Forty-six years of sobriety, and Russell S. is still trying to get himself kicked out of the rooms. He doesn't do the soft touch; he prefers to roast the "spiritual kindergarten" and the "chicken shit atheists" who treat their Higher Power like a punchline or a spare tire in the glove compartment.
To Russell, the tragedy of the fellowship is the high failure rate—the suicides and the relapses—of men who stopped at "not drinking" but never moved toward a total surrender. He describes the wreckage of a life spent worshipping bank accounts, genitals, and plastic surgery, calling it a "giant milkshake" of good and bad that leads to a dead end if God isn't the central factor. He argues that without a concrete measuring stick for perfection, an alcoholic is just a delusional person drinking coffee.
For Russell, the 11th step isn't a suggestion; it's the only way to stop the worldly clamor from blocking out the presence of a Higher Power.
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