The Working Class Man

It was a hard day at work.  I come back feeling tired and miserable.  Immediately, I leave and head to the local tavern.  I sit on the barstool, head resting on my upright arm, and the bartender says in a very tv-sitcom manner, “What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey,” I reply, motioning with my hands in a lethargic manner, “Wait, scratch that.  I’ll have the half-pound angus beef burger.”

And it all happened so fast.  After the burger, I was downing some garlic fries.  After the fries, I ordered a 12-piece buffalo wing platter.  By now I was feeling woozy, my vision fading in and out.  It’s true, I am a foodaholic, and the bartender knew very well how to deal with people like me.

“It’s time for you to go home,” he said, still wiping a mug dry in a very tv-sitcom manner, “do you have anyone to drive you home?”

“No,” I blurted, burping as I said it, “I’m juss gonna walk home.”

And so I left the bar, clutching my to-go container of chicken fingers in a brown paper bag, mumbling obscenities at people passing by.  Some had their children with them, and as I neared, the parents held their children closer, telling them that food was a dangerous addiction, and making them promise never to have any until they were of age.

I finally stumble into my home, my breath reeking of garlic.  Now, all I wanted to do was commit domestic violence.  Unfortunately, I did not have a wife or kids.  So I’m just sitting here, wearing a wifebeater and talking about wife beaters, until sleep catches me by surprise, and I fall asleep on the couch, my arm slowly loosening its grip on my to-go box of chicken fingers, as they trickle onto the ground…

This story is loosely based on a true story.

-Anonymous