What are you drinking right now?

[Thompson]

And I’m going to turn 67 in a few hours. I don’t have a gun. It’s too much trouble to walk to the bridge. The room is too drafty for the gas to work. The noose is tied too loose, it won’t strangle anybody. All the pills are gone. I take another pull of Burnett’s and sit on the couch.

Townes died at 52. He just wore on down. Hell, Bukowski made it to 73. So, I’m somewhere in the middle I guess, a couple of hours from 67.

[Thompson]

Now I just received a telegram from Van Morrison. It reads . . .

Will be there for supper stop. Am requesting Irish stew this year instead of Mulligan stew stop. The rules remain the same no talking stop. I would like to help with the dishes stop.

So Ladybug will have to do an Irish stew, or a Mulligan stew with potatoes. I like Van. I wish he would sing one song at least though. But no, none of that singing or talking or looking at Facebook. Why you on Facebook?
Van eats a lot. I’m surprised every year at how much he can put away. Van will be (in a couple of hours) 78 years old.

[Hugh]

Van Morrison is an Ulster Scot. I made this video on July 12: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc08bRH4Wdc

[Thompson]

Van Morrison is an Ulster Scot. I made this video on July 12: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nc08bRH4Wdc

Do Ulster Scots drink port wine? Van drinks a shit ton of port wine. At least he does on his birthday.

[Thompson]

Do I dare eat a peach? Huh Hugh? All that juice running down all over.

Well, I ain’t eating no peach and I’m drinking a cold Budweiser 12oz can with pulls of Burnett’s vodka out the plastic 1.75 which is a very good bargain at the liquor store.

Bottom’s Up.

[Thompson]

And I’m just waiting on a friend, no scratch that, I’m just waiting on Van to come over for supper. The Irish stew is in the pot. There are three big Bob Marley reefers rolled in the tray. The port (although I don’t think it really needs to be) is decanting. Van likes his port decanted. He really is a sour apple. His list of complaints is long. Luckily, there is no talking at supper. No talking period. I’m going to do lots of talking today, I can feel it.

[Thompson]

Well, my birthday is over, I’m drinking another cold can of Budweiser and hitting the 1.75.

I had this jar of hemp gummies, I think there was only one left, and the dog ate it.

[Thompson]

There is a big moon in the sky. Is that a harvest moon?

[Thompson]

Also just wanted to mention that those big tree roaches are all alcoholics and will get inside your can of beer right in front of your eyes.

[Thompson]

You are in the wrong thread Thompson.

Yes I know.

You have a wet brain Thompson.

Yes I know.

That roach that crawled inside your beer can didn’t really crawl inside your beer can.

Oh yes he did. He crawled right in there. I’d say a little over half a can of beer. Now what do you do? You don’t want to waste that beer, but you don’t want to get a big ol’ roach in your mouth either.

[Thompson]

I’m trying to remember if I ate anything yesterday on my birthday. No, I didn’t. My poor dog is stoned on hemp gummies. He doesn’t know if he’s coming or going.

I’m drinking a new can of Budweiser and guarding it good against roaches.

My TV is broken. I have no sound.

[scream ale]

My usual beer and whiskey. Let the good times roll.

[Thompson]

Hugh! I think I’m croaking out. I turned 67 and have lived way past any expectations. I just wanted to say, before I croak out, that I think you are a wonderful poet. A real good one. Haven’t read the novel yet.

Cracked open the last can of Budweiser. Ladybug is off turning tricks. She told me this morning that It’s Off. She found a new apartment and is leaving straight away. Can’t take it, she said.

I don’t think I’ve eaten in three days, I’m not sure. I can’t poop. I’m out of beer. Hugh, can you write a poem about your friend Thompson?

[DrunkinEurope]

Wild Turkey 101. And yes, I think I've been possessed by Nausea.

[Thompson]

In the manner of Malcolm Lowery —

Malcolm Lowery
Late of the Bowery
His prose were flowery
And often glowery
He lived nightly
And drank daily
And died playing the ukulele