7 Years 112 days - Fucked Up Fridays

0:00Alright, you are back with comedian that boil and I'm quitting alcohol. So you beat a fucking snowflake cuck's. The boy out is changing tact with this podcast. I am going to do it first thing in the morning. When I say first thing in the morning, I mean, fucking after I've done all the kids shit and woken up and whatever. Because I can't have it lingering over my head all day. I need to start writing comedy. I need to be fucking more proactive during the day. And I feel like a lot of my procrastination is to do with the podcast. And if I can clear it out early in the day, it opens up a whole fucking world of adventure.

1:05Plus I fucking do it so late at night sometimes. Sometimes it's like two o'clock a.m. Not p.m. Fucking a.m. And that's just ridiculous, especially if I'm getting up at seven o'clock. I can't be doing that. So you're going to hear from morning boil while it's morning boil today. And it's going to be morning boil tomorrow. The problem is the fucking weekend. If I can get the kids out and just do it early. Anyway, I'll figure it out. So that is going to be happening. It will probably happen for three days. And then I'll be back up at two a.m. Why am I feeling tired all the time? So fucking keeping ear out for the change of energy. Anyway, fucking it's Friday, baby. And you know what that means. It's time for this week's fucked up Friday. So fucking do you know how many people have said they're going to write me a fucked up

2:08Friday recently? Just fucking go to my website boil comedy.com. Kev has fixed it up. Oh yeah, by the way, Kev got married to his beautiful fucking wife, new wife, mad, Maddy, Madeline, who has also done some artwork for me posters and stuff they got married over the weekend. Apparently the wedding was fucking rocking to some cigarettes. And unfortunately I couldn't make it. So congratulations to the fucking newlyweds. But yeah, the fucking website is fixed. Go to fucked up Friday. Send me a story and I'll read her out. I'll read her out anyway. Let's get to this week's fucked up Friday, which was sent in by Ryan. Risey down there in, oh, across there, across there and slightly up Rochester, New York,

3:15Rochie, baby. So fucking let's get to it. I think there's some data centers being built out there, isn't there? They promised thousands of jobs. And now they're only fucking man in them with like 20 people or something like that and drawing all the electricity. Anyway, that's hearsay. So here's this week's fucked up Friday. In 2017, I stumbled on a movie called The Way. Basically a dude walks across Spain to gain something he lost. I feel like we're all doing that friszy. We're all here trying to find something we lost. But that does sound sick. There's more to it than that, but I watched it. There's more to it than that, isn't it? Is that right? But I watched it and thought to myself, you should walk across Spain to unfuck yourself. You should walk the demeanor.

4:17Fuck I love that sort of thought process. I said the goal worked three jobs and saved enough money for the flight and to survive three weeks in northern Spain. But on a plane and flew completely alone to the other side of the planet for my first international adventure. This is what I like about Americans. Americans will not travel or leave the state or sometimes not even their fucking town. And because they're so insulated and they haven't fucking broken the shackles, they'll finally crack and just do something mental. Just go and do something fucking so cooked. It's like, hey, you reckon if you just went to Fiji once, you'd still be doing this. Americans have to get out of America now and then it is like a pressure cooker in here.

5:17You can feel it all the time. Just go out, go to Ireland, see how they fucking roll. It's a lot more chill. Aside from getting absolutely fucking wasted in beer artsists, that's not even close. Beer it's with some hostile dudes. I was more focused on experiencing the walk and seeing what light it would show me on how to escape the shackles of my dependence on alcohol and the effects of getting drunk to forget how much I hate myself. It always gets me that stuff. That's the lie I believed until I found out that bottles of wine in Spain are about two fucking dollars. All bets were off from then on. Oh, you were trying to do this sober. This was your walk through sobriety was it? In the first stop you found Spanish wine.

6:20So from the border of France, I started walking every day anywhere from 8 to 15 miles a day and would proceed to get to an albergue, a hostel, rip cigarettes and drink bottles of wine and beers and eat tapas. All while telling myself this was a spiritual journey. Yeah, I used to do that when I was travelling through Thailand doing buckets. I'm just experiencing the culture with red bull blood poisoning. After about a week I gave up thinking that this adventure was somehow going to fix me. I didn't find a light to follow and didn't hear a voice of an omnipotent being. You didn't give yourself a chance. You walked one mile directly to a bottle shop and started again fucked up. It could have worked if you gave it a slight chance. The whole thing was a waste of time and money but I'm going to get as fucked up as I can

7:23while I'm here and make it worth my time and money. That's the spirit. I arrive at albergue la Casa del Patigrino, Patigrino just outside of al-assibo de San Miguel. Get my bed in order and sit out on the deck of the hostel to smoke and drink. There is a guy sitting alone with four bottles of white wine in front of him. Is it the ghost of future you? I just found my best friend of the night. I drink five bottles of this every night. He says in a thick Brazilian accent, no hangovers. I ask him why and he says there are no tenons in white wine and tenons are what calls hangovers. Yeah, it's the tenons. Not your raging alcoholism. Whatever I buy a few bottles and we get on.

8:26That's what I did during my gin phase. I was like, this doesn't give you hangovers. I drink a bottle every day. Just bottle of gin, soda water and loads of ice and it doesn't give you hangovers and a couple of beers. I'd be a chaser and 500 darts a day. It doesn't even give you a hangover and then people would drink it. They would have like two drinks and they're like, yeah. And then they would have like half a bottle and they're like, no, I'm pretty hungover. As he and I talk, a father and son sit with us. They are Indian but from California. The father is a dry well articulated and frankly boring doctor and his son is about 18 with a nose ring bleached hair and a goatee. He couldn't look less enthused to be here with us. They could not be more different. The kid and I started talking and drinking. He drinks beer and I drink whatever is in front of me. He wants to be a writer, loves the classic authors, doesn't know what he wants in life.

9:32He just wants the right man. I tell him I have a master's in creative writing. He becomes enamored with the idealism of it. He shows me his black and white notebook, asks me to read some passages, asks me my opinion of Hemingway and what's my favorite novel? He's so happy. The father is oddly quiet. Jesus Christ. The young kid still talk about Hemingway like that. I read all of Hemingway but I pretty much just read everything so I could tell people I read all of Hemingway. And that's pretty much true. Although he was pretty good. I liked him. I loved him a lot. He starts to get pretty drunk so he becomes more truthful when his father leaves to make a phone call. I don't want to be here man. This is for him. He thinks this fucking walk is supposed to bring us together.

10:35Like make us bond or whatever. I fucked up at home. His solution was to take me to Spain so I can figure it out with him. Figure what out man? Who gives a fuck? I'm not who he wants me to be and I don't give a fuck. And he takes a very large swig of beer. The father comes back and the kid is quiet. His gulps of beer become more frequent. His questions to me about getting a writing degree become more fanciful and eager. And his eyes start to glaze over. The father is not amused. He has stopped contributing to the conversation altogether. The night comes on across the valley and we clean up the beer mugs and wine bottles and head to our separate rooms. There's a quick and loud knocking at my door deep into the night about 2am. One of the albegay workers is standing in the doorway with worried eyes and his hand

11:36is quickly flapping and fanning me in a gesture to come with him and he keeps repeating Amigo estern problemas. Amigo estern problemas. I'm pretty loaded with bottles of wine and beers as I follow the worker down the hallways. The father I get from the room the louder the sounds get as they echo down the hallway. It is the sound of thuds and muffled screams behind a door. The worker opens the door and there is the father standing over his son who is sitting on the edge of a bed. There is blood collecting on the floor where the kids bear red feeder. The blood is pouring out of the kids nose and running down his knees. His glasses are broken and lay on the floor. He sits stoic and silent. He doesn't look up. The father doesn't turn around. He just winds up a red speckled fist towards the ceiling and slams his knuckles into the

12:39side of his son's head. The father screams something in Indian then screams a mix of English and Indian. Something rehab something fuck up something I tied to a thin line of drool slides down the father's chin as he pommels another fist into the side of his kids face as hard as he can. The sound of the third is horrific. The kid is despondent. He doesn't react. He doesn't flinch. He sits unblinking blood running down his face. I step between them and tell the father that's enough. His eyes are locked into position staring into my chest. The father is trembling with rage. He won't look me in the eye. He's going to stay in my room tonight and I'm not asking. I say the father's head nods slowly in agreement quietly. I take the kid back to my room and tell him he can have my bed.

13:41There are three other beds all taken. Without speaking to each other I clean up his face in the bathroom and put him into bed. I lay on the cold tile and try to fall asleep and before I do he whispers brokenly. Thanks man. I want to tell him that I've been there, that I get it, that you can't let them see you flinch. I keep my mouth shut and let the silence sit between us. When I wake up he is gone and there is blood on the sheets where he laid his head. I get my backpack and head to the lobby to get coffee and food. There are about 15 other walkers eating, talking. As I wait in line for a cup of coffee I see sitting at a table is the father and kid. The kid is staring into his plate of fruit and doesn't look up. The father does though and he sees me. He gets up and takes the kid's notebook out of his own backpack and starts walking towards

14:42me. Instead of throwing a fist at me or screaming he approaches me, tosses his son's notebook into the trash bin and walks past me. I look at the kid one more time but he doesn't look up. I exit the albergay and continue walking. That was a fucking great story. You can fucking really tell you half-assed yourself through a fucking creative writing degree there. Imagine the kid could see you now on this podcast presenting your writing and he's in it. He's now a lawyer or a doctor. He's got kids now. He's got colleagues. He's telling his colleagues about his face. His creative writing phase. But you stuck to it. You didn't kill yourself. You didn't kill yourself and now look where you are. Friesy. You're on the number 17 ranked self-help alcohol podcast in Australasia which is to be

15:50fair miles ahead of most of your classmates. No but legitimately that was a fucking fucking good story. You've got a good pen there. I'll put you in touch with Zach and you can you can compare notes but thanks for sending in that story I fucking loved it. That'll do for today and oh yeah have a good weekend and I'll see you the fuck later.