"nenslo" <nenslo@xahoo.com> wrote in message news:nenslo-88E961.15133111052006@sn-radius.vsrv-sjc.supernews.net...

> I suggest you actually spend some time around even one "alcoholic." Or
> worse yet, a genuine DRUNK. Your utter lack of life experience is
> making you say really stupid things.

My Grandfather was an alcoholic since before I was born.
He was hired by the Post Office at the beginning of the depression in St Louis, and worked his way to Postmaster of the Tower Grove Office over the years.

He was a tough boss, but very fair, and he took an interest in the welfare of all his workers.

If a new guy was having trouble on his route, he would go out and help him, show him the tricks and shortcuts.

Postal workers worked from 6 am til 4 pm in those days, and my Grandfather made sure that he had enough men to get all the mail delivered by noon, and did not tolerate doofisses, or airheads, and would transfer them out, or fire them.

At noon the postal workers would all congregate at a Tavern and would drink and play pinochle til three, then go back to the station and punch out. That's how he ran the Tower Grove Station for thirty years.

My Grandfather pounded beer and booze relentlessly into his nineties, but I never saw him stagger, nor get sloppy. He outlived both his sons, one of which was my father.

When my Grandfather turned 90, a group got together and rented a hall to celebrate that event, mostly guys that had worked for him. This was in 1990, and I flew out from CA to attend. A hundred and fifty people showed up, and took turns telling outrageous stories of the good old days working for him, and alot of tales involved hapless Christian dipshits who tried to bring down his empire and try to expose the horrible racket and corruption and carousing on government time.

And how the workers managed to gaslight and sabotage and drive these pink fucks out of the way, because my Grandfather had RESPECT with the workers, and respect from his overlords , because he ran the most efficient, flawless Postal operation in St Louis for thirty years.

When you are ninety years old, EVERYBODY that you knew and grew up with is dead, you are all alone except for your family, in most cases.

A hundred and fifty people showing up for your ninetieth birthday party is unheard of, but that's how cool he was,

He was one of the coolest people I ever met, and a real working man's hero. He never abused his kids and worshipped the ground my grandmother walked on

I am proud to be his spawn, I drink to him right now with the Busch that comes from my birthplace in St Louis, because it was the cheapest twelve pack at the gas sation

BELCH FART and fuck'em if they can't take a drink.


all hail Bukowski, greatest American author