Boozeday at the Skylark

Sometimes a pony gets depressed. Depressed because it has no stylish saddle, no wholegrain oats, no universal acclaim. This pony stops the dark tiger by seeking out love and support –from my bartender. This occasionally causes problems at “home:”

Wife: What’s wrong.
Working Boy: Well I (cut off)
W: Shut up and make me dinner.
W.B.: I already did, it’s on the table.
W: There’s half a Wheat Thin on the table.
W.B.: I can’t take your accusations anymore! I’m going to my watering hole.

W.B. goes to waterhole (Wife doesn’t clean the apartment while he is away.) At the bar he is greeted by staff: “Hey Buddy, how’s life?” W.B. suspects they don’t remember his name and decides to spend lots of money to earn their trust and friendship back. Does a standup job on both accounts and return home a new, more confident man.

W: Welcome back you lazy drunk.
W.B.: Why do you have to kill my buzz like that?
W: Since when does slugging Rumplemints until you pass out count as a buzz? The only reason you’re home right now is because you ran out of money. That, or they kicked you out.
W.B.: They're my friends, they would never kick me out.
W: They don’t even know your name.
W.B: That a lie! A dirty terrible lie!
W: Is it Buddy? Is it really Buddy?
W.B: Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Argh! I can’t take it anymore. I’m suffocating in this middle-class WASP mediocrity.
W: Oh please. Were you suffocating yesterday when you spent 300 dollars on “men’s” skincare products?
W.B: I told you. I bought them to make a statement about the unjust social structures that allow such a thing to happen! It’s all very highbrow so I’m not surprised you don't understand. No one understands an artist in her own time.
W: You’re an artist now?
W.B: A gender sensitive artist, yes.
W: I thought you wanted to be a cartoonist/novelist/social commentator.
W.B. That was last week. Today I want to be a performance artist/journalist/marine biologist.
W: Yeah ok. Hey, here’s an idea. How about you try to be...not an alcoholic.
W.B: Alcoholic?! That’s a dirty rumor started by some jerk whose name I can’t remember.
W: That jerk was you –yesterday- when you wanted to be a straightedge counselor/poet/organic farmer.
W.B: I hate organic farmers so much.