It has been rumored this was fabricated, like top 40 music or home runs in the 1990s. Keith A. Carey is funny, flawed, and thinks he might want to help you, but only after 1 PM in good weather. He was good at one thing for a decade - getting drunk to the bejeezus belt. Beyond redemption or salvation, impervious to correction; there was to be no sobriety date, yet another rehab stay, and mundane crawl back into society's good graces. There was only to be the end of life as he knew it. This was to come via a pawn shop 9 mm handgun at The Grotto. Fate intervenes as Carey relates in both grim and hilarious fashion; a man who had hit his bottom and needed to kill a pain that alcohol could not. No ordinary book and certainly not a boring individual, Carey bounces and weaves as if writing a Tarintino script. It's all true, except when it's obviously one of his absurd creations designed to amuse. Sure to be a classic, alongside other books which are collecting dust in America's basements. Some would compare it to "A Fan's Notes" or a very poor man's "The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." The theme is recovery from alcohol abuse, which made Carey's defects and problems multiply just short of death. The interweaving true stories feature his family vacations, peculiar friends, golfing accidents, a world famous strip club, time in a psych ward, problems with cats (and women), and a few borrowed catch phrases from TV and the movies. His only regret is not getting electro-shocked while decompressing at the funny farm ... if only he could have been born 30 years earlier. A force higher than reason spared his life and he claims this is why he feels he has a story worth converting into a book. Sobriety doesn't equal sanity in the most entertaining non-fiction book since "Eat This" by Dom DeLuise. He survived a hell of his own making and is now ready to fulfill his true destiny. There is no law to state who can be a parent. Maybe there needs to be one on who is allowed to write a book. That's a joke, son.