Nobody believes me when I tell them that

Nobody believes me when I tell them that I remember being born, but I was in that womb for five years. When I finally burst out in a display of gore and liberty, my (maybe) father

both kind and understanding to me regarding my drinking problem. I've spent many a night passed out on a couch, or atop a lawn ornament, or under the car, or wrapped around the TV

. They would wrap me in a down comforter, brew me a cup of Tension Tamer tea and turn the TV to the Antiques Roadshow. As the spiders from my DTs passed, we would play pinochle.

Which was a silly game that old washed drunks claimed to like but was really just another in a long line of excuses to get totally smashed and let the bills pile up. So

I threw in Super High Me again cause I still couldn't remember if I'd seen it or not and fired up a monster doobie. Charles was on his way over and I wanted

him to be the guinea pig for my experiment on the effects of second-hand Maui wowie. The results were staggering. As soon as Charles stepped into my copious cannabis cloud,

he was suddenly able to talk: with a squeeky voice he claimed he saw purple elephants with yellow wings that were attacking him with candy canes and cotton bullets. Then he started

to run while he ducked out of the way of the quick-moving candy projectiles.

But a moment later he gathered his wits, his strength, his qi and his mojo, and he shielded everyone from the candy damage. They had all stepped aside, but still, how brave!