Vonnegut walks into a bar.
It is the end of the (insert name of current American conflict) war.
Vonnegut always has a drink at the onset and resolution of any American war.
That is why he’s an alcoholic.
He is a patriotic rebel without a just cause.
As Tolstoy once pointed out to him, it’s a very long stretch between war and peace.
“What’ll ya have this war, Vonnegut?”
Vonnegut bristles with remnant shock and awe. “The Breakfast of Champions.”
The bartender runs his stubby fingers over the necks of bottles and the spines of books. He is a chiropractor for aching, tired souls:
Bushmills – Hemingway
Chevas – Fitzgerald
Wild Turkey – Vonnegut
A 325-page unread paperback smacks down on the bar.
Vonnegut snorts. “Not that trash. Give me the real breakfast of champions.”
The nonplussed bartender transforms into mixologist. A martini appears.
“I drink. Therefore, I am.” Vonnegut makes his toast and disappears.
All that remains behind are a dusting of cigarette ash, a white curlicued moustache hair, and a soiled cocktail napkin bearing the felt-tipped rendering of a sphincter.
The gist of this vignette?
War and peace are too cumbersome to ever learn.
Bars and libraries are siamese twins separated at birth.
Authors who pack tongues in their cheeks always
prefer the real deal.
God bless you and rest in peace, Vonnegut. Your war is over.