I had to go to Boataholic Anonymous

Let me start off by saying I like boats.

My wife Carol made me go to Boataholics Anonymous today. I don't appreciate that because it takes time away from boating and boating related activities, not unlike boating. I didn't understand why I had to go. I'm not addicted to boatahol, I've never even SEEN boatahol!

She said I had to go to save my marriage. I said, I'd rather be married to my boat. And she said a union between a man and a boat wasn't a legal marrigae in our state. She had a point. Damn right-wing fascists and their anti-boat conspiracies. Next year, I'm writing in Ahab when I vote. Deal with that you Nixon loving, land sodomizers.

I have a few issues with Boataholics Anonymous that I'd like to share now:

1. There are no boats.

2. It's not really anonymous is it? The first thing they do is tell me to stand up and say my name. That's purposely misleading and I made a note of it in my notepad that has a 1800's warship on it.

3. There are NO BOATS!

4. The place where it meets is in a classroom right next to Alcoholics Anonymous and some 12-step program dealing with sex. (I saw you there Mrs. Johnson and I am disgusted. Don't think for one minute that I didn't make a note in my boat notepad.) This is detestable. I don't want to be around those people. Getting away from those types of people are the reason I got a boat in the first place. Plus, I think one of them was on meth or PCP or goofballs. I never saw anyone on any of those things before, but I like to think of myself as a good judge of character and drug abuse, and more importantly boats.

5. Did I mention there were no boats!?!?

We had to go around the room and tell a story about our boat addiction. I started off by saying that I didn't have a boating addiction and then told them about my uppity wife Carol and her unreasonable boat related demands. Actually, first I stood up and gave them a fake name, Launchpad McQuack (suck on that you anti-boat Nazis! You'll never find me!)

After I explained my situation, they wanted a story. Fine. I gave them a story. A boat story.

I told them about the time I was in a Boater's Warehouse and I wanted to try out this sweet rowboat they had, but the manager informed me that he didn't have a pool or artificial lake in the back where I could row that bitch out and see what she could do. After a good 20 minute scolding in which I managed to insult the manager's store, mother and masculinity; I took the boat out to the fountain in the middle of the mall to get a feel for the oar control. Of course this was after the manager stopped crying. I'd say there was a good 45 minute gap in there, but that's another whole story.

So I'm out there in this boat just minding my own business and kids start throwing pennies at me. This was insulting to both me and my soon to be new boat. Long story short, when the cops showed up I told them that the children deserved their numerous bruises and abbrasions, I don't know how a bear got lose in the shopping mall and the Abercrombie and Fitch was on fire before I even set sail on the open waters of the fountain. I then proceeded to tell them about my sweet new boat.

4 hours later I finished my story. It was already time to go. Nobody else had time to tell their boat story, but it's OK cause I didn't really want to hear their stupid stories anyway. Don't tell my wife Carol, but next week I'm skipping B.A. to go to Boater's Warehouse again. Restraining order or not.

And don't you make a peep Mrs. Johnson or I'll tell the neighbors what a torrid, sultry life you live outside of your Sunday school class. You should be as disgusted with yourself as me and my boat are of you, you lush.