The Misadventures of a Drunk in Paradise

Daniel T. Drunk, Jr. if you really wanna know. And I’m on a plane headed to Paradise Isle on the trip of a lifetime. The occasion? My honeymoon. Except, there’s only one problem. I’m riding solo. It’s a really long story, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to leave it at that. Really? You must know? Fine, I get it. You’re the nosey type. Here’s the abbreviated version. I came within an inch of marrying a cheating slut. There. Get the picture? Good.

What would you do if your ex got abducted? Remember, they're an ex for a reason. So let's assume you hate them from the depths of your soul. Line up the tequila shots, right? Not your problem? Now stay with me for a second. What if you were the only person who could save their life? Then would you save them? We are talking about another human being's life, after all. Now, imagine you have seven million dollars in your bank account. Sweet, right? It's seven million dollars or your ex's life. This is a judgment-free zone. Be honest. You'd keep the seven million dollars. Am I right? Yeah, me too.

Technically, there’s only one girl on this island that I’ve been told to stay away from. One. And she just showed up on my doorstep looking like a hooker at a ho parade. Why, you ask? Well, according to her, I’m the only one on Paradise Isle that can help her. The only. Fucking. One. Go figure. So what am I supposed to do? Turn her away and look like an asshole? This whole “being a good person thing” isn’t as easy as it’s cracked up to be. Bear with me, will you? I’m still learning the ropes.

Have you ever met someone whose entire life mission was to get under your skin? A high school bully, perhaps? A work colleague that just can't buy a f--king clue? Your shithead next door neighbor who revs his engine at all hours of the night? Now imagine, for a moment, that pain in the ass follows you to your new home on a Caribbean island and continues to poke and poke and poke until you fucking explode. You'd wanna retaliate, right?

Is it just me? Or are all relationships complicated? I feel a little bit like it might just be me. Because I seem to be the common denominator in every one of my f--ked-up relationships. The only relationship I have that’s not f--ked up is with my octogenarian sidekick, Al. Although even his loyalty has come into question a time or two - like when he tried to turn in his two-weeks' notice and I was forced to remind him that he can’t quit a job he doesn’t have. And even if he could, then he wouldn’t get to hang out with me anymore.

Have you ever had a rash? I’m talking one of the bad rashes. You know, the crusty kind that ooze puss and fester under the surface of your skin? The kind you gotta see a doctor for. Well, I’ve got a rash. It’s a bad one. And her name is Erika Wild. I’ve been told I can’t pick at my rash. I can’t cuss at either.

Retirement ain’t for pussies. Someone told me that once. And I’ll tell you this much—they weren’t shitting me. If you know anything about me at all, folks, you’ll know I’m not much of a planner. Never have been and probably never will be. So when I decided to take early retirement without so much as a fucking whiff of a plan, my crew of geriatric buddies at the Seacoast Majestic Resort came to the consensus that I hadn’t given my future enough thought. I mean, they weren’t wrong. All cards on the table—I hadn’t given it any thought.