DRUNKS Drunks are so amusing. so funny. so clever. especially when they set their blankets on fire and run out of the house after midnight run out below the winking infinity of stars, waving the fiery blanket with toreador aplomb. then stomping, they STOMP STOMP STOMP on the blanket with their big feet like Daffy Duck to put out the flames. drunks know the fire-flamenco. yes. drunks are so endearing. the way they die in funny places, giving us endless anecdotes. here's one expired sitting at the racetrack with a winning ticket in his hand. isn't that great? drunks often die in cinematic sleight.

falling off highway bridges where they were dancing. crushed by garbage trucks after falling asleep in dumpsters. heart attack in a taxicab with a prostitute on either side like expensive bookends. chasing a lover after a fight and falling down about eight thousand lighthouse stairs. they die in these ways to oblige their own infinite sense of amusement. pulling the one-armed bandit taking a rowboat out on an icy river at 3 a.m. hit by a speeding ice cream truck. locked in a freezer. locked in a storage shed. locked in an old bomb shelter. stabbed by the people they drove insane. wearing a shirt that says "GUESS" when the police arrive. suicided by a sad pop song right before the chirpy chorus. shot by their own son. their own daughter. yes, drunks die a cartoon death everywhere. in the all-night supermarket slumped over into the long freezer, head in the lima beans. on the side of the road picked by crows as horrified motorists tell the cell-phone.

the night before somebody's wedding. somebody's happy birthday. the night before Christmas. the night before the first summer vacation in ten years. clutching a teddy bear. holding a rosary. on the telephone. in fire. in ice. in public. in debt. on the night of a son's graduation fallen forever past sleep. in a kiddie pool six inches deep.