Whoa, dude! That's profound. Stupid, but in a profound way.

By Joseph Walther

He’s back! Yes, Earl is back at Mamma Gina’s Pizza Shop in the New Castle Farmer’s Market in Wilmington, Delaware. Those words, “Ya unnerstan what I’m sayin?” reverberated from the pizza stand seating section like someone yelling FIRE in a crowed movie theatre. Almost zombie-like, I moved in the direction of that voice. I couldn’t help myself.

I had not been to the “Market” since the fire a few months ago. It’s been even longer since I last talked to Earl. He was in jail for almost 8-months. Apparently, he lost his fifth debate in a row with the Delaware State Police over his alcohol-induced inability to drive. He claimed, as always, that he was fine to go; they, in their usual snotty manner, disagreed. Fortunately, for the rest of us who must drive, those “dirty coppers” had an accumulation of evidence to back their claims. In fact, their evidence was so strong, this time around, that Earl no longer has a driver’s license.

I pick on Earl, sometimes unmercifully. Regardless, it’s important for you to know that I admire him. He’s quite likeable in a Forrest Gump sort of way. Forrest Gump was a fictional character in a Tom Hanks’s movie. He was lovable, honest, sober, but intellectually unremarkable. His low IQ was apparent, making his life a constant, uphill struggle against those who self-appointed themselves as his intellectual superiors. It was a moving story. But, in the end, Forrest was a fictional character, an idiot from birth.

Earl, conversely, is real. He was not born an idiot, nor is he one now. He’s sick. Unlike Mr. Gump, he’s an alcoholic. He knows that he’s an alcoholic and he knows that it is going to kill him, perhaps sooner than later. He knows that his mind is circling the drain of mental decay through years of alcohol abuse, but he’s utterly incapable of stopping.

I can’t speak for all of you, but, unlike me, Earl faces demons that I’ve only read about and, at best, have experienced second and third-hand. I’ve known only two other people who suffered from an alcohol addiction this severe. They both died during alcohol-induced comas. Neither had reached the age of fifty. Earl is only 44-years-old, although I thought him closer to 60-years.

Earl has said some downright stupid things. I’ve written about many of them over the past three years. He’s said things that neither I nor anyone else could possibly make up. He’s also said some profound things that I’ve not mentioned. Here are some of those things. I’m going to call them “Earlisms.” They’re like “Gumpisms,” only they’ve come from a real person.

Earl claims to hate cats. However, his new girl friend, Bonnie, with whom he now lives, has four of them. She told me that Earl describes her cats as “loving animals who consider humans as warm-blooded furniture, trained to open the food cans, fill the water dish, and clean the litter box.” She further gushed, “They just adore him!” You have to have spent time around cats to describe them to a tee the way Earl has. It’s also a fact that cats do not “adore” people in whom they sense danger.

So, does this mean that Earl has lied about his hatred of cats? Maybe. On the other hand, being a born skeptic, I cannot discount the possibility that Bonnie—even with a nun-like sense of purpose—may have other “skills” that more than compensate for the fact that she has four cats. Also, we must not discount her valid driver’s license and a loan-free car, either.

In my humble opinion, Earl may have hated ALL cats BEFORE he met Bonnie. But, he loves HER cats, especially in light of her other “skills.” It’s sort of his way of looking up and saying, “Thank ya, Jesus!” As I said, Earl was not born an idiot, even though he sometimes sounds like one now.

Earl once called another customer at Mamma Gina’s an idiot for buying a Powerball ticket. I was there. I thought there was going to be fistfight over it. That customer quoted a “Gumpism” as justification for buying the ticket. Quoting Forrest Gump, the customer said, “Your chances of winning the lottery go up significantly when you buy a ticket.” Earl proceeded to explain, accurately, but in his uniquely offensive way, the difference between the “chances” of something happening and the “probability” of something happening.

All mathematicians know that when the likelihood of something happening goes from impossible to possible, as is the case when you acquire a lottery ticket, it’s significant. However, they are also quick to point out that, in the case of a Powerball lottery, the probability of winning is still 146,107,962 to 1. Hardly worth the effort, don’t you think?

As sincere as he tried to be, Earl’s explanation, an accurate mathematical dissertation, was rather long-winded and completely over the recipient’s head. It was a masterpiece and only its last sentence turned it offensive. His exact words, as I recall them, were, “Only dickwads, brain-damaged by a feet first trip through their momma’s joy canal, buy lottery tickets.”

The man he said this to replied with—I’m paraphrasing here—“Be fruitful and multiply, buddy!” OK, he didn’t use these exact words. Just the same, at this point, both men, madder than all hell, jumped up, and cocked their fists back, ready to strike. Momma Gina had to intervene… personally.

By the way, this is when I found out that Mamma Gina is NOT a petite, kindly, older grandmotherly, hard working Italian lady. “She” is 6-feet, 5-inches tall, weighs 255-pounds, and shaves. She speaks Italian in a deep, masculine voice and doesn’t look like a woman at all. I was shocked!

Let me put it another way. If I found myself in Earl’s predicament and I hated cats the way he claimed to have hated them, and it was Mamma Gina instead of Bonnie, her four cats would be history, no matter what other mitigating “skills” she had. The fact that she possessed a valid driver’s license and owned a car wouldn’t help, either. And, I’d certainly consider giving up alcohol. I mean, Mamma Gina looks just like some hairy-assed man. I’ll bet her real name isn’t Gina, either. God, talk about your shattered images!

Many years ago, a newspaper columnist, Mike Royko (click his last name for more information), introduced readers to an imaginary boyhood friend, Slats Grobnik. Slats provided Mike with a sounding board and a way to write, with humor, about political and social issues of his day. To this day, I have yet to find another columnist who does it as well as Mike Royko did it.

I know some things about Earl that I didn’t know the last time I wrote about him. And, I promised that I’d continue writing about him from time-to-time. However, I intend to give equal time to some of his “Earlisms.” Understand that I do not consider myself anywhere near the same league as the late Mike Royko nor are Earl and I boyhood friends. Just the same, though, I thank Earl for being my “Slats Grobnik.

All of this notwithstanding, Earl, there are some people in your life who worry about you and care about you. I know you think that you’ve quit drinking, but consuming beer is STILL drinking. Stay in touch. Bonnie, good luck to you. Never forget, though, that only the alcoholic can stop himself from drinking.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.