Ask The Enthusiast: Dr. Hatt

Dear Enthusiast,
My alcohol soaked friend thought it would be funny to open a fake Facebook account for me.  Is it okay to smear poop on his car in retaliation?

—Dr. Hatt

Dear Dr. Hatt,

As useful a tool as Facebook is for 3am, criminally-inappropriate public proclamations of cousins and/or co-workers’ “hotness,” the world’s favoritest social networking site can be a minefield for the very drunk—and their slightly more sober friends. While it’s tempting to get angry at your booze-soaked buddy for what you, judging by your cruel choice of revenge, perceive as a malicious act, you’ve really got to look at this from his perspective: He was trying to help you.

I’m trembling with enthusiasm!

Let’s set the scene: It’s very early one Tuesday morning. Your soaking friend, bottle of Early Times clutched in his sweaty fist, is probably entering the Charitable Phase of drunkitude; the post-Happy Hour, post-dive bar, post-strip club, post-questionably legal warehouse party, post-Jack in the Box, post-Jack Daniel’s at home-swigging phase where he’s moved on to the cheap shit, has maxed out his credit card on both 900-numbers and Sham Wow purchases, and is hungry for some good-doing.

Why is it a good idea to start a Facebook profile for someone else without their consent?

He’s been on an emotional fucking rollercoaster: From Reliefness and Elation to (Sexual) Frustration to Being on Drugs to Coming Down to Curly Fries Needing to Curly Fries Expelling to Lost to Nice Taxi Driver Having to Second Wind to (Sexual) Frustration Part II to Drinking Again to Suddenly Lonely … and now, he’s deeply Hungry for Some Good Doing. Our confused Enthusiast turns to the Interwebs for salvation. Typing “cherady” turns up no viable options, so he punches the screen, and moves on to those he knows. The man needs to reach out or he might explode from a lethal combination of pent up sexual frustration and needing to do good deeds.

He remembers something about you in particular—something sad—and wants to hear you cry about it. Not in a creepy way! He wants you to release your pent up emotions (pent up anything is dangerous!) from your eyeballs in his presence so that he may offer comfort, and, ideally, full-frontal hugging and caresses. Maybe he was worried you’d sobered up in a dry county, nary even a bottle of hand sanitizer in sight? And that your wife or husband had left you for a more attractive and wealthier partner so you were in need of some sorrow drowning with no booze in which to do this.

But where are you?

Yelling “Dr. Hatt” brings not you, but a disheveled and angry neighbor to his door, who threatens “to beat his alcoholic ass.” And his phone has long been completely shattered. Or maybe he gave it to that homeless dude asking for change at the 76 station? The next logical place to go is Facebook, but again, his search for your name there turns up nothing. That’s when he realizes he can simply create a profile, and poof, there you’ll be, available for consolment through cuddles and the remaining sips of Early Times. He digitally conjured you the best way his drowned brain matter could conceive of. And I don’t see any problem with this plan’s efficacy—do you?

So you see, Dr. Hatt, there is no need to retaliate when your friend did absolutely nothing wrong. You should really be thanking him in the form of drinks for helping you, or at least intending to help you, with all your terribly depressing and awful problems. Going to the great lengths of attempting to manifest you from Facebook-air to offer his ONLY WHISKEY and his COMFORTING TOUCHES when he could have been doing something selfish such as groping his own genitals or eating frozen fish nuggets or shaving fun designs into his leg hair.

Now to the separate question of whether to smear your poop or not. Are you drunk right now? If not, then hurry the fuck up and get halfway into the nearest bag, Doctor. There—isn’t that nice? Now, Drunk Dr. Hatt: can you justify this smearing action as being somehow charitable in some way, as being somehow kind? No? Continue drinking until smearing poop seems an act that will win you a Nobel Peace Prize, or better. Even if your Enthusiast friend kicks your ass later (which he surely, surely will) you’ll know your intentions were pure and good and thus you’ll probably enjoy the pain.
—The Alcohol Enthusiast