Having received your objectionably accusatory, alcohol-soaked correspondence nearly a week ago today, I have thus seen it fit to provide you with a declarative defense, to be presented to you before the scrutinous gaze of the benevolent public, or, “they.” I trust that “they” will, in their pluralistic corporate sagacity, rend from me the violent vilifications which you have unjustly thrust upon me. “They” will see, after an objective investigation, that our quarrel has arisen from that dark, evil place that keeps Amy Winehouse in dire straits: misunderstanding.
Indeed, sir, I have spent much of my “sober” time at the gatherings which we both attended mocking you and your antics. I believe, however, that your accusations lack true empathy. You say that at once, you’ve “been” me? Then how can you blame me for wanting to openly mock the interpretive dance that you did to “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion? I realize that was fun for you, but for the sober bystander it was nothing short of an awesome spectacle.
You misinterpreted the spirit behind my commentary; I am not against you. Rather, I am completely for you. It is not from judgment or jealousy that I make note that “you are drunk,” it is with the temperament of an enthusiastic spectator. As if to say, “you, my entertainer, are drunk! Thank you!” I enjoy your drunkenness as an ancient Roman at the Colosseum, an observer that is eagerly giving you the thumbs up! Please, continue to urinate on yourself while asking that overweight blond if she wants to fly to Vegas for a shotgun wedding! I am loving this. You see, you lovely inebriate, you are the jester of my court. I come to this bar, sober for some reason or for none, and you shine for me like bright star in the middle of the dark, humorless vacuum of space. Amidst over-confident, testosterone drowned fight-starters and sloppily desperate, inarticulate bar-babes, there you are: the silly, giddy, performer-drunk.
I never intended to be a parade-rainer; nay, friend, I gladly contribute to your continued abuse of alcohol! Feeling the waves of liquid courage beginning to ebb? Please, alert me post-haste! Here, take these three shots of tequila with the utmost of import! I wouldn’t want you to lose your “inspiration,” your “natural bravado,” the spirit you have garnered from the spirits. Your dancing is fantastic, the quality of a professional. All of the women you’re talking to are interested in hearing about your future career as a stuntman. Your lack of fear and complete confidence is in no way dependent upon or in direct proportion with the number of Long Island Iced Teas you consumed earlier this evening. You are a champion, and I implore you to continue to be such.
The statements of mine which you questioned in your letter were all in the spirit of joy. Say them to yourself as exclamations of happiness: You are drunk! You are so drunk! You are out of control! I can’t believe you! You are crazy! You see? I say these things with excitement, readily offering to you a congratulatory slap on the back as you march confidently into the center of the breakdancing circle. I am sorry that I might have misrepresented myself, but please understand, sir, I am on your team.
With the utmost of care and sincerity,