I Ain’t Got the Time

After a couple of weeks living at the group home, I was allowed to return home. The situation was tenuous, and I forced the hand of the parentals with my next foolish endeavor.

I polished off a pint of vodka in the early morning hours on a school night. Mum fought my pleas to stay home, despite my claim of a stomach illness.

I trudged off to class with a horrendous hangover. As was my routine, I usually slept through my first period study hall class. This time I could not keep my stomach in check. I managed my way up to the front of the room for permission to use the facilities. The stoic-faced woman gazed awkwardly at me and nodded her head. I suffered through a few gut-wrenching dry heaves, washed my face, and schlepped back to study hall.

As I walked past the teacher’s desk, I was summoned. She wanted to know if I had been drinking. After I told her that I hadn’t, she sent me to the principal’s office. Given my lest than stellar disciplinary background (including an earlier vomitous classroom wall make over), and the school’s newly enacted zero-tolerance policy, I was expelled from high school.

I knew I had fucked up real bad this time. My handlers indicated that I was to be sent off to a short-term drug/alcohol treatment facility. I figured the best option was to lay low and play the game for a little while. To savor my last few hours of freedom, I stayed up the whole night before I was shuttled off listening to the Eagle’s Greatest Hits Vol. 2 and playing solitaire.

One of my favorite G.I. Joe characters as a child was Zartan. I planned to employ his ability to blend in with my new environment, and to make a seamless exit. There were plenty of group meetings where the counselor tried to get the kids to open up and spill their emotional guts. They made us hold an over-sized mirror in our laps and stare into the reflection for several minutes at a time. I didn’t do therapy, especially in the presence of those bunch of fuck-nuts.

All the kids were jacked up beyond belief. 90% of them lined up for their brain-altering chemical pill cocktails 3 or 4 times a day. In my mind, the only mistake I made was getting sent to this hell-hole. I figured I would ride it out for 30 days and then get back to business as usual on the home front. I was sorely mistaken.

The problem was that the corporation that owned the hospital also owned a long-term facility 1,500 miles away. Since I wasn’t playing ball, they recommended that I jet out to their higher revenue lock-up. The folks bought their sales rap, and off I flew for 15 months of intense bullshit.

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Johnny Peepers

----> is a socio-pathetic degenerate with a penchant for cheap booze, ruphy-laden broads, and dim sum soup.


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