I have something to confess. It’s hard for me to talk about. It may even shock you. The fact is, I have a drinking problem. It’s been a struggle, but I’ve been clean and sober for the past six months. Before you congratulate me, I have another confession. I have also been clean and sober for the past 62 years and ten months. You see, technically, I don’t actually have a drinking problem. I have a not-drinking problem.
I simply don’t drink. Never have. And that’s created many an awkward social situation my entire adult life. A lot of people have difficulty accepting this aberration – starting with my young adult daughters. In their college years, they attended many a party and chugged many a beer. “It’s what you do at college” they claim. Thus, they refuse to believe that spirits never pass over my lips. Nobody could be that much of a boring, uptight nerd, they argue, convinced I must be keeping from them deep dark secrets about my past.
I attended a university where so many students regularly drank themselves into oblivion, that I started to wonder if it was a pre-requisite for graduation. The entry requirement at most fraternity parties was to chug a pitcher of beer upon arrival. Apparently, it was a violation of the Greek code of ethics to be on frat premises without consuming large quantities of alcohol. The only permissible exception was if you’d already passed out in the hall closet.
Even now, when I go to a gathering, people just assume I’ll be drinking, like everyone else. The beverage selections typically are two red wines, a Zinfandel, three types of beer, vodka, bourbon, and club soda. Invariably, when I mention that I don’t drink, people assume the worst: I’m an alcoholic trying to stay on the wagon. When I clarify that it’s not that, they assume the even worster: I’m a holier-than thou Prohibitionist who looks down my nose at these sinners whose weak moral failings have led them the bottle. Excellent guesses, everybody, but no, that’s not why I don’t drink (although, yeah, drunken, two-timing Charlie over there making out with the fern is probably headed south when his number is up).
Unless you’re in a coma – or your name is Baron Trump – you’ve no doubt heard about Michael Wolff’s bombshell tell-all book, FIRE AND FURY – INSIDE THE TRUMP WHITE HOUSE. On its release day, F&F sold out in less time than it takes Donald to tweet “CNN is Fake News.”
What you may not know is that I, too, have been hard at work writing a Trump exposé. Mine is called FIRE AND FURY – INSIDE THE TRUMP EARLY YEARS. If the title sounds vaguely familiar, that’s because Wolff copied me.
My book describes a rich, entitled, angry, unstable, vindictive, erratic, undisciplined, lazy young child who hated to read. Thankfully for America’s sake, he eventually grew out of these ugly, infantile behaviors to become a normal, high-functioning adult.
I interviewed dozens of childhood acquaintances, including teachers, classmates, and even his high school baseball coach. They paint a shocking picture of a deeply insecure child with a penchant for bullying, telling lies and bragging about his pee-pee size – and that’s all while he was still in the womb.
Here is a sneak peek at the unsettling world of America’s 45th president several decades before he single-handedly (with a little help from Putin) decided to Make America Great Again.
Donald John Trump was born in 1946 in Queens, New York City, the fourth of five children of Frederick and Mary MacLeod Trump. He came from humble beginnings, by which I mean his father was not yet a double-digit millionaire.
When Donald was barely six years old, he mastered his first bicycle without training wheels. He boldly proclaimed to his father that no child in the history of the world had ridden without training wheels earlier than him. His dad didn’t dare tell little Donnie that tricycles didn’t come with training wheels…
I will be the first person to tell you I’m far from perfect. Okay, maybe, the second person, Technically, my wife would be the first. In my six decades on this planet, I’ve said and done plenty of things that have annoyed people. In fact, my kids would argue this aspect of my personality is one of my defining character traits.
But I’m not a bad guy. That is, I didn’t think I was – until I was informed of this fact by literally thousands of people from all over the country – in the space of a single day.
Why is everybody so furious at me? I have no idea. Maybe it’s because I said Happy Holidays to someone instead of wishing them a Merry Christmas. Or maybe it’s because people are sick of me constantly posting videos of cute kittens doing stupid things on Facebook. (In my defense, kitten videos are simply irresistible.)
Or maybe it’s because I recently published a book called I am So Sick of White Guys, with a cover illustration of President Trump depicted as a puppet of Russian president Putin. Yeah, that just might be what stirred the hornet’s nest. I don’t get it. It’s just a humor book, specifically a coloring book, with satirical renderings of prominent white guys like Steve Bannon, Paul Ryan, and Roy Moore, with snarky commentary about how they are misusing their power to ruin this country for the rest of us. Interestingly, according to Google Analytics, a tool that analyzes data about this blog, I lost 15 blog subscribers after they read this paragraph.
Here’s what happened. I co-authored this book with a fellow humor writer, who I’ll call Sven Morgenstern, to protect him and his family from death threats. We wanted to highlight white male privilege in America, taking to task what we perceive to be corruption by President Trump and members of his administration. (Just checked Google Analytics again. Lost another nine subscribers with that previous sentence.)
[Washington, D.C. – December 5, 2017] Another day, another shocking conduct allegation – and this time, it targets one of the icons of American politics. Just minutes ago, the Washington Post reported that former Vice President Joe Biden has been accused of decent behavior in the presence of multiple women, and even several male colleagues in government.
On condition of anonymity, one woman, who described herself as a former staffer, shared her ordeal. “I was alone with the Vice President in his office and he kept staring at my briefs.” Further details have emerged to substantiate her claim that he was dazzled by her body of work and how well she had written her amicus curiae legal brief about the dangers of air pollution from strip mining.
Another female aide reportedly has a tape of Biden pushing her to expose her position – no matter how uncomfortable – on fracking without using protection.
Still another woman was more blunt in her claims, admitting that she’d engaged in a longstanding carnal relationship with Biden, even having sex in his official residence. She later came forward and reluctantly identified herself as Dr. Jill Biden, his wife of 40 years.
For decades, there have been whispers about Biden’s proclivity to engage in shocking acts of unsolicited civility towards attractive members of the opposite sex, as well as unattractive ones. Stories have long circulated about his tendency to avoid speaking in sexually graphic terms when around female subordinates, even in public.
Several complaints have surfaced from people who have seen Biden put his arms around women, in what appears to be a caring embrace, usually during military funerals honoring a fallen son, killed in action. (more…)
One of the following is something I have NEVER done. Can you guess?
Eaten oysters
Driven 1,300 miles with a rabbit and a parakeet
Gone skinny dipping
Jumped out of an airplane
If you guessed, “eaten oysters” you are correct. But also a shout out to my many supportive fans who wrote in “humor writing”. Yes, I actually jumped out of an airplane. But don’t worry. Many of you will be glad to know I survived.
Normally, I would never do something so stupid. It wasn’t even my idea. You can blame my sister for this reckless fiasco. For purposes of this story, and out of respect for my sister’s privacy, I’m going to refer to her as “Betsy” because, first, that’s her name, and second, I don’t give a rat’s ass about her privacy.
The year was 1982. Betsy and I were both attending The Ohio State University. One day, for reasons unfathomable to me, she quipped, “Hey, let’s go skydiving!” I could only deduce she was off her meds – or perhaps she was looking for a creative way to avoid working on a term paper. I replied as any loving, older brother would – I berated her for being an idiot. But my sister can be extremely persuasive, by which I mean she questioned my masculinity. Eventually, after badgering me for what seemed like three days, but probably was closer to eleven minutes, I caved.
Betsy discovered an outfit called Skydive Green County, in a rural community called Xenia, Ohio, where cows outnumber people 50 to 1. We dove into an intensive full-day crash-course on skydiving, which culminated in a static line jump out of a Cessna from 5,000 feet.
At noon, the class broke for a 45-minute lunch. It took longer than expected for my Last Meal to be served, so Betsy and I arrived back 15 minutes late. I figured, we couldn’t possibly have missed anything important in that short interval. Turns out, I was mistaken – perilously so.
After seven hours of training, the energy of these thrill-seekers was palpable – that is, of all but one. And he looked a lot like me. All I could think was, “How in the world did I let my crazy, impulsive sister corral me into doing such a daredevil act of insanity? Worse yet, I didn’t even use a 50% off Groupon!” My only consolation was that as a law student, I could one day sue my sister for wrongful death. Or maybe not.
I have something to confess. It’s hard for me to talk about. It may even shock you. The fact is, I have a drinking problem. It’s been a struggle, but I’ve been clean and sober for the past six months. Before you congratulate me, I have another confession. I have also been clean and sober for the past 62 years and ten months. You see, technically, I don’t actually have a drinking problem. I have a not-drinking problem.
