Published on November 25th, 2014 | by Richard Black0
The Benefits of Sloth
In between my naps while my daughter has been watches the same episode of the Octonauts for the 118th time ad nausea (yes I mean ad nausea and not ad nauseum) I’ve had a few moments to think about a few things.
The first is that Quasi needs to get laid. The second is that it seems a bit insensitive at the very least to call a penguin Peso regardless of his origins even though he most likely heralds from South America.
My third thought is that sloth gets a bad rap, both the condition and the poor guy in the movie The Goonies.
I’m not recommending it as a lifestyle but I have to say the condition has its benefits and, perhaps, even some virtues.
For example I just ran out of beer for example and I’d really like another one but the idea of putting on a pair of pants and driving to a store is just too much for me to bear. I might be well over the legal limit to drive, I might not. I don’t have a breathalyzer and I’ve had enough to drink that I cannot perform or remember the calculation to determine my level of sobriety. Then again I probably wouldn’t have been able to do that even if I hadn’t been drinking.
I could rummage around the liquor cabinet for something else to drink but past experience has proven that to be a poor idea. A Richard drinking liquor is not a Richard anyone wants to be around, including Richard, and not just because he begins to refer to himself in the third person.
Our liquor cabinet is pretty…well eclectic. If it were magically transformed into a restaurant it would be an Irish/Polish/Mexican fusion abomination that offered a Shepard’s Pie Kolache drenched in salsa. Now I’m really hungry and as a side note I will sue anyone who opens up a successful restaurant with this theme unless they pay me royalties.
A bartender with a doctorate in mixology wouldn’t be able to make a decent drink out of the liquor I’ve got. I could threaten him with disembowelment and give him 20 years to figure it out and I’d still end up with something a starving hog wouldn’t drink. I’d also end up with a lot of entrails and a body to dispose of around the time I turn 60 which doesn’t sound like a fun way to ring in another decade.
There is no mixer, muddle or hardcore narcotic that can turn a cabinet that consists of nothing but Triple Sec,a thimble of Chopin vodka, a hint of Jameson and a liter of Alize that has been living with me since the 1990’s into anything drinkable. I should know. I’ve tried and have years of hangovers and more than a few hours spend hunching over a toilet to consider the dilemma.
If I had the hubris I’d call this minor epiphany a bit of wisdom but I’m pretty sure it’s really just sloth. It sounds sad that sloth has kept me marginally sober over the years but there it is. Then again it could be pride. Call me old fashioned but I like to get up in the morning and greet my daughter without feeling like a herd of blacksmiths are making bells and riding buffaloes through my brainpan.
In retrospect the two have probably kept me out of a lot of bad situations. I realized at the age of 25 that here’s nothing more pathetic than a forty year old guy looking for a bag of weed. Fortunately I lost my taste for the bud many years ago in college when I caught some really hard core shit and spent the bulk of a Dave Mathew’s show convinced that I was invisible. The experience sparked a lifetime of panic attacks and a general level of anxiety that makes it difficult for me to function without the use of prescription pharmaceuticals and the occasional liberal dose of alcohol.
Man I could use a drink.
And on that uplifting note I just remembered that I’ve had a jug of apple cider in the fridge for the past two years and there’s an off chance it may have fermented. Until next time…