The Way to Go Home

     So far, we have had only a sip from the postcard world of alcohol imbibing.  There are many cards, for example, like the one above, which deal with the person who enjoys a simple glass of beer (or two) at the end of a long day.  Such cards show no signs of overindulgence, just the simple enjoyment of a touch of alcohol of an evening.  They are good-natured, benevolent, and not all that funny.

     We don’t really get laughs until the hero of the card has had a few.

     And a few more after that.  It is an attribute of the lead character on a postcard that no matter how far they are on the path to inebriation, they can still treat us to a pun.  (All together on the chorus now:  “Corn whiskey, corn whiskey, I like you pretty well.  You killed all my kinfolk and sent them to….where were we?)

     Not that our protagonist would overindulge, of course: not in the prim and proper world of our ancestors and their postcards.  It’s just that, before our hero knows it, time has flown, and he must think about heading home, as in our Friday column.  (As long as there’s something left in the jug, however, the clock will nag for naught.)

     A person with some experience navigating the treacherous road to hearth and home knows where all the streetlights are along the way.  These are not only useful for charting a course, and possibly offering support en route, but also provide a place to pause and show the world how sober he is by pausing to light a cigar.  Our hero here is not the least bit over-lubricated, just momentarily confused as he tries to light the handle of his walking stick instead.

     This one should also not be insulted with the word “drunk”.  He is, in fact, doing very well walking during a major change in terrestrial geography.  (These things frequently happen after that sixth or seventh glass.)

     And we live in the days of benevolent government officials, who put up signs to help in getting our bearings.  They might, of course, make these a little more helpful by adding details the sober passersby never seem to need.

     If one is especially exhausted by the trek to one’s snug little bed, these markers offer something to read while one rests up.

     Our heroes keep their good humor to the last, of course, knowing that they are perfectly sober and capable of finding a way to the warm embrace of family.

     Unless someone else from the party tries to horn in, of course.  (Tell me.  Has this chap made it home to his private BATH or his private BERTH?  I’m sure that if I wait until morning to ask him, he won’t know what I’m talking about.)

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