blackout; or wrecked my car; or had the dry heaves; or peed in the bed (or on the floor). Well, it was fun while it lasted; only generally it did not last that long--I'd have to go to sleep, put my head down on the table, or go outside and crawl into the car, or lie down on the sidewalk, or maybe under the table while the party went on around me (I wasn't really passed out; I could hear everything; I had them all fooled, ha ha).

-- Wayne B.

Montpelier, Vermont

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