When eight years of marriage end in a nasty divorce, some people might turn to psychotherapy. Others might turn to spirituality. But Bob Sullivan decided to
“Give me two fingers of Jameson,” I told the barman. “Start at my pinkie and keep pouring ‘til you reach someone else’s thumb.” The next thing I remember was waking up in the middle of Ha’penny Bridge wearing nothing but an adult diaper and a multicolored clown wig.
My advice on playing the ponies is, “Don’t do it.” It’s the biggest sucker bet in town. Simply put, I never gamble on horses. Unless I get a funny feeling, or if one of the horses has a name I like.
While purchasing condoms in a foreign country is much less embarrassing then doing so at home since you probably won’t bump into your fifth grade English teacher in the checkout line, it is still an uncomfortable process.
Especially if they’re not on display and you don’t speak Thai. You haven’t really played charades until you’ve mimed what you need a condom for to a seventy-year-old druggist on the Phi Phi Islands.
Will Bob Sullivan mend his broken heart? Will he mend his broken liver? Will he even need those condoms? Find out for yourself in the pages of Drink, Play, F@#k.