Chris Walker Vs. A Call To Duty

I quit drinking recently.

…

I’m just kidding. I would never do such a thing however; I did cut back on my drinking. Not for health reasons or because I felt I was drinking too much. Drinking just wasn’t sounding appetizing, that’s all. I’m sure Vikings didn’t dine on the blood of the vanquished while gnawing on dead animal every night. Sometimes you just need a minor siesta. My siesta lasted about a week and a half. It should have lasted somewhere around three but my liver had to put on its prize fighter gloves sooner than expected.

The premature call to duty happened midway through a week of social dinner gatherings. I’d been “behaving myself” by drinking water while people around me had martinis, scotch, and other delicious concoctions. Everyone would give me shit and call me a pussy – which was fitting – but I didn’t care. I just didn’t feel like consuming alcohol.

Then, this woman – this absolute pinnacle of unattractiveness, a woman so…unappealing that even if she offered herself to a guy coming out of a ten year stint in the clink he’d be like, “Sorry honey, I’ve seen better looking men in jail,” – noticed my lack of alcoholic consumption and said, “Good for you,” giving me a thumbs up.

After writing that sentence I realize I should have addressed the thumbs up in Chris Walker Vs. The Fuckin’ A but since I didn’t I’ll do it now. The thumbs has to be the ultimate “look at me, I’m a douchebag,” maneuver. It’s dumber than clapping, hi-fiving, and get-well cards combined. The only time a man should ever give a thumbs up is when he’s nanoseconds away from administering The Plunger to an unsuspecting woman’s blow-hole. That or, if he’s a Roman emperor deciding the fate of a gladiator. Otherwise it’s stupid. And seriously, who sends get-well cards? Like a cheesy card will miraculously cure me. Thanks for the sincerity, you’re an asshole. You want me to get well? – send pornography, a Steely Dan box-set, something other than foldable cardboard with smart-ass Garfield telling me to “packsome mud on it” and, oh yeah, don’t tell that guy with the dog I ate his lasagna. Absolutely retarded. And since we’re on it, Jon from Garfield is totally gay. Have you ever seen him with a woman? EVER? I mean sure there’s Liz but, what? – 28 years and Jon still hasn’t sealed the deal? Bang a dude already. The guy is so sexually frustrated I can’t believe he’s never driven an Oldsmobile through a kindergarten playground during recess, thwacking toddlers off the hood of his car.

I’d better open up the Funnies this coming Sunday and find this Garfield comic strip:

Frame One: Jon propped up in bed, butt-ass-naked, with a single sheet draped over his shlong.
Frame Two: Jon, same position, only now smoking a cigarette. An unfiltered cigarette, at that.
Frame Three: Liz enters the shot looking grumpy as ever, wearing a bathrobe.
Frame Four: Liz says to Jon, “Jesus Christ, Jon. That was amazing. I can’t believe I put off that earth-shattering orgasm for twenty-plus years.”
Frame Five: John, not making eye contact, “Yeah, Liz, remember how you came into my home two hours ago?”
Frame Six: Liz, same stupid expression, “Yeah?”
Frame Seven: Jon, lighting another cigarette, “Feel free to kick yourself out the same way.”
End of strip.

It better be that or Jon quits hassling the goddamned cat and ends decades of speculation by sucking a dick. Although I like my first idea better I’m willing to accept either outcome to finalize the dispute.

What the fuck was I talking about?

I remember – I wasn’t drinking; everyone was giving me hard time; a bucket-of-bleh – let’s call her MUWA (or the Most Unattractive Woman Alive) – gave me thumbs up for denying myself fermented vegetation.

When MUWA said, “Good for you,” and gave me a thumbs up for not drinking I had a come to Jesus moment: an instant so monumental it causes you to reevaluate your life choices. If I allowed this dreary, lackluster, snaggle-beast you couldn’t pay me to watch undress grant me her approval it would be like forfeiting every ounce of testosterone I had, nullifying my very way of life – my absolute essence of being. Like when Superman gives up his powers in Superman 2 and gets slapped around by those lumberjacks in the diner. I’d be fagging out on that kind of level. So, I had a decision to make: be held in high esteem by the MUWA or do something to counteract her newfound acceptance.

I made the right choice. I immediately called over the waiter and told him I needed a vodka martini – no vermouth.

Looking across the table, I noticed a great deal of disappointment on MUWA’s face. Once my martini arrived I quickly consumed it and ordered another. Someone at the table said, “Chris, I thought you weren’t drinking?” I responded with, “Yeah, but then I saw Jesus in that flood-light over there and he told me I should have one. He did turn water into wine, after all.” I’m not even kidding.

MUWA seemed appalled by my statement however; most of her facial expressions are exactly the same so I wasn’t certain. To confirm my victory I drank the second martini and said, “Mmm, I enjoy vodka almost as much as I enjoy hitting small children.” Any shred of respect MUWA had for me disappeared and she went back to looking like the moppy collie-dog she truly was, no longer consenting of my behavior. I was triumphant. And satisfied. Why? Because nothing is funnier than offending people with morals and ethics.

My siesta was over. The Vikings went back to dining on blood; Superman’s powers were restored. All was well with the universe.

This story was supposed to segue into Chris Walker Vs. The Wide World of Adult Beverages but it’s getting so long I’ll just save it for tomorrow. Until then, I don’t know, read this.

Posted: July 12th, 2006 | Author: Chris Walker | Filed under: Uncategorized | No Comments »