Stand-up gig in my Melt Town’s club ”Headquarters” went as well as possible. Even though I am drunkard, I always take care of the ropes: I go sober to work and come sober back. On the way home my mind nevertheless turned out how stupid it is to return to my room when there are no bottles of sparkling apple wine waiting for me this time.
The gang at the ”Headquarters” were pouring hops, I mean the audience were so smashed that I did not want to suck hard soup with them at all. Some basic gnome was trying to offer me a beer. When I told him that I am in a state of booze strike, the man mourned: ”Kill yourself!” We laughed like drunkards laugh, hoarsely and manfully, and slap our sweaty upper legs together five times.
My drinking colleague Gary called the following day and suggested meeting. I said that I can drink next time only in January. ”See you next year”, Kari replied and hunged up ruthlessly.
I have also received some encouraging feedback. The most useful is an e-mail ”Flop Down Prevention Handbook”, published by the Lakehead Social Hospital. It has a lot of practical tips for bad times. Possible risk situations, according to that publication, should be anticipated in advance. Light exercise is also an important means of survival. There are even some instruction on daily meditation, my ancient hobby.
The number of sadists has risen to 135, so the ”teddy-bearer” drip-free January is about to be completely fullfilled. If at some point I screw up and screw open a cap of a wine bottle, my penalty is to change my status ”I promise to stay as many days without booze as this Facebook Status will increase in likes” public so that the whole world can like it and give me more sober, painful days.
I’m a hermit character, but I really do appreciate all you readers of my blog somewhere there. Everyone of you belongs to my silent support team – even that nasty technodent who gave a minus voice to this mystery temperance project of mine.
Philip Zimbardo’s jail exam in 1971 at Stanford showed what happens when regular students of psychology are divided into two groups, prisoners and security guards: the guards became rapidly so brutal and violent that the test had to be suspended.
In my sobriety promise it seems to happen likewise: my Facebook status likes have sprinted so that now I will have not only the shit of autumn, the unhappy Christmas and the desolate new year, but also nearly drip-free January.
There are currently 128 likes, so my long white nose season in Corsica continues until at least January 22. Fuck.
Oops! During the day, there are seven more sicciska kittens who have liked my status – so I’ve been bothered by a cake of clear days for one more week. The next time I get to regret my drunken pilgrimages is on Sunday, January 18th. Help, the first sober New Year’s party ahead of me for 30 years!
Second day fought. In the evening when I was watching the tv-series ”Secret Lives” with my wife Fairy and daughter Sandra, I was overjoyed how the characters Stuba and Sergei would swing the knobs in the sauna. God, you started making a bisexual mind for me, really!
I’ve enjoyed booze tremendously from the time I pulled my first intoxication at the age of 14, and would enjoy every evening still, if it would not damage my health and if everything would not always go towards sloshed ass when I’m drunk.
A couple of days ago I wrote a drunk comment to Face-wall of ms. Summer, who drives a stand up club in Birch Village. I demanded to know why she has not ordered me to decent money gigs, even though I’ve done many gigs for her in some fucking € 50. Satan, I’m still ashamed of that message. I was right, but in the wrong place. And in vain. I do not think ms. Summer will pay me € 350/gig like she does to other head liners, because I’ve been stupid and gone to her clubs a lot cheaper than that – just so I could get a decent monetary gig sometime later.
The next morning after my comment to ms. Summer I decided to quit drinking. That night I however found myself in Melt Town liquor store’s queue again. In the pain of my drunk ascension, I gave a promise of temperance in Facebook. I hope it was my last drunken rag for a long time.
Only 116 days left to the moment when stand up comedian Risto Koo Laky – that’s fucking me – will be drunk again and will make love in Reindeer Town after a gig to enthusiastic actress with a bunny suit. Or with just anybody, anywhere, anytime. Just like you can only run in the drum.
So, thank you to everyone who took part of the campaign ”I promise to stay as many days without booze as this Facebook Status will increase in likes”. I am moved on how many of my 384 friends supported me. I also thank those 116 sadists, for which I will have to be 116 days clear – that is almost four months, satan.
The first day is over now. Doing good. Today. What about tomorrow? Not a clue. I’ll tell you later. Maybe writing keeps my lusty hands so busy I do not have time for a sparkling apple bottle or Noble Wine. Perhaps I will continue my vinegar strike forever, and I will never go to the jar again and fuck anybody drunk, even though actress Tommi Korpela herself begs my dick with tears in her eyes.