Love Me, Love My Violent Alcoholic Rages

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Vol 39 Issue 09

Abusive Husband Was Himself Abuser As Child

JACKSON, MS—Psychiatric evaluations of wifebeater Jimmy Pellett, 33, indicate that he himself was abusive as a child, doctors reported Tuesday. "Since the age of 3, Mr. Pellett has been the perpetrator of countless acts of violence against his parents, siblings, and other neighborhood children," Dr. William Traschel said. "Sadly, the beatings and emotional terror he inflicted as a child led him to more beatings as an adult. Just another textbook case of the abuser growing up to be the abuser."

'Watermelon Capital Of World' Claim Goes Unchallenged

CORDELE, GA—For the 15th year in a row, Cordele has retained the title of "Watermelon Capital of the World"—despite a clear lack of evidence that its melons are the biggest, best, or most abundant. "We really expected Knox City, TX, to step up to the plate this year and give us a run for our money," said Mona Simmons, president of the Cordele-Crisp Chamber of Commerce. "Thankfully, they seem content just being the Seedless Watermelon Capital of the World."

White House Pretty Sure Uzbekistan Diplomat Stole A Bunch Of Soap

WASHINGTON, DC—Following a weekend visit by Otkir Halilov, Uzbekistan's Minister of Foreign Affairs, White House officials are "90 percent sure" that the visitor made off with a bunch of soap and other assorted sundries. "I don't want to start an international incident, but I'm pretty sure Otkir swiped four or five bars from one of the upstairs bathrooms," said White House chief of staff Andrew Card at a press conference Monday. "Either he wanted a souvenir or they just can't get that kind of stuff back home." Also missing were an embroidered towel, a box of Kleenex, and two miniature cans of Edge shaving gel.

Oscar Gift Bags

Each year, Academy Awards attendees take home a coveted gift bag. Among the items to be included this year:

Life After Saddam

With war imminent, President Bush and others are already discussing plans for a post-Saddam, U.S.-occupied Iraq. What do you think?

Man Offered Cocaine By Guy He Met At Urinal 90 Seconds Ago

NEW YORK—A minute and a half after using a urinal at the Manhattan hotspot Bungalow 8 Monday, Gerard Bouchard, 25, was offered cocaine by the stranger voiding his bladder next to him. "As I'm leaving the restroom, the sweat-soaked guy I was pissing next to says, 'Sure is crowded, but, hey, lots of hot chicks and you can't go wrong with that, right? Want a bump?'" Bouchard said. "I guess I didn't realize that taking your penis out near someone makes them your good friend." Bouchard declined the man's generous offer, bypassing a chance to strengthen their urinating-in-close-proximity bond.
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Just Like Everything Else!: Fox 8 p.m. EDT/7 p.m. ABC Pete's wife is still on him about building that darn shed, these kids are going to be the death of Sheila and Dave, and the hot next-door neighbor is up in EVERYBODY'S business! Sunday nights on ABC couldn't be any more familiar!

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Little League Pitcher Just Getting Fucking Shelled

RED BANK, NJ—After watching the 11-year-old give up the fourth straight double that inning, sources confirmed Sunday afternoon that local Little League pitcher Dustin Bauer is getting absolutely fucking shelled out there.

Love Me, Love My Violent Alcoholic Rages

Hey, I know I can get a bit out of hand sometimes, but nobody's perfect. Sure, every now and again, I'll have a beer or twelve down at the bar, then head over to Sheila's place and smack her around some before the cops drag me kicking and screaming to the drunk tank. Maybe it's not the greatest habit in the world, but everybody's got their good and bad qualities, right? Love me, love my violent alcoholic rages.

It's like my sister Donna and those three terriers of hers. You go to visit her, and those mutts are slobbering all over your lap in 10 seconds flat. There's dog hair and squeak toys everywhere, but she couldn't give a damn. She says any man who wants to marry her will have to accept those critters. And I respect that. Sometimes, I sleep on Donna's couch when I'm too wrecked to get the key in the car door. She lives close to Tilly's Tap, so I stagger over to her house and pound on the door, screaming that she'd better open up or I'll kick her fucking head in. But once I'm inside, hell, I never say shit about those animals.

Okay, so I'm a drunk prone to violent outbursts. Have been for years, ever since I turned the corner into hardcore alcoholism back in '92. Guilty as charged! Just ask the other guys down at the plant. There ain't a one of them that hasn't gotten a face full of my boot at one time or another. That's just me.

But, hey, what am I supposed to do, stop drinking? I love my friends and family and Sheila, but I love my liquor, too. Everyone knows that. There's Billy, and then there's the bottle in his hand. That's just part of the package. If you want to enjoy all the wonderful things about a person, you have to be willing to accept their faults, too. As they say, every rose has its thorn.

I admit, I have this bad habit of getting angry when I'm drinking. Kinda weird, but it's my little quirk. After a sixer, I'll call Sheila up but accidentally dial the wrong number, and a man will answer, so I'll be convinced she's cheating on me. I'll go to her house and throw things around for a bit, call her a no-good cunt and a fucking whore. Well, she just locks herself in her bedroom and lets me scream until I pass out on the floor. No harm done. The next day, Sheila and I always patch things up. I say I'm sorry and make it up to her by painting her fence or something, and all is right with the world. Hey, we've all got our foibles and frailties: You have a weakness for chocolate, I get loaded and hit women.

Sometimes, people make fun of my drinking. They laugh at the way I stumble out of the bar at the end of the night, zigzagging across the parking lot. Yup, that's me, Big Ol' Screaming Lush Billy. Well, laugh all you want, because everybody has their imperfections. We're all human, and we need to all be tolerant of each other. So if I respect the fact that you can't parallel-park to save your life, you should respect the fact that I drink too much and end up picking fights and hitting people.

It's like when Sheila's on the phone with that blabbermouth sister of hers. Do I tell her what to do? Well, after a few shots of tequila, I guess I do say, "Get off that goddamn phone right this minute or I'll pull it through the fucking wall," but she won't listen. Sheila says, "Love me, love my family." That's her thing. My thing is getting plastered and driving my pickup through the window of convenience stores that won't sell me beer after 11. Different strokes for different folks.

Sure, some people still try to get me to quit drinking. They slip pamphlets under my door, recommend AA counselors, give me lectures when they drive me home from the emergency room after I spend three hours getting glass shards picked out of my fist. As if that's going to do any good. Sorry, but I've never been one for the straight and narrow. Nope, I'm more the strip-down-to-my-pit-stained-T-shirt-in-the-middle-of-winter, lurch-around-unsteadily-on-the-front-lawn, throw-things-at-passing-cars type of guy.

What can I say? I gotta be me.

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