Hunter Hunted

I decided to start off the New Year by dealing with some questions a lot of people have been asking me:

What do you do?

Where are you from?

Who the fuck are you?

Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Max, and I’m looking for a good bad time.


It might be easier to start with who I am not.  I am not an activist.  I am not a socialist.  I am not partisan.  I don’t care about the environment, or Hope, or Change.  I don’t care what you think.

I won’t ask your permission.  I don’t need your approval.  I won’t bite my tongue.  I will risk being wrong.

I drink a lot of fucking whiskey.

I have passed out in bars, in the park, and once in a strip club.  I’ve slept in my car.  I’ve slept on the beach.  I’ve slept on the floor.  I’ve passed out on the sidewalk.  More than once.

I’ve had crippling alcohol poisoning.

I’ve been punched, and choked and kicked.  I’ve had my eyes gouged, I’ve had fingers jammed up my nose and I was bit once.  I’ve been hit on the kidneys, in the nose, and on the ears.

I’ve fucked coke heads and psychos and bar trash.  I’ve had a lot of drinks thrown in my face.  I’ve been selfish and cold and cruel.  I broke a good woman’s heart.

I have a Ph.D. in hangover.

I’m the regular.  The mean bastard.  The stranger at the end of the bar.  I’ll be the last man standing at the end of the night.

Just give me one more for the road . . .