We need more rich, happy drunks

I’d been snapping at the kids. I was surly with waitresses. My hair trigger temper meant a trip to the grocery store for milk might end in newsmaking road rage.

Finally my wife had had enough.

“Just what is wrong with you?” she asked.

You know, I said.

“You can’t be serious.”

I couldn’t be more serious. Destruction of the culture is no joking matter. And that’s what we’re about to witness.

Yes, they’re remaking “Arthur.”

That’s the 1981 Dudley Moore movie, a classic. Worse, they’ve cast talentless bore Russell Brand as my drunken hero, Arthur Bach. 

He’ll be the role model for me if, cross your fingers, I’m ever bestowed with instant and bottom-less wealth. There’s never been a better example of a happy drunk than Arthur Bach. He left $1,000 tips, was kind to and revered by his staff of flunkies and drivers, and generally laughed through life as though he were being tickled by a giant invisible feather.

I remember the first time I saw the screwball comedy. Behind my laughter, I trembled. I was fearful they were going to ruin Arthur in the end by making him poor and happy or -- worse -- sober and happy. But the producers never flinched. In the end he got all the money, he got the girl and, I suppose, stumbled through the rest of his life without ever drawing a single sober breath.

Many good people will argue that America’s decline began when they took prayer out of the schools.

I argue it began when they stopped putting booze into the American male.

It’s been more than 30 years since even prudent amounts of alcohol were acceptable. Today, even moderate amounts of stress-reducing spirits are deemed irresponsible by the zero tolerance crowed.

Thus, today’s typical male is wound so tight that without release they eventually bust in some spectacular mid-life crisis. Happens with women, too.

Certainly, people drinking too much is a scourge. It causes havoc on the highways, tension in families and a reduction in otherwise productive lives.

But the same could be said for excessive sobriety. Many of the most damaging wars in world history have been instigated by sober crusaders fired with religious passions.


That's a lot of work for a happy drunk.

Me, I try and be moderate in all things -- and that includes moderation, a philosophy that gives me license to engage in excessiveness whenever it suits me.

Too many people in general and wealthy people in particular trudge through life as if were an exclusively grim endeavor. True, living’s not for sissies.

But if perpetually destitute people like me can find happiness, then certainly wealthy individuals should.

There’s a real poverty of rich, happy drunks like Arthur Bach.

Many of the most successful and wealthy men in the world are grim teetotalers. You never see Bill Gates giddy. Sure, Dick Cheney’s made an illicit fortune, but the only time he seems to get the least bit loaded is when he’s carrying a weapon that’s likewise.

And that brings us to Russell Brand, this generation’s answer to tedious gimmick comic actor Pauly Shore.

Now, instead of the refined and elegant Dudley Moore, our 21st century Arthur will be played by a reformed drug addict without dash or wit. Plus, promotional interviews will feature Brand regaling us with the contrast of his old life and how he’s straightened himself out.

He’ll demonize a lifestyle he exalts in his 2007 autobiography, “My Booky Wook: A Memoir of Sex, Drugs & Standup.” The book’s dedication reads, “For my mum, the most important woman in the world to me. Now for God’s sake, don’t read it.”

He’s engaged to marry Katy Perry, whom Maxim (certainly not me) says is the hottest woman in the world. The only way she’d be the hottest woman in my house is if my wife went out shopping.

Still, she’s not without appeal. What she’s doing with Brand is a mystery. Clearly, she should be upholding another grand Hollywood tradition by homewrecking the Branjelina sham "marriage."

So I’ll be in a foul mood until Brand’s “Arthur” is released next year to what I’m sure will be scathing reviews.

It’s a situation sorry enough to drive a man to drink, a temptation to which I won’t for now succumb.

I might over-imbibe. It's happened before. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to damage the reputation of happy drunks.

Purity police muddy Phelps's waters

I want to assure readers of this blog, which now includes at least two guys named Ronald, that I have no plans to drug test them. This blog will unconditionally continue to welcome both the sober and the so totally baked that they’re still giggling over the above picture of The Dude.

I’m doing this, in part, because I’m hoping to lure swimming legend Michael Phelps to jump on in. The water here’s fine.

Had Phelps, 23, been a reader earlier this summer, he wouldn’t be feeling compelled to bow and scrape before the nation’s purity police after a party goer snapped a picture of him snorkeling a bong and then sold the photo to dastardly editors at a British tabloid.

Who knew some pot smokers could be so lacking in scruples?

To me the absence of numerous other pictures indicates he took a single hit merely to be sociable. I see nothing wrong with that.

Of course, I’m on record as believing that those of us who work in places that don’t drug test have a social responsibility to test drugs on behalf of those who cannot, so judge for yourself.

Now USA Swimming has suspended him for three months and Kellogg’s is dropping its sponsorship. Both are ridiculous overreactions to a minor infringement that can almost be considered quaint in light of some of our other coke-sniffin’, spouse-abusin’, rootin’ tootin’, homey shootin’ felons who still earn millions playing professional sports for teams like the Dallas Cowboys.

It’s impossible for me to fathom the dedication it took for Phelps to get to the level he reached in Beijing. He trained every single day for five straight years. The result was an Olympic performance none of us will ever forget.

And suspending him from countless hours of grinding swimming makes no sense. If anything his sponsors should threaten to drop him if he doesn’t automatically resume spending countless hours of grinding swimming.

Heck, if America were at all serious about winning the so-called war on drugs, it would sentence anyone caught selling or using the stuff to work out with Phelps.

Now with the suspension, he’ll miss a March event and will be behind schedule for the July world championships in Rome. If he is to compete, it will be a grueling uphill swim, not unlike what a salmon must go through to spawn.

Of course, the salmon has a carnal motivation for all that work. Phelps does not.

That’s why six months ago I laid out a clear and wise path for Phelps to follow. I said he needed to sink his remaining swimming ambitions and become Arthur Bach.

Arthur was the Dudley Moore character in the title role of the 1981 movie of the same name. He played a happy, wealthy drunk who left $1,000 tips, was kind to and revered by his staff of flunkies and drivers, and generally laughed through life as though he were being tickled by a giant invisible feather.

As I correctly foresaw, further competitive swimming and trying to live up to his image would only dim Phelps’s luster.

I still maintain the thing for him to do is take the $10 million in sponsorships he’s already reaped and use it to build a huge mansion near the Inner Harbor at his Baltimore hometown, a great place to party. The house should feature an enormous and lavish pool with waterslides, a lazy river and an open invitation to all the inner city and neighborhood kids to stop by anytime they’d want. An adults-only section could feature the world’s largest swim-up Hooters.

He’d be the king of Baltimore (happily dethroning weirdo filmmaker John Waters). He’d be revered for his good nature. We’d all feel a little better about ourselves every time he’d make the news for some charitable act. And he could enjoy it all with the kind of endless buzz that made Arthur such a wonderful character.

It’s too bad he didn’t hear about my idea before he decided to try and live up to all the unrealistic expectations. Because now he’s trapped.

He’s forever at the mercy of those uptight stick-in-the-muds and their narrow 1950s definitions of how our heroes should behave.

I wish we could take the whole bunch and retroactively drug test them to see if they’ve ever taken a social hit on a bong or ever dabbled in recreational drugs.

I’ll bet we’d find they need to take lots more.