The Annual State of the Abomination Address
There are few things more cynical and sinister than
a young magazine putting out a Best Of issue. Traditionally,
it’s merely an excuse to pat oneself on the
back, squeeze more drinking time into a month, land
a couple sucker punches onto the chins of those
who smirked at you and, finally, to gaze metaphorically
toward what is certainly the ever-brightening dawn
of the future. And I’ll be goddamned if I’m
going to forsake that fine and noble tradition.
The extra drinking part has already been taken
care off, thank you very much, so let’s move
right along to the back patting and sucker punching.
"I believe, if we take habitual drunkards as a
class, their heads and their hearts will bear an
advantageous comparison with those of any other class.
There seems ever to have been a proneness in the
brilliant and warm-blooded to fall into this vice." That
teetotaler Abe Lincoln said that and he was right
on the money. Never have I been surrounded by a more
talented and idealistic class of people. Am I saying
heavy drinking makes them that way? Yes, as a matter
of fact, I am.
“You’re acting like a gang of winos
trying to build a rocket ship to the moon because
some asshole told you the craters are full of scotch.” That
snide statement, uttered by a concerned friend during
the nascence of Modern Drunkard, has sprang to mind
disturbingly often during our rise. And perhaps we
were and are deluded drunks, the proof manifest
in the bounced checks, forcible evictions, outstanding
bar tabs, terrible, terrible lies, and long, dark
moments of introspection.
Naysayers abounded. Smug advice came from many
quarters, especially from our competitors, with dire
warnings of lawsuits, social ostracization, bad credit
and other cruelties.
But there is no bigger optimist than a man with
a skinful of whiskey, and we stuck to our flasks.
We understood on a very instinctual level there is
a vast community of oppressed drunks out there, brave,
intelligent men and women who were also sticking
to their flasks, we needed only walk into a bar at
eight in the morning to meet them.
And it was with no small pleasure we watched many
of our sleek, generic and monied competitors fold.
They meant well, I’m certain, they just weren’t
weird enough to survive.
So, how’s the rocket ship coming along? The
fucker is fueled up and ready to go. If there is scotch
up there, by God, we’re going to get our hands
on it. And, according to our infallible calculations,
there will be plenty to go around.
And on that note I welcome aboard our new distribution
markets in Milwaukee, NYC, Chicago and Arizona. We’ll
save you a seat and, yes, cocktails will be served.
Frank Kelly Rich
