Staying sober is like that Chris Nolan movie when the dude has to tattoo shit all over his body to find out it was he who killed his wife anyway.
One of the hardest things about quitting booze is our short memories. That, and we’re suckers for destructive relationships.
We get shitfaced, we wake up hungover and realize what a mistake it was, and then we get back on the wagon. We feel the sweet relief of being free from the exhaustion of drinking and get back to our hobbies; we start to enjoy the simplicity of watching TV with a glass of carbonated water, and wonder why the fuck we hadn’t done it more often.
That first week is easy. It’s like taking candy from a baby with carpal tunnel syndrome.
And then we start to forget how shitty drinking is and all the bullshit that comes along with it: the depression, the expense, the trips to the liquor store and the thinly veiled raised eyebrows when we put our two bottles of cheap gin on the conveyor belt, and madness of handing over money for bags of ice from the store when that shit can be made in a home appliance everyone has, if only we were organized enough to have made them. Who knew?
Not only do we start to forget that shit, but we start romanticizing the times when we drank. We filter out all the bad experiences and remember all the fun times. When I think back to my childhood summers, I remember them being exclusively like the plot of Stand by Me, when a lot of it was staring through the patio window, willing the rain to stop so I could go out and play.
Alcohol cravings are like that shitty ex-girlfriend or boyfriend who desperately wants you back. When they’re advocating you two should get back together, they’re not going to give a balanced, fair of assessment of how well you worked together. They’re going to remind you of that time you had a blast watching SpongeBob SquarePants while shitfaced on mojitos, and hope you don’t remember the time they slapped you about the face for buying still instead of sparkling White Zin.
I’m on the wagon again, and I think it’s for good this time. And this is why: I’m shit angry at booze, and this time I’m holding a grudge.
If ever there were ever a time that it’s healthy to hang on to negative emotions, quitting drinking is that time.
Don’t forgive that motherfucker. Because she or he hasn’t changed. It’s still the same lying piece of shit it was when you left it. And for all those good times it gave you, it came with a shitload of baggage that some other sap can deal with. You’re too good for that shit.
Stay angry at alcohol. That motherfucker deserves it.
Although this blog post was shitty, thanks for reading anyway. Don’t forget to sign up for email notifications of when new blog posts are published by filling out the form in the top-right corner of the screen. And if I made you laugh out loud three times, don’t forget to feel mildly obligated to share this blog post with your friends on social media by using the share buttons below.
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Starting on day one again is shitty. How can you avoid it?
Last week I blogged about the hurdles I have to get over to achieve sobriety each year. One the day of writing it, I’d just gotten over the first-day-of-summer hurdle, and was feeling really good about staying sober all summer. I’d go around like a bad ass in the leather jacket I don’t own and which would be weather inappropriate, break into song too often, and never raise a can to my lips, like Danny Zuko.
Well, that was as much fantasy as when the car in Grease and/or Grease 2 flies into the sky. I fucked up. I opened up the sobriety app on my iPhone, pressed the clock reset button—a day before achieving a month sober—and got drunk one night. And then the next day. And the day after that. You see where this is going.
What I’m trying to say is over the course of a week, I’ve been pressing the clock reset button like I’m playing one of those games the douchebag next to you on the train plays, where they have to press the shit out of their iPhone screen to shoot blocks or some shit.
I’m back to day one, and I haven’t decided whether today is day zero or day one. Day zero meaning I’ll get shitfaced one last time, day one meaning this is my new sobriety date.
I don’t want to blog about my thoughts and feelings leading up to the decision to get off the wagon. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my ability to express myself emotionally is indirectly proportional to how often I write “some shit.” All I’ll say is I can’t drink for shit now, and that Belgian beer for me meant making it through a fiver-hour-long Inland Empire-style nightmare before crawling into bed.
What I will blog about is five tip on how to stay sober. I’m proving to be shitty at this, so forgive the irony. Anyway, the advice I write on this blog is more for me than you.
Obsess over hobbies
Drinking takes time, shitloads of it. You have to go and buy the stuff, and the time you spend drinking it takes a lot of time. You can pretty much do whatever you want and you don’t get bored while drunk. Take it out of your life, and you have a shitload of time to fill. And the years of drinking means you’re shit at filling it. You’re going to need a hobby that you can obsess over like you obsessed over the sauce. Writing silly mystery books is mine.
2. Be proud of your days sober
One of the shitty things about sobriety is it’s never absolutely achieved. But it is on a day-by-day basis. Be proud as fuck of the days you’ve made it to bed without toothpaste paste on your face and a weird smell coming from your pants.
3. Get sober buddies
You might think the T-birds in Grease look silly. And you’d be right. But they don’t give a fuck what you think. They’re proud to be part of a clan, and it strengthens they’re feeling that the lifestyle they’re leading isn’t a complete waste of time.
Other sober buddies are now your clan, and they probably won’t try to fuck your girlfriend or race some other asshole on the motorbike you inexplicably bought by solely working a summer job. Find them, get their numbers or their Snapchat or whatever, and spend time around them. I’ve always been put off by AA, because of the religious aspect, but I now have the humility to realize I need those guys in my life.
4. Never, ever think you can go back to drinking like a normal person
Once you’ve become an alcoholic, the chances are you’ve definitely ruined alcohol for yourself. You can’t go back to sipping wine like a wine snob, stop at a reasonable blood-alcohol level, and relax after without obsessing over that extra drink you didn’t buy for yourself. After a month of two on the wagon, you’ll start to feel cured. Don’t. That’s the booze fucking with you.
5. Make sobriety your thing
It would be great if you could just forget about booze and live a life like a Shoalin Monk. But it’s not realistic. You’re going to have to work at sobriety every day. That finish line never comes, but that doesn’t mean you can stop running towards it. Sure, filling your time with cool shit to do helps, but immersing yourself in sobriety culture is the key to making this into a lifestyle and not just something you do for a little while after deciding drinking booze makes you feel too shitty to continue.
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Some days being sober is like enjoying a relaxing ride on a merry-go-round. Other days it’s like surviving the sharp twists and turns of a Japanese roller coaster without shitting yourself.
Today’s the first day of my summer holiday from my kindergarten gig. This usually means the start of four weeks of drinking, pretending I like The Beach Boys way more than I do, and traveling to places that, when I get there, I wander around aimlessly and have no idea what I should be doing to justify the money spent on the trip. (I’m looking at you, Rome.)
But this year’s different. For the first time in five years, I’m sober for the first morning of the summer holiday, and all it took was getting through the first two or three white-knuckle hours after I’d finished work without buying a shitload of beer to achieve it. I don’t know about what your drinking career was like, but the first day of the summer holiday was my drinking equivalent of the Super bowl, the Rumble in the Jungle, or whatever race Formula 1 nerds orgasm over.
I played a summertime playlist with some nerdy title on whatever music streaming service I was subscribing to at the time, I had a schedule of movies I’d watch (including Dazed and Confused), and the only food that past my lips was from a smorgasbord of golden-colored, greasy junk food. And, of course, I had a schedule of craft beers I’d work my way through. I’d cough up the cash for a packet of cigarettes and smoke on my balcony, too, because, well, it’s the summer holiday, so who needs lungs when they’re older?
Last night, I broke that routine, choosing to watch Jaws instead of Dazed…, and choosing to drink shitloads of caffeine and exclusively vape. I didn’t go out on my balcony, not because I thought it’d be a trigger, but because it rained like a motherfucker and the view from my balcony isn’t nearly as good when I’m not shitfaced and can barely see it from smoke stinging my eyes.
Now that I’m sober, this day will be my biggest test every year. People like to drink during the summer. It’s something to do with sunshine and having friends and whatnot. Fuck if I know. But what other testing days lie ahead of me? What other days will I have to apply a rear-naked chokehold for a few hours to the alcoholic squatting in my brain so I wake up the next day feeling alive?
Of course, there’s:
Nothing celebrates the birth of Christ quite like starting on mimosas before breakfast, getting progressively drunker throughout the day without your family members batting an eyelid, and arm wrestling your dad during a Christmas special of Doctor Who. This is the one day of the year when alcoholics feel most comfortable being around their family, because they’re riding the same crazy train you are for at least one day, and it’s also a day when talking to your granddad has never been so much fun. We’re all in it together, like one big stinking, steaming mess, and by good we’re having a good time. Except this year I won’t be. My orange juice will just have pulp in it. I’ll be sure to blog about my experience when I get there, but for now, I can only wonder whether my dad, well into his fifties, will be easier to overcome when I’ve been drinking carbonated water all day.
Birthdays of significance
I’ve already got a regular one of these under my belt. This year’s. And I have to admit, I felt a little silly opening presents and celebrating the fact I’d made it to thirty-one years of age while I wasn’t shitfaced. It felt like running in a super-short kiddy marathon, getting my ass kicked by hordes of six-foot-five, one-hundred-and-twenty-pound thirteen-year-olds, and receiving a medal for just participating. I’m not too worried about these being a trigger until I reach a significant age like forty. Or if Bill Burr turned up to my apartment wanting to celebrate my birthday with me, and asked, “Why are you not having a drink on your birthday, you cunt?” before going on a non-rant about my generation vaping and not eating animal products.
Those days in Easter
There are a number of days during the Easter period that have various names. I can’t be bothered googling them, but I know one is called Good Friday. I’m a little hazy on the religious significance of them. All I know is that I’m not at work those days, as I get a break from work for Easter. I was pretty good at finding an excuse to get a little shitfaced every Monday evening, so give me the death of Jesus or some other guy to, uh, celebrate…? and I didn’t have to think too hard before I was riding the metro to the wine monopoly to buy a bottle of gin. Next year, I’ll be celebrating those days by raising a glass of lemonade and eating shitloads of chocolate like all the rest of the children.
Anyone else’s birthdays
If I’m the overweight goofball running the super-short kiddy marathon on my birthdays, I’m the douchebag who’s grinning like an idiot and putting a medal around your neck for participating on yours. Reached the age of twenty-nine? Fuck yeah I’ll raise a glass to that.
“But isn’t it silly? Shouldn’t I wait until next year to have a big one?” you ask.
I reply, “Dude, you might never make it to thirty. People get hit by buses every day. Failing that, their girlfriend or wife is definitely plotting to kill them at some point. Besides, look at how shiny this medal you and every other person too lazy to run a proper marathon is getting.”
That’s the blog post for this week. Number five, as promised in the title, is the first day of the summer holiday, just in case you’re a bit of an idiot and feel a little shortchanged. I’ve already jumped that hurdle and am running towards the finish line that we alcoholics never reach. That of having achieved sobriety. In the race of alcoholism recovery, the fat creepy guy never gasses.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this post, don’t forget to subscribe to email notifications for when posts are published by filling out the form in the top-right corner of the web page. And as always, if I made you laugh out loud at least three times, don’t forget to feel mildly obligated to share this blog post with your friends by using the social media share buttons below.
Here at Hilariously Sober, we don’t like to be all Judgy McJudgy-Judgerson, but we do like to contemplate what it means to be an alcoholic.
Last night I went to my first party since getting back on the wagon. I had hoped that I’d get a metric shit-ton of material out of the experience for this blog or, failing that, at least a blog post.
But it went without a hitch. It only took me around an hour to not feel self-conscious about being one of the few people who weren’t drinking, I had a good time, and none of my male colleagues slapped any female colleagues on the ass or insisted that our boss do the tango with them to the beat of the ‘Macarena’.
So what am I supposed to do, write about how swimmingly and to-plan everything went? Any comedy writer worth his or her salt knows nothing funny ever comes out of good stuff happening. Take Schindler’s List, for example; that’s got to be worst comedy I’ve ever seen.
So in lieu of another super-funny blog post about surviving a party sober or a wildlife-study style blog post about drunk people at parties, I’m pulling this blog post directly out of my ass and onto the screen of your tablet, phone, or, if you’re slacking off at work, desktop computer.
One of my weekly listens is The Recovery Elevator. The format of the show consists of the host interviewing a recovering alcoholic about their sobriety story. Terms like “journey,” “higher power,” and “spiritual growth” get thrown around like bubbles at a Hilary Clinton rally, but I enjoy it, nonetheless.
At the end of the interview, the host asks the interviewee to complete the sentence “You’re an Alcoholic if….” I’ll likely never be interviewed on that podcast while I subtly plug my books and social media shit, but if I did, here are my four or five ways to finish that sentence.
You’re an alcoholic if…
You plan your drinking sessions like a military operation
If you’re like me, liberating a people from their tyrannous dictator isn’t enough for you. You want to get their oil and besmirch their religion and way of life, too. And that shit takes some grade-A planning, and coordination with far-right-wing-leaning news organizations. When I got drunk, I planned my drinking sessions like a forty-day trip around the world. I’d eat a light lunch so I got shitfaced faster and to a greater degree, I had the schedule of liquor-based drinks and craft beers mapped out well in advance, and the day’s and evening’s entertainment would be all planned out before I even filled up my glass with ice to leave little room for the tonic. Clearly, this isn’t the behavior of a casual drinker. It’s the behavior of a lunatic hell-bent on ruining alcohol for himself for the rest of his life.
You don’t get that one-glass-of-wine-with-dinner shit
If you look around carefully when you’re at a restaurant, you’ll spot someone who’s wholly engaged in conversation with the person or people they’re dining with and who rarely, if ever, glances down at their glass or scans the room for where their waiter is. If this person’s level of detachment from their alcoholic drink situation seems strange to you or, if you’re like me, it outright scares the shit out of you, you might have a problem.
When I got my drink on in restaurants, I got a little panicky. My level of shitfacedness depended on someone who might not care about receiving a tip at the end of the evening, and the people I was dining with might frown upon my waving over the waiter for a refill every half hour like I was helping a jumbo jet land. I could never relax in those places as a drinker. Baby needed his bottle, and he’d be dammed if Mommy or the babysitter controlled how often he got it. If this sounds anything like your dining experiences, drinking might not be for you. Oh, and here’s another link to my books.
The only friends you have are drinking buddies
I don’t have many friends now, and not just because I’m an insufferable jerk. After quitting drinking, I realized that most of the friends I have back in my home country* are just pub buddies, like spotters are to gym rats, only without the duty of care and offers of cut-rate anabolic steroids. All we ever did was get drunk together. Now that I’m sober, my criteria for friends have somewhat changed from just sharing alcohol dependence: I need friends who are slightly shittier than I am at squash, who think a café is a worthwhile place to spend their time, and who think that one high-five per evening is more than enough.
*This isn’t a euphemism; I live in Norway and come from England. The reason I don’t have friends here is that I’m thirty-two and enjoy wearing pajamas way too much. Speaking of pajamas and the opposite of what I said…
You’re debating with yourself whether you’re an alcoholic
At my last workplace, I asked a colleague about her drinking habits. I was interested in getting the perspective of a seemingly balanced young Swedish lady. Her response was, she didn’t get drunk every weekend, never during weekdays, and she couldn’t remember, when pressed, the last time she got drunk. It might’ve been at some party around eight weeks ago. Or not. Chances are, if you’re making an effort to moderate your drinking and failing, or if you regularly talk to yourself in the mirror about whether you have a problem, as the heading phrasing implies, or if you’re the lunatic asking your colleagues about how often they get drunk, then Grandpa’s old cough medicine might be best kept as a medication for the sniffles.
So there you have them. Turns out it was only four, and five would’ve been a much rounder number. Shoot.
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Dan faces up to the fact he might be a hack writer and that sobriety has to be for good this time.
One of the most hacky ways to begin a blog post, in my opinion, is to comment on how long it’s been since the last post, and to apologize for the lack of activity on the blog. That is, unless the blog in question is a sobriety blog and the writer has been a lengthy seven months away from the keyboard—then, it’s relevant. You’ve probably worked out that I haven’t been spending that time with no WIFI as I lived among a remote Amazonian tribe, and I’ll take the great leap and assume you’ve probably worked out I spent that time getting shitfaced. With that out of the way, I’ll throw in my apology, just to complete my hacky opening paragraph.
I’d been sober for 83 days before I fell off the wagon, the longest stint of sobriety I’ve had since recognizing I’m an alcoholic. I remember the day I fell off. I was cooking dinner, it was a grey and miserable day, and it was nearing the time the stores stop selling alcohol. I had been getting into a nice stride saying no to cravings, and cravings were few and far between, but this one was big. It was the Tasty Tony 9 Nine Inch Dildo with Suction Cup of cravings.
Let’s back up a bit. I’m getting ahead of myself. In the run up to that Saturday evening, I’d been experiencing a few professional issues, which is my nice way of saying my boss had me in the sights of his sniper rifle, and was picking my colleagues’ brains for reasons to shoot the shit out of me. My colleagues, who had given me many opportunities to snitch on them but I never had, obliged him with a salute and a giant smooch on his ass.
It was a bad situation, and instead of just eating dinner and chilling out with way too much caffeine and a movie—my regular Saturday routine during sobriety—I decided to have just one evening getting shitfaced, before I got back on the wagon. I needed to relieve some stress, and a triple espresso and Judd Apatow comedy weren’t going to cut the mustard. I gave in to Mr. Tasty Tony, with the honest but naive intention of starting afresh the next day. Obviously, it didn’t quite work out that way. During Christmastime, which came up a little while after falling off the wagon, I discovered how much I liked gin. And in the New Year, I discovered how much I liked to pretend it was Christmas Day every day, and that gin is totally a Monday-evening drink.
Fast forward to now, I have a new job, a boss that sees my good sides and accepts the bad, and colleagues that would rather high-five me instead of pulling out a rusty blade and stabbing me in kidneys as they hug me and tell me that it’s necessary but they’re sorry. I’m also sober again, and coming up to two weeks I’ve been off the sauce.
During a FaceTime call, I told my dad about my having got back on the wagon, and he asked what was different this time. I have no idea what I mumbled to him, but I’ve been thinking about that question since he asked it. What is different this time? I don’t know. All I know is that writing this blog was a big part of my success last time.
I don’t know whether it was my routine of writing how many days sober I was at the end of each post, or finding public domain photos and coming up with humorous captions that relate to the paragraph preceding it, all I know is that writing this shit works like a motherfucker, and that I mean it when I write I’m sober for good this time. I’m super pissed at alcohol, and we’re getting divorced. That bitch can even have the house and car and the Tony Tasty Nine Inch Dildo I bought for her. I plan on writing this blog as long as my fingers are able to press the keys on my keyboard.
This is probably the shittiest blog post I’ve written for Hilariously Sober, but I can be forgiven, I hope, as I have seven months’ blogging rust to shake off. But it’s also the best one I’ve written, for a few reasons. I’m back, and back for good, and even if I don’t find the readership I hope for this blog, I recognize its worth, even if it did take half a distillery’s Christmas stock of gin to find out. I’ve learned for the hundredth-plus time that I can’t party for an evening without a long, arduous struggle to get my shit together afterwards.
But what’s different this time, as opposed to the previous hundred-plus times? I think I know now, and it just took writing this blog post to find out.
It’s this part, where I write I’m twelve days sober, which will go up to nineteen next week, and the feeling of pride and achievement I experience upon writing it. In fact, I’ll FaceTime my dad now to tell him, just after I’ve found out what time it is where he’s vacationing.
Thanks for reading, even if it was the shittiest blog post I’ve produced for Hilariously Sober. Don’t forget to follow this blog by filling out the email-notifications form in the top-right corner of the webpage. And if I made you laugh out loud at least three times, don’t forget to feel mildly obligated to share this blog post with your friends on social media by using the share buttons below.
Bonus content: You might have wondered what caption I would have written for the featured image at the top of the post had I been able to add one. Here it is:
As well as writing this blog, I write comedic mysteries about a heart-of-gold but perennial asshole high-functioning alcoholic private detective. Check them out here.
After being sober awhile, you may question whether you’re an alcoholic. I did, and nearly ended up ordering three blue chimneys.
One of the first blog posts I wrote was an off-the-wall quasi-alcoholism-self-diagnosis guide that I partially used to recognize I was an alcoholic. It was only semi-serious, meaning that while it was true, it wasn’t exactly a heart-to-heart with myself, looking deep into my soul or some shit, but centered on more flippant, humorous signs of alcoholism.
Today, I’m three months sober, which I consider to be a milestone. More so than ten weeks, or two months, and, weirdly, probably more so than five months, when I eventually get to that. Maybe it’s because three months is the length of a season; maybe it’s because good things come in threes (that’s a saying, right?); or maybe it’s because in my sobriety I’ve reached a Zen-like state where the past and future seem irrelevant, and I only think of the present, which gives this milestone sole significance over the sobriety milestones of the future and past.
The last couple weeks, the question of whether I’m an alcoholic has been on my mind. For the sake of thematic coherence, I definitely think it’s related to the three-month milestone.
At times during the last couple weeks, I’ve felt indifferent about drinking. I’m over it, and that my life as an alcoholic is like one of those night terrors I get from time to time, when I run around my apartment naked, dreaming that I can’t breathe while still being kind of awake. But it’s over now, and I can return to bed and go to sleep after I’ve checked underneath it for the boogeyman.
I’ve even thought about changing the title of this blog to Hilariously Indifferent about Alcohol, so that it has a more sincere title, even if it has a ring to it like a rusty bell.
But other times, like when I was buying supplies for my girlfriend’s birthday, I’ve felt like giving moderated alcohol drinking another shot. I flirted with the idea a second, as the booze aisle caught my eye. Maybe I could just set a limit and stick to it this time, keeping my disastrous experience of alcoholism at the forefront of my mind as motivation for not fucking it up.
Deciding whether I’m an alcoholic or not the last couple weeks has been like tossing a coin in the air: heads I am, tails I’m not, and both answers would seem valid. That is until yesterday, when I was listening to a podcast. The hosts of the show just so happened to talk about their five favorite beers.
One of the host’s list was comprised mostly of Belgian beers—my tipple, my overly long and destructive love affair. Upon hearing the name Chimay Blue, I was transported back to the summer holiday, when I would buy in my favorite beers every day and get shitfaced watching movies. My mind started racing. I compiled a list of my favorite five, and I thought about going out and getting them.
It would just be one last hurrah. One more gunfight before I rode off into the sunset to buy a ranch and have six or seven kids. Before I knew my legs had extended, I was looking at my DVD shelves, searching for the perfect one or two movies to provide entertainment for the last time I sat and enjoyed my favorite five. That’s allowed, right? I have the rest of my life to be sober. How will one measly afternoon and evening getting shitfaced on my five favorite beers ruin that? It can’t.
I thought, Why haven’t I thought about my favorite five before? Five’s the perfect number: one better than four, and six is just weird and not round.
Then I remembered this was exactly my mindset during that summer. I’d planned on getting sober the couple weeks preceding it. My plan was to get my favorite beers in, enjoy one last sweet evening, and then spend four weeks in a self-imposed rehab.
That didn’t happen. Not only that, but I spent a fortune getting in my favorite beers for most of the days of the holiday. My five favorite? Shit, I’d compiled that list a fuckload of times before. Every time it was different, but the results were always the same. It wasn’t a last hurrah. The day after I’d write a new list, one that dicks all over the previous one.
I did what any reasonable alcoholic would do in that situation. I yanked my earphones out of my ears and threw my iPhone across the room, blaming my near relapse on that particular podcast.
(Just kidding, my iPhone is safe and sound in its nerdy leather case.)
I try to make each blog post useful to you, the reader. I don’t just want to ramble on about myself, even if I can provide the odd photo with a caption to make you laugh. You’re here for that, sure, or you’d be reading some other blog called There’s Not a Single Funny Thing about Sobriety. As well as having laughed, I want you to step away from your iPad or iPhone or desktop computer and feel awesome about being sober or to have a learnt a little more about sobriety.
With that said, here’s your tidbit for this week. Your favorite drink, or more accurately your memory of your favorite drink, will never go away. It will shrink as you cross off your sober days, weeks, and months. It will lay dormant, like a hibernating bear, but one little prod, and that fucker will stand up and be as big, bad, and scary as it was in the summer.
So tread carefully, my friend, because every podcast that mentions your favorite drink, every Facebook post you read about someone enjoying a glass of chardonnay or merlot on a Friday night, and every blog post you read about the blogger’s favorite drink or drinks, is potentially one big kick in that bear’s nutsack.
Thanks for reading! Even if it this blog post is a potential trigger for a relapse. If you enjoyed it, don’t forget to subscribe to email notifications for Hilariously Sober by using the form at the top-right corner of the website.
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Acclimating to not getting shitfaced every evening and weekend is difficult. In the process, I’ve hauled ass through nature, kicked my girlfriend’s ass repeatedly at both squash and video game boxing, and swapped drinking for a number of other non-hard-drug addictions. Like many, I don’t have time for hot yoga, a vacation to a five-star rehab clinic, or even AA. But what I do have a lot of is ear time.
Not familiar with that term? Nor am I, as I just pulled it out of my ass. What I’m trying to say, in my illiterate way, is that I’m a busy dude. But most of the time while I’m doing stuff that’s essential for my continued existence as a reasonably functioning male, my ears are free to do whatever the fuck they please. My arms, hands, legs, and brain are pressed for time, but my ears have as much time as The Donald in office when he finds out he can’t do half the shit he’s blabbering about.
I could dictate to my ears that they use that time goofing out to 80s’ power metal, or to listen to the sound of the building site next door to my apartment building (I wish I was fucking around about this), but instead I’ve used that time to beam the message of sobriety directly into my ear holes. Per the title, I’ve been checking out some sobriety podcasts, as well other non-sobriety-themed shows, to make use of all that free time my ears have…the lucky devils.
Of the many I’ve listened to, I can highly recommend one and kinda recommend another, with a probably offensive caveat.
The Good: That Sober Guy Podcast
That Sober Guy is Shane Ramer, a salt-of-the-earth, unpretentious host who’s doing a fine of job advocating sobriety and inspiring soberness through his weekly podcast. He’s an instantly likable dude who candidly shares his own experience with getting and staying sober, as well as hosting a broad-ranging selection of sober guests. You can check it out here.
The Okay: After Party Pod
After Party Pod is hosted by longtime sober socialite Anna David. While it’s not my cup of tea, because of its tending to go off topic and my personal taste for podcast hosts, I feel I should recommend it for the following reason. This blog has proven popular among ladies (either because of my surly looks or repeated use of the word shitfaced), at least according to early follower numbers , and I think Anna might be more of a hit with the sober ladies out there. I realize it’s 2016 and I shouldn’t write shit like that, but this is my sandbox and my toys. So there. Or here.
Other non-sober-themed podcasts:
Wanting to fill your ears with non-sober musings? Or just want to use your ear time in the same way I am? I’m a patron of the following podcasts:
The Horror Show – a podcast for movie nerds who like to listen to reviews of shitty horror films by two edgy hosts.
The Dana Gould Hour – a bunch of comedians, one of which is ex-Simpsons writer and host Dana, making funnies about various topics.
Comedy Bang Bang – funny as balls.
The latest member of my lineup is Sleep With Me podcast, which helped me sleep like a sedated baby the last week. The host’s insane ramblings are truly bizarre, but really effective.
Tune-in next week for another topic I’ll probably come up with at the eleventh hour.
Thanks for reading! Even if I did offend you with that gender-generalization bit. If you enjoyed this post, or just like repeatedly reading the word shitfaced, don’t forget to follow Hilariously Sober by email by filling out the form in the top-right corner of the webpage. If you’re a male fan of After Party Pod, or even just a male who thinks it might be to his taste, don’t forget to call me a douchebag in the comments section below.
And as always, if I made you laugh out loud at least three times, don’t forget to share this post with your friends on social media by using the buttons below.
Days sober: 76
My works of fiction, the protagonist of which makes me in comparison seem as offensively comedic as a puppy dog eating a popsicle, can be checked out here.
Not tired of all the links yet? Here’s one more to my Facebook page. Head on over, like it, and say hi.