Over the Moon

By Marchell Dyon

Joey is sloppy drunk after six margaritas and ten shots of tequila.

So Joey gets the bartender to call me.

Joey said. “I could use a good sponsor.”

“Joey, how’s the new wife?”

“She’s great Mike, eight tentacles and all. Joey laughed. It’s me that needs an exorcism or NSA or something.”

“Okay, Joey, time to go.”

“Well, at least tonight I won’t be sober.”

I posted Joey at his door. To my horror, green octopus arms surround Joey dragging him through. Thirty years on the wagon; tonight I’ll have a few cold beers till the bartender calls me a sponsor.