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Kids today don’t drink like they used to. Nor do adults. Some people might say this is because some kind of personal fault, like because you and I ain’t as masculine as our forefathers. That explanation doesn’t work for me, though, because I don’t enjoy taking personal responsibility for things. Me, I like to blame society.

Yes, society. All those hand-wringing nancies with their DARE programs, .08 DUIs, and pre-employment criminal background checks. They ruined drinking. My dad once told me about a time he got pulled over in his early 20s after having downed “twenty something beers in a few hours.” He had hit a mailbox and then turned the wrong way onto a one-way street. As punishment, the police made him dump out the beer he was holding and then told him to drive directly home.

The most infuriating part of that story is that it isn’t even very good; odds are, someone you personally know has told you one that was more extreme. I—it’s just not fair, that things used to be so fun. Now driving after more than a mouthful of whiskey could lead to ten grand in penalties, a different-colored insurance card, and having to spend two weeks around hideous sobriety cultists who will try to make your natural urges feel wrong and bad.

Now, drinking more than a couple nights a week is a sign of a severe personal fault. A fault that, according to the cultists at AA, one can never be cured of. Enjoying intoxication used to be taken as a given, a sign of being conscious and aware, wanting to dull the sensations of this rotten and awful world. Now it means you’re Sick. You need to take pills.

As such, full-on, old-timey crapulence is now rarely seen outside of dark alleys, Detroit, and other such destitution hotspots. Kids today, they say they raised hell but really they barely raised heck. I mean, I can’t blame them—they were brought up in an environment when a single fuckup resulted in arrest or expulsion, and where not being fanatically devoted to sobriety was considered the worst kind of insanity. But goddamn are they lame.

Me, I just went on the kind of bender that would have impressed Graham Greene. My personal life entered in a change phase brought about by success and hardwork that nonetheless marks the end of a very nice, long period of peace. Such a mix of celebration and despondency entreats one toward either drunkenness or schizophrenia, and I gleefully chose the former. (Plus the Blackhawks won the cup, and you gotta stay drunk for a while after that happens).

Alas, responsible existence has once again beckoned for me, and so I promised myself three straight days of stark, sober productivity. Like a monkey trained to mine for gems, or one of those pale cubicle dwellers in Brazil.

Manfully, I have failed. And so I opened up this little fucker and let me tell you even though I was tired enough of beer to swear temporarily off it, and even though my tolerance had recently reached a point where it alarmed hobos, one snort of this sonofabitch confirmed all my long-held prejudices, made it clear now and forever always the drunkenness is the one and only path towards light.

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