Mr. Squish and adult beverages.

Thanks to all the horrific examples of alcoholism in my family, like a grandmother who chose to die homeless, a father who can’t remember (or selectively chooses not to remember) half the evil things he did during my childhood, aunts and uncles who ruined their relationships under the influence, and various distant family members whom I have never seen sober—I don’t drink. Don’t and won’t.

I never started. The greatest amount of alcohol I have ever imbibed, at any one time, has come from a communion cup. I don’t have the genes to make it worth the risk. If you’ve ever seen me drinking from a beer bottle, it was either non-alcoholic beer or root beer. If you’ve seen me with a Solo cup, it was soda. At a high school party, I admit I spent the whole evening with an open container; but I never once sipped from it.

Why the subterfuge? Because if you don’t drink, people hate to drink alone, and you must join them. “I don’t drink” isn’t a sufficient excuse. They won’t stop nagging. “Come on, one drink. How’s one drink gonna hurt you? You can’t get drunk from one drink. Just one drink. Just a sip. Just a taste. Come on.” All bloody evening. And I’d hold out all bloody evening, ’cause I’m stubborn like that. The open beer in high school was to get people to lay off.

Sometimes I’ll take the time to explain the whole sordid family history. Problem is, that’s not enough of a reason for someone who’s dead set on getting some Schnapps into me. They can’t conceive why a non-drinker would attend a party. They didn’t go so they could hang out with friends or family; they went so they could get blind drunk and urinate in umbrella stands and odd corners, and blame it on the housepets. Whereas I was there to be with loved ones… and quietly, on the side, photograph what happened thereafter, and thereby get some sweet, sweet blackmail money.

Kidding about the blackmail. Not so much about the urination.

But one day, I hit upon the perfect thing to say to shut ’em up: “I’m an alcoholic.”

I’m not. That’s a lie. I do have the perfect storm of personality, DNA, and behaviors that, once you add alcohol or weed, become full-on alcoholism or addiction. I’m a latent alcoholic. But once you say, “I’m an alcoholic,” the nagging immediately, wonderfully stops. The nags apologize for leading me into temptation. They never prod me again. They treat me, instead of like the killjoy who won’t have a drink with them, like a noble recovering addict with a willpower of steel who hangs out with them despite their scummy behavior. They even feel guilt: What sort of vermin are they, to try to pull an alcoholic off the wagon?

But since it’s a lie, my conscience bugged me about it. Eventually I stopped saying it.

I know, abstinence is an extreme route to take. My siblings haven’t taken it, and I hope to God they never slip over the line. As any alcoholic will tell you, it’s hard to nail down the day you crossed it, when social drinking turned into alcoholism. One day you’re having a few beers with friends; the next, you’re trying to explain why you changed all the office’s outgoing voicemail messages to obscene grunting noises. Or why you showed up late and drunk to the youth soccer game and punched out one of the moms, and you don’t even have kids. I’ve watched it happen. So I don’t go there whatsoever.

Others figure I’m just being a nervous Nellie, and correctly point out one drink won’t ruin me. So have one drink. Have a beer. Sip the Schnapps. What’s one drink?

Most of the parties I attended at Sac State were thrown by fellow journalism students. Some were even hosted by the school paper. “Hornet parties” were included in our budget: Twice a semester, we got to blow off steam on the newspaper’s tab. If the student government did it, it’s the sort of thing we’d probably pitch a fit about, ’cause there was underage drinking, weed smoking, and alcohol poisoning. Regular alcohol poisoning.

See, there was this guy, whom I’ll call Mike, ’cause that’s his name. What he’d do at every party was identify a mark, always male, whom he planned to have a little fun with that evening. No, not that kind of fun: Mike would wait till that mark was just drunk enough to lack judgment—maybe have a beer or two in him—and then introduce him to Schnapps. “Hey dude, wanna try some Schnapps? Tastes like Torani syrup.” All of them would say sure, they’ll give it a try, and he’d get a shot into them. Then another. And another. Till they got extremely drunk within the next several minutes… and then Mike would break out the tequila.

As any drinker will tell you, tequila, Schnapps, and beer are an unholy combination in a 20-year-old’s stomach. Within the half hour, the recipient of Mike’s false generosity would violently occupy the host’s bathroom for the rest of the night, trying to throw up his own liver if possible.

After three parties with the same result, I realized this was Mike’s regular modus operandi: He got some kind of sick glee out of making some poor wretch retch. So I began to warn ’em away. “Stay away from the Schnapps. The tequila comes next, and then it’s the rest of the night bowing before the porcelain god.” But regardless of my warnings, Mike always found a victim. One night, more than one—the result being two guys fighting over a solitary bathroom, and one of them lost messily.

You’d think hosts would realize Mike’s antics were the reason for their besplattered bathrooms and sinks. But Mike more than made up for it by providing the weed. So while the hosts were blazing away in their bedrooms, Mike would work on some unsuspecting partygoer, and the hosts would be too baked to care about the toilet-gripping purgant befouling their home. Till morning, anyway.

Soda was my drug of choice. I’d drink copious amounts. When we went to Bleachers—the sports bar on the far side of the Guy West Bridge from CSUS—I’d order a pitcher of cherry Coke and a straw. I wouldn’t bother with a separate glass. I’d drink from the pitcher. Partly because college students are cheap, and would ask if they could have a glass from my pitcher, and I’d wind up with only one glass myself; drinking directly from it meant I didn’t have to share. And partly for the stunned reaction from people who couldn’t believe I’d drink an entire pitcher by myself. But really, it’s 64 ounces; the equivalent of a Double Gulp. It’s hardly that impressive.

Since I only drank soda, I assumed I’d never have to worry about getting carded. Not so. One evening, some friends took me to the Last Chance Saloon, where no one under 21 was admitted. I didn’t know this till I tried to buy a Sprite. “Need to see some I.D.,” said the bartender.

“For Sprite?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked the I.D. over and said, “Sorry. You gotta go.” Thankfully, my friends were willing to relocate on my behalf. (I wasn’t the only one under 21, but my friend Jen had a fake I.D.)

The next time some friends wanted to go to the Last Chance, I warned them I’d get booted. They said, “No problem. If all you’re drinking is Sprite, drinks are on us. Bartender never has to see your I.D.” Fun evening, and I totally creamed them playing quarters. (To keep things fair, we didn’t play for money. Bummer.)

I was once tasked with purchasing the keg for one of the Hornet parties. I think it was some oversight on the part of whoever gave me the job: Me, the underage non-drinker, having to get the beer. But I had to bring a driver, an of-age friend named Tony. I handed him the cash and off we went to Safeway.

“Out of curiosity,” I asked the manager, “do you sell kegs of non-alcoholic beer?”

“We do,” he said.

“Hmm,“ I told Tony, “guess I didn’t need your help after all.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

“You know the crazy thing,” I said, “they’d ‘get drunk’ anyway. They’d act just as sloppy and goofy as if we bought the real thing. We could just watch them and laugh… and tell them the next day, and watch them be horrified. It’d be hilarious.”

“We should totally do it,” he said.

We chickened out. Had it been my own money, I absolutely would have.

As I said, I’ll drink non-alcoholic beer. I actually like the stuff—which just goes to show how good an idea it is for me to stay away from the hard stuff. Non-alcoholic beer has 0.5 percent alcohol by volume, so it’s 1 proof: There’s only 1.77 milliliters in a 12-ounce can. By comparison, the weaker communion wine is 24 proof, meaning in a one-ounce cup, there’s 3.55 milliliters of alcohol. So like I said, the greatest amount of alcohol I have ever imbibed came from a communion cup.

Mom, like me, doesn’t drink. For her, it’s personal conviction: If she’s gonna be in church leadership, she doesn’t feel she should drink at all. I largely agree with her, but I’m not gonna tell a church leader to abstain completely. (My denomination will.) For me, that’s between them, the Holy Spirit, and their livers.

But Mom objects even to non-alcoholic beer. To her, it’s a gateway drug. To me, I can’t see how it’s a gateway drug: I’m never tempted to have a regular beer instead of a non-alcoholic beer. Maybe Mom is, but my brain doesn’t work that way. Still, when she first found out I drank non-alcoholic beer—when I was 27, for crying out loud—she lost her nut. The 1.77 milliliters made no difference: I was drinking. (To be fair, we were on our way to the Highway Patrol office to pick up Dad after he’d been busted for DUI.)

Mom still gets annoyed when fellow Christians drink. She used to work for this faith-based organization, where the staff was all Christian, but some of their churches don’t care at all about alcohol. Like the Catholics. And it freaked her out when they’d have dinner together, and some would have wine with dinner, and think nothing of it. Now, considering her personal experiences with alcoholics (which were worse than mine), I don’t blame her for being anti-alcohol. I just don’t share her attitude: Those Christians I know who do drink, tend to be moderate about it. If it ever becomes a problem, I’ll encourage them to abstain. Till then, I don’t worry about it. I, however, abstain.

As for Leonard Squish: I have to keep reminding people Leonard isn’t me. We share certain thoughts and traits in common; I have used him as a surrogate for my point of view. Still not me. He’s not a Christian; he makes poor, self-centered choices and is definitely going to hell. (Oh relax; he’s a cartoon. He’s going to cartoon hell.) I wrote him that way so I can make fun of his bad behaviors. You can’t make fun of role models, you know.

So when I joke, in the top strip, about Leonard only having a Mountain Dew, it’s ’cause that was my own line throughout college: “It’s not a beer; it’s a Mountain Dew.” To which people would respond, “Yeah right it’s a Mountain Dew.” In my case no, it really was.