I Don't Remember Saturday Mornings

(Cronan Thompson)

I don't remember Saturday mornings.

Which is, I suppose, to be expected considering my Friday nights.

I'd spend all of Friday night finding women who wouldn't give me the time of day, and stealing their watches. Then I'd find my yellowed old drunk (I say "my" because I'm the one who spray-painted him yellow while laying in a puddle of his own piss and vomit) and get him to buy me enough alcohol to kill several small barnyard animals. We'd split it and he'd explain, for the 1000th time, how the Reagan Administration's foreign policy had ruined his life and driven him to drink.

He'd hit me with the rusty brass knuckles he always wore, and we would both laugh and laugh as the blood ran down my arm. Then I'd splash some rubbing alcohol in his eyes before kicking him in the nuts. I really loved that old hobo sonofabitch. And when he bent over clutching his crotch in pain, I knew he really loved me too.

Once I staggered away, slurring a few, well, slurs at passerbys who tried to help me. If any sickly looking senior citizens made an attempt at keeping me from falling, I'd knock 'em down and beat 'em with their orthopedic shoes and quadcanes. It was fun until they started moaning about their grandkids and pets, and then I'd just shrug and hit 'em until they stopped moving.

Sometimes I'd stop in some little mom & pop grocery store and shoplift some Twinkees and candy. I need the energy if I was going to make it home.

The bus was always fun. I'd pretend to fall asleep and then jump blow my fetid breath at anyone forced to sit next to me.

I'd also start arguments with myself. I'd slowly get louder and louder and louder until the bus driver was swerving all over the place, trying to figure out who was screaming. I'd eventually run out breath.

I'd get out at the main terminal and walk the rest of the way. Once (if) I made it home, I'd stumble through the living room and collapse on the dog. The way it whimpered always soothed me.

On Saturday afternoon I'd look in the mirror and punch the hideous reflection that gawked back at me. More blood. Didn't matter though, I was numb from the eyes down; the only thing I could feel was the incessant throbbing of my skull. What fun.

Return to Online Tribute to Cronan Thompson.