MODERATOR: Thank you all for being here. I know this is very difficult. The first step is admitting that you have an addiction—I’d like to congratulate each one of you for doing that. Now let’s go around the circle and introduce ourselves.
JACK DANIEL: Hi, I’m Jack.
ALL: Hi, Jack.
JIM BEAM: Hijack, my ass. I just got off the damn plane.
MODERATOR: Mr. Beam, please wait your turn—and we don’t swear in our circle of trust.
JIM BEAM: (Silence.)
MODERATOR: That’s better. I know you’re a little strung out from last night. Hang in there, OK? Sir, how about you?
RÉMY MARTIN: Bonjour, je m’appelle Rémy Martin.
MODERATOR: Now, Rémy, I know you speak English.
RÉMY MARTIN: (Sigh.) Hi, I’m Rémy. You know, I try to throw in a little class and immediately get shut down.
JIM BEAM: Hey, froufrou, this is America—we’re not impressed with that Frenchie stuff. That shit wouldn’t pass in Kentucky, boy. Speak English.
RÉMY MARTIN: Vous me faites pitié.
JIM BEAM: English, boy.
RÉMY MARTIN: Vous me donnez la nausée. Ma bouche va littéralement s’ouvrir et mon dernier repas se déversera dans ce monde.
JIM BEAM: If you speak French one more time, I’ll—
RÉMY MARTIN: Mm!
MODERATOR: Oh, dear.
JIM BEAM: English!
JOSE CUERVO: Inglés!
MODERATOR: Please.
RÉMY MARTIN: Voudriez-vous que je couvre votre tête de foie gras?
GREY GOOSE: Honk!!!
JOSE CUERVO: ¡Sacad este pajaro de aqui, se esta cagando por todos lados!
JOHNNIE WALKER: I think the goose is concerned about the foie gras.
GREY GOOSE: (Flapping its wings wildly.) Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
JACK DANIEL: Jesus Christ.
MODERATOR: Plea—
GREY GOOSE: (Flying around the room.) Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!
(Moderator faints in the middle of the circle.)
ALL: (Silence.)
JOHNNIE WALKER: It is peculiar how the inebriated soul honks for attention. Look at what we have done to this poor lady; she even ripped her pants. Oh, I have seen many things in my days: the sullen look of a jaded 14-year-old lover, a brick of peat moss buttered in the final notes of a summer sunset, an oak barrel swollen with solemn unsung years … oh, so many things. I brave to tread the path less traveled, twirl my cane amidst the havoc and chaos of modernity. We, suspended in this age of excess, brine our livers in nectared poison with self-delusional love and irrevocable loneliness, for true love—the kind that shines so bright its white rays burst your retinas—is but a lost notion quivering toward the past.
ALL: (Silence.)
GREY GOOSE: My bad.