This is the personal blog of Adam J. Schirling, the founder and editor-in-chief of Drunken Absurdity, a revolutionary ezine. For the best in alternative literature, poetry, art, movies and more go to This blog is strictly for my personal rants, some dirty pics, and the occasional cool story or sweet tunes.

Presenting: The Drunken Absurdity site

>> Monday, January 31, 2011

It has finally come, the launch of Drunken Absurdity dot com, my venture to profile my new project Voices from the Underground. In this I take to the streets to seek out the counterculture and underbelly of society and bring a platform for their stories. The site will also serve to profile the work of Revolutionary writers, poets, and artists

Join the Revolution...

Embrace the Absurdity


>> Saturday, January 29, 2011


confessions of an american drunk...

>> Friday, January 28, 2011

by adam schirling...

To see us, you may not see anything worth a second glance…we are the middle, the nobody on the corner and in the grocery store. We hail from many different backgrounds and belief systems. But one thing sets us apart. Our thirst. The thirst never dies, no matter how many churches or meetings you go to or pills you swallow in a vain attempt to kill the primal urge that bubbles up from the darkest recesses of the soul. It is what binds us, makes us a powerful voice to be heard, the true blessed beings that strive for perfection through indulgence in liquid suicide. This bitter search for a way to soothe the onslaught of an uncaring universe..
It takes quite a bit of gumption to begin a quest such as ours. Many do it without knowing, they were the amateur boozers at one point, light beers and girly shooters. But as others grew out of this phase to more mature and subdued submission to the all mighty bottle, usually in the form of dinner wine or football game beers, we kept at it, kept striving for transcendence. Many reasons can cause this phenomenon. The clergy driven mindset of the mindless scum that occupy rehab centers would have you believe that this gift is a genetic curse, wrought upon us in the womb, and that we have no power over our desires. This, of course, is wrong. Whether it is sorrow, or naivety, or just good old fashioned American love of good times, we all made a conscientious decision to be as we are.
If there is one thing I have learned as I stumble through this world in a drunken haze, it’s that temperance is a curse. Those that refuse that 3rd drink, citing work in the morning or the watching of calories or not wanting to feel the icy hot fingers of intoxication wrapping around their throat, are not to be trusted. These are the folks that will be the destruction of our society, of our very way of life. We are descended from beasts, wild animals that once ran amok in the jungles and plains of the world, fighting and fucking and succumbing to every whim that crossed their simple minds. Over the long centuries of evolution and so called progress, we have learned to ignore these calls, these instincts. We as humans lost touch with our most human aspects. We became polite and formal and wrapped our minds in the shroud of decency, and the lies of pleasant relations with our friends and neighbors.
But there are some of us who will not adhere to these principles that we have no understanding of. There are some of us who will not sit idly in minivans and pta meetings. There are some of us that will not be kept quiet. We are the drunks, the boozers, the rummies, the beerguts and diseased livers. There is a very simple reason that the pleasant warm kiss of alcohol can kill you if consumed in vast quantities over time. For anyone that has felt the thrill and the immortality of drunken absurdity knows this already. The gods give us this beautiful gift, this enlightenment; for the drinks are a key to the door to understanding everything that ever was or will ever be. But it comes at a cost, and that is our health, and our friends, and the respect of society as a whole.
But we don’t care. We need none of that. We need another drink, for the day is young, and a few dollars remain in the wallet, and we have the need to explore the mystery and intricacies of the human experiment.
And it’s fucking delicious.


reality drop....

>> Wednesday, January 26, 2011


drunkenabsurdity dot com

>> Tuesday, January 25, 2011

its coming. very soon. almost ready. dont touch those fucking dials, join the revolution


moody gives me a broner


new spot....

>> Monday, January 24, 2011

first column for Writing Raw is up today.....check it out

Rome is Burning...


I miss this show so much.....

>> Saturday, January 22, 2011

Flight of the Conchords: Some funny fucking New Zealand dudes


Post #100

>> Friday, January 21, 2011

what could be more appropriate for the one hundreth post than to quote the man who has inspired it all:

                                “In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer”

“The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

albert camus
french-algerian philosopher
father of the concept of Absurdism


Willis Gordon

>> Thursday, January 20, 2011

***willis gordon is an extremely talented writer living in the DC area, with a strong pen for political and social commentary. I am proud to call myself a friend through correspondence to this awesome fucker, and he will be a featured Revolutionary on the new Drunken Absurdity site. enjoy***

Send lawyers, guns, and money; the shit has hit the fan.

The fucked up thing about our current situation is that we’ve seen it all before. Different context, sure. But we’ve seen this room and we’ve walked this floor, a cycle of mindless followers, zombies of the Right and Left. Somewhere deep in the heart of the modern American is a true disdain for understanding, truth, and critical thinking. We want media idols and political demagogues to stroke our egos and tell us we’re doing the right thing, even when we know damn well we aren’t.

Tea Party fanatics and Limp-Wristed Liberals continue to squabble like kids in a sandbox; the only difference is, unlike the kids, the never get down to brass tacks and fight it out. They continue to posture and pose, and yell, and hoop and holler. Puffing out their chests and flashing their feathers in an empty attempt to scare off their opponent. We knew this day would come, however. The day it goes too far. The day the rhetoric and the posing and all the other bullshit finally allow us to stumble over the line like the Acid-freak who finally jumps out the 9th story window.

“Don’t retreat, reload!” “If ballots don’t work, bullets will!” These homespun,(if not slightly psychotic)little phrases seemed cute at first. A folksy, John Wayne approach to politics. But there’s a reason Rooster Cogburn never ran for Governor. He was a fucking madman! A fat, one eyed, crazy old drunk with an itchy trigger finger and a 2nd grade reading level. Is this who America wants making its decisions for her? Some half-retarded cowboy ready to shoot first and forget to ask any goddamned questions? I think we’ve already answered that. Twice.

The recent shootings in Arizona are troubling to say the least. It shows me that the rhetoric is hitting home to some people. Do those people happen to be completely batshit crazy? It seems that way. But it’s hitting home nonetheless. Can I blame Sarah Palin or the Tea Party solely for what happened out there in the Desert? Sure I can. Quite simple, really. Can I do it credibly? No. Though I do find it strange and suspicious that it took her four days to scrape together some sort of jangled, mistake ridden, blundered response to the attacks. A veritable lifetime in our 24hr news world. But the mood of the country, the pent up, misguided rage, the middle-aged angst, the anti-government hate-speech rallying to a fever pitch, all roads point to these type of events. The bullets fly, the blood spills, and Lady Liberty hangs her weary head. When the dust clears there is no shame in the air. Not a hint of remorse. Just a slew of fingers being pointed, words being spewed, blame being placed.

“The crosshairs did it!”

“It was that goddamned marrywanna!”

“The tea party is making people crazy!”

“His friends called him a ‘dope smoking leftist!”

The Tea party is NOT making people crazy. However it IS giving them a nice little club to join. And people like Jared Lee Loughner don’t usually have “friends” like you and I. He’s what we refer to as “That Guy”. You know. The guy with the secret nickname that you and all your buddies came up with. The one you won’t make fun of to his face. Or at least not too much fun. Because you know that one day he’s going to come marching down the halls with an M-4 in each hand, pumping your coworkers full of lead and you will be left, pants pissed, cowering behind your cubicle, pleading for your life with the line, “I was nice to you! I was your friend!” THOSE are the kind of “friends” Jared Lee Loughner has.

I will say this. We’ve gotten to a point in this country where total darkness is closing in, and we seem to be spiraling out of control. We need a boot in the ass, and fast, or else God knows what will happen next. Soon the last few patriots this country has will be run down like dogs, beaten, slandered, and slaughtered by some mindless political freaks, slobbering wildly and clawing at their raw, naked bodies in a psychotic frenzy. The mess we’re in is too deep, that even lawyers, guns, and money can’t save us now. Now that the shit has really hit the fan.




i stare at goats

>> Wednesday, January 19, 2011


Is it badass in here or is it just me?

I am pleased to announce my new monthly column: Revelations in Drunken Awesomeness. This project will be featured on the amazing site, Writing Raw. I look forward to this partnership, and the continued oppurtunity to display what an asshole I am in any public forum.


work to do this morning....

>> Monday, January 17, 2011

The first Voices from the Underground interview is this morning....very excited. For those who don't know, this ongoing project will be the main feature of the new Drunken Absurdity website that should be launching in a week or so.

Our first venture will find us at a strip club called Foxy Lady to talk to a dancer and escort named Shelby Devine....

wish me luck


fuck it feels good to say that in my head

>> Sunday, January 16, 2011

"As things stand now, I am going to be a writer. I'm not sure that I'm going to be a good one or even a self-supporting one, but until the dark thumb of fate presses me to the dust and says 'you are nothing', I will be a writer." - the good doctor


the schirling has been drinking.....


“Undermine their pompous authority, reject their moral standards, make anarchy and disorder your trademarks. Cause as much chaos and disruption as possible but don’t let them take you ALIVE.”


cant sleep....


The Lizzie Borden House...

>> Friday, January 14, 2011

The house loomed from the corner of a common, quiet downtown street, a slight sense of menace surrounding it like a shroud. To see it, you wouldn't think it to be much special. We enter, and meet the innkeeper; a small old woman with a thick New England accent in a cheesy sweater. The other guests have already arrived: A stout middle aged woman with Target makeup and fake tan, accompanying her obviously goth-chic daughter on an adventure; a grey haired biker with a young tattooed vegan son; and another 20something couple. we made an eclectic and cliche bunch, as if from a bad 1980s horror movie. All we were missing was the token black guy.

After a snowy jaunt to the local graveyard to view the humble tombstone of the accused and her hatchted victims, we returned to the house to begin the late night tour. The stoic innkeeper faithfully carried out these duties with an air of showmanship typical of local theater troupes, but with a Golden Girls sense of humor. Of course I had been drinking since before noon, and even vomited in the graveyard when searching for the tomb. My girlfriend blamed the spirits, I was suspect of the local dinner fare. So the tour went on, showing a nicely restored house with a warm, B&B feel to it. But despite the makeover, the walls seemed to seep with the history of the graphic murders, and perhaps a faint souissant of the suspected incenst that occured as a possible motive.

Our room, the site of the murdered stepmother, was a drunk but hopeful blur by the time we trudged to bed. supposedly the other couple stayed up to contact the former specetral residents via ouijia board, but we lay in the dark room ,the snow falling outside tinted by the urban streetlamps. As the booze and sleeping pills began to sink in, I felt her hand on my cock through the sweatpants. we proceeded to quietly fuck, careful not to let the other guests mistake us for haunted activity through our stifled moans and creaking floor. The idea of fucking 2 feet from the site of a grisly murder was not without its charms.

We awoke, slightly let down that we witnessed no movie style shenanigans. But then we noticed our coats, laying folded on the floor in front of the inner-latched door. They had been hung up the night before on the claw foot coat rack, and yet there they lay, the coat rack still upright. strange activity for a poltergeist. The breakfast of johnnie cakes and eggs sat quite well while theories about the murders and supposed haunting flew through the air. We paid and left in a pleasent mood, the cold New England sun glaring from the fresh sonowfall on the concrete ground, and a minor hangover ringing in my skull.


Fuck You Winter

>> Thursday, January 13, 2011

my name is adam, and i like to party


Losers whine about trying their best....

>> Monday, January 10, 2011

Winners go home and fuck the prom queen

time to take over the world or die trying....


I like seals and shit....

there he goes....homeboy fucked a Martian once


drunken absurdity takes part in American paranormal history

>> Saturday, January 8, 2011

On August 4th 1892, Andrew and Abby Borden were brutally hacked to death with a hatchet in their home in Fall River, Massachutes. Home at the time was their daughter Lizze, who found the bodies, and a maid asleep in her 3rd floor bedroom. Despite overwhelming evidence and motive, Lizzie was acquited of the horrific murders after a sensational trial that rocked the American press and public. She died years later in Fall River, a rich spinster. The Borden house is said to be the most haunted house in America....

Tonight, The Schirling and his woman will be guests at the Borden House, sleeping in the same room that Abby Borden was discovered in, with 14 axe blows to the head. There is to be a seance, tour of the house, and the local cemetary that the family is buried in. I am preparing for this event by downing a bottle of scotch and reading all I can about the infamous case............

Will I see ghastly specters? Maybe. Will I be drunk and document the experience with photos and interviews? Absolutely.

More to come



business cards.....

>> Friday, January 7, 2011

Thanks to a hot blond tattooed chick with big fake boobs, stage 1 of blowing this shit up is in effect......


Personal Crusade (originally posted to AltReel, August 2010)

I like to think of myself as a fairly good faker of normalcy. In fact, I
took much pride in this ability. I could put a wide smile in my face
while making pointless small talk with strangers. Little did my goofy
grin and brigt eyes betray my utter disgust for the platitudes that
spewed from their holes. Weather is weather. It will always be too hot,
too cold, too rainy, too windy, too nice. Sports are sports. Your team
is awesome/horrible/recovering/showing great potential. Politicians are
politicians. They will always lie and cheat and steal while professing
our best interests in mind. They will sexually harass their interns and
abuse drugs while passing condemning legislation against both. Because I
am younger, I am still exposed to so many topics: MMA fighting, social
networking, video games, Jager bombs, dance clubs, current pop hits,
fashion trends, I-phones, celebrity rehab stints, tabloid pics, green
technology, reality TV shows, graduating college, getting a good job,
reading books about wizard children or glittery vampires, spray tanning,
some fascination with people from Jersey, college football scores, and
credit scores.
I used to be so good at faking my normalcy and interest in these things
in the name of politeness and anti-awkwardness in social settings. But
the past couple years I have become very very aware of one simple fact.
I don't fucking care. At all. Not even the least bit. And I don't care
that you know I don't care.
It makes me so sick. All of it. I feel like I am on some sort of fucked
carousel spinning dangeroulsy out of control while the kaliedescope of a
nation so fucking up its own ass with ridiculous shit flys past me in
bright colors and loud noises. The sound of us all on a final death
march to the land of the intelectually fucked. The spinning grows faster
and faster, I feel the hot burning vomit creeping up my throat. What
used to be polite smiles and nods has turned into sneers and utter
contempt etched onto my face. I have no connection with my generation.
We profess to be so forward thinking and radical, while creating an
atmosphere of indulgence and fake rebelliousness. Young law students
get full sleeve tattoos. Your accountant probably has an nose piercing.
I bet your neighbor has a trendy blog that she fills with artsy photos
of sunsets, closeups of food and stupid fucking inanimate objects in
black and white, while filling pages with procclomations of how simple,
artsy, and in touch with their surrondings they are. Watch, I bet she
does. Go knock on her door and ask. I will wait........See, told you.
Things like tattoos, peircings, writing, poetry, and excessive drinking
used to be the signs of the eternally fucked. Outlaws, rebels, social
deviants, agoraphobic nuerotics, and general assholes. They fringed away
from society while advocating social change and acceptance. In here lies
the problem. Instead of sticking to the dream, these sonsofbitches
settled down, bought 3 bedroom houses, and starting popping out kids.
Now these signs of rebelliousness are trendy and hip.
I have decided to make it my personal crusade to be an asshole. I don't
give a fuck about anything. I don't want your stupid phone. I don't want
to watch that asinine show. I don't want to dance with slutty college
chicks to top 40 hits at a bar that sells $9 beers. I want solitude that
is broken only by a few souls I trust. I want to drink at the most
innapropiate times. I want to quikly tell anybody who has the audacity
to bring up UFC that I think it is fucking retarded. I want dark qiuet
bars where they KNOW BETTER than to bother you while you are doing
something as important as drinking. I want my girlfriend who tolerates
my insanity and contributes some of her own. I want to never wear an
article of clothing with a logo on it. I want to drink whiskey and smoke
cigars on an empty porch until I am fall down drunk a.d then crawl to
bed. I don't give a fuck, and I don't care.

Call me a misanthrope. It feels great.
I drink to the death of ideas. I drink to the death of rebelliousness. I
drink to the death of my generation.



No Salvation

I sat under the spitting head of
The warm shower
I watched the water cascade down
Onto my skin
Staring at it rolling over my tattoos
Without making them run
So odd, I thought
It thinks it is my real skin
Watch it run down the legs
And bead off the tip my cock
Washing away all
The filth of this world
All the hate and shame and fear
That accumulates on my skin as I walk
Through city streets
All the denial and anger
That had stained my being
The lust and perversions
That had clung to my face…
I watch this all run in dirty clear streams
Down my body
Back into the sewer
Back into the world
To start it all over again
I watched it and wept
For I know that my cleanliness
Is an illusion
No shower can clean
Your soul


best summer of my life

>> Thursday, January 6, 2011


the truth


fond memories



>> Wednesday, January 5, 2011


word bitch, phantoms like a motherfucker!!

>> Tuesday, January 4, 2011


bleeding nipples

>> Sunday, January 2, 2011

who the fuck would have known
that I would turn out to be
so fucked up
the writing was
on the wall I suupose
early masturbation and
a young exposure to bukkake
will do that to
a lad these days
punk music came
tattoos and booze
girls with pink hair and girls
with bleeding nipples pierced with
cold steel
blowjobs in church parking lots
but I must ask myself
how could I have not turned out like this
how could I have been normal and obedient
when the rules made no sense
I am what I am because I
love to be
despite the pain and rejection of
society, and the phantom
of true life breathing over my shoulder
fuck you
i am american youth
i am cheap booze
and war at the dawn of manhood
and dirty strip clubs
and loud music
played while driving
down dirt desert roads
screaming and laughing
i am me who is
the future


Ten fucking years ago...shit.....


Fuck you 2010

>> Saturday, January 1, 2011

new years resolutions 2011:
1) lose some weight
2) write the next great american novel
no pressure


too true


About Me

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New England, United States
Freelance writer and poet. Founder and Editor in Chief of Drunken Absurdity. President of Drunken Absurdity LLC

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