December 30, 2002

The family nobody cares about
by Molly Media

Cueball psychologist Wes Carter must be getting very bored, running out of money or both. He originally came to Genoa City at the urgent request of his hot mama's daughter thinking he could take advantage of the situation and what has he accomplished?

Nothing productive.

Wes got himself wrapped up in Dru Winters' and her sister's evil, had to lie to Lily Winters and had to propose marriage before Dru's former husband could and no matter how hard he tries, Wes can't get his ladies back to Paris where they rightfully belong.

His thriving mental health practice in Paris in ruins, Wes now finds himself spending well over $400 per day for hotel rooms and related expenses and has nothing better to do with his otherwise valuable time than go to shopping malls and have insignificant conversations like the one Monday when he accused Neil Winters of monopolizing Dru's daughter, a girl Dru would rather ignore and has said she wants engaged in some serious bonding with her father.

Oh my goodness say it isn't so. Oh my gosh the horror. Neil is bonding with Lily. Oh dear, oh my, what is the world coming to?

With a twinkle in his eye and a smirk on his face Neil said, "That’s what families are about." And looking at Wes as if he had just fallen off a turnip truck Neil asked himself, "Didn't this guy say he's a psychologist? Wouldn't a shrink recognize bonding when he sees it?"

Thumbing through his mental 'What to Say when there is Nothing to Say' manual, Wes flipped to chapter 3 where it read, "to counter we are family claims always elevate toward greater and greater levels of compassion and love and mutual understanding."

"You know Dru decided to stay here because she didn't want you to be alone," Wes drawled.

And more riveting, absolutely enthralling dribble rolled over Neil's big lips when he sensed that Wes was using the old ploy, you're a helpless addict who needs to be watched all the time, which was really very true so long as Dru did the watching.

Detecting that the conversation was going nowhere, Wes mentally thumbed through chapter 7 before cackling how he had told Lily he made a mistake getting plane tickets to Paris and had not yet told Dru.

Neil thought this was very "admirable" of Wes but at the same time knew that Dru really doesn't care because she didn't want to go to Paris and didn't want to haggle with Lily about it.

Instead of wasting time with pointless dialog, Neil should have told Wes, "Listen you slimy milky-skinned toad, don't ever come here again as I have nothing to say to you." But he just sent Wes on his way with a reminder that he's Lily's daddy and by god, "We're going to be a family again."

By the time this insolent conversation came to an end anyone bothering to listen might have thought the video was coming from one channel but the audio was coming from another. Because in the grand and even not-so-grand scheme of things, it really doesn't make that much difference if these people become a family again because nobody cares. This entire tribe of aberrants could fall off the face of the earth and not be missed.

November 26, 2002

Recovering drunk begs for work!
by Brent Kellogg

November 25, 2002

The odd couples
by Lois Hill

Pretending to worry that his child will grow up to become a monosyllabic encephalitic drug-addict and never be able get into an overrated college he can't afford, recovering drunk Neil Winters announced Monday his intention to drag his daughter before the Walnut Groove Academy Dean of Higher Learning.

Just weeks ago Dru Winters hauled her daughter away from Paris, plunked her down in Genoa City and declared that Lily Winter's father was the only person on Earth capable of giving her an attitude adjustment. But when Dru learned of Neil's intent she twisted her face, made a raucous noise and asked, "Are you calling the shots now?"

Scientists could study the creepy crawlers trying to pass themselves off as humans in this city and they'd never understand what causes them to tick. They say one thing and do another.

Last week Neil sneered at his former wife's French fry lover and asked Wes Carter if he weren't becoming a "regular member of the family" when he found Frenchie at Olivia Winter's apartment. Spending more time at the apartment than he does his own, Neil was appalled that house guests Frenchie and Dru took no action when his daughter, Lily, threw a fit over hating everything about that scandalous school she's been forced to attend.

To her credit, Dru was actually contemplating allowing Lily to change schools. But Neil would have none of it. His daughter would attend the drug infested school and she would like it.

To his credit, Frenchie reminded Neil to get to know his estranged daughter before trying to control her life. But Neil would have none of it. Dru had carted the kid halfway around the World to get his help and damn it, he plans to do just that.

Sending Frenchie off to his expensive hotel room, Dru demanded to know what Neil is trying to "pull" and Neil was ready to review. He and Dru have "a smart, beautiful 14-year-old who isn't making it right now because her parents haven't been there for her together over the years. Because of their negligence, Lily hasn't developed the "core values" needed to become a successful adult.

To make everything as good as new Neil has proposed, for Lily's sake, that he and Dru and Lily live under the same roof. They could be the African-American Ward and June Cleaver. Sex, of course, would be optional.

Dru didn't like the idea. She said she'd think about it and then sped to Frenchie's hotel room to tell him of Neil's desire to be a family again. Frenchie saw right through Neil's use the daughter to get the mother back ploy and proposed to Dru on the spot.

Dru had no immediate answer but it really doesn't matter.

All that alcohol has fried Neil's brain cells. Kids in this city don't need "core values" or anything to succeed other than rich parents or influential relatives. Nick and Victoria Newman are prime examples.

And really, when you step back just a little, in the grand and even not-so-grand scheme of things, it really doesn't make that much difference who Lily lives with. Here again we have odd couples wanting to roll back the clock under the weak guise of breathing life into a dead marriage for the sake of the children.

September 30, 2002

Can you spare a job?
by Brent Kellogg

September 19, 2002

When you need a pick me up, I'll be there
by Lois Hill

Poor little runt Nate Hastings. Back from summer camp where he trained to become the next captain of the Exxon Valdez, the stunted teen trapped in the body of a ten-year-old was forced Thursday to visit his uncle at a local rehab center for addicts. With school not starting until October in Genoa City the kid had time to study the lack of self control in adult males.

Noting that Neil Winters was now clean shaven and pumping himself up, Hastings inquired if the new look meant that the drunk had overcome his shortcomings.

"With the help I’ve gotten here plus love and support from my family I’m going to beat this," Winters said raising an imaginary iron fist.

Power to the rehab!

Hastings was ecstatic. Soon the uncle Neil he's missed so much would be back home.

"I’ve missed you too," Winters condescended.

Indeed, more significant, was Winters proclamation that Hastings is "my guy" and that he wants to be there for the stunted man-child.

Satisfied that her son had been sandbagged, Dr. Olivia Winters sent the boy off with an imaginary friend. The only friends Hastings has are imaginary. So what friend, either real or perceived, would tag along to a rehab center?

Returning to tell her former brother-in-law, the man she slept with once, that his former wife had come to town seeking helping with her out of control daughter, Dr. Winters observed the recovering drunk saying bye-bye to another addict leaving rehab for the fourth time.

"When you leave it will be after your first and only time here," Dr. Winters ordered as if she were somehow embarrassed that members of the social class she represents are too good to wallow in the depths of addiction.

"I’m leaving here," Mr. Winters grunted. Not so much for his own personal regime change but rather for the sake of his daughter who, like his nephew, shall not be let down.

"Tomorrow will be the first day of taking one day at a time," Winters added already forgetting that once an alcoholic - always an alcoholic.

September 3, 2002

When a drunk calls
by Michael Kelly

To throw the rehabilitating booze bum a bone, Vic gave the recovering retch permission to call again when Winters is finally sprung.

Thank heavens, Kneel was a responsible straight arrow who rarely spent his pennies while working for Newman. Since Winters didn't apply for unemployment when he temperamentally told the titan to take his job and shove it where the sun don't shine, there's no other earthly explanation for the alcoholic's ability to pay the hefty tab for the rehab room.

Let this be a lesson for other incorrigible, falling down drunks. Unless you have a mammoth money tree standing tall in your back yard, it's never wise to burn your big business bridges before attempting to bypass the booze.

August 20, 2002

I led two lives
by Molly Media

Oh dear. Like we need more proof positive that the world is going straight to Hell?

Or at least to Heck (which is rumored to be just outside Crawford), or Purgatory or somewhere similarly warm like maybe Hawaii.

Because here's why. Because here is Neil Winters, the once staunchly starched and stiff-upper-lipped business executive crying in front of four women. Well, three women and one girl. Make that one woman, a quack, a drinking buddy enabler and a girl. Suddenly and without warning, Neil gave into a higher power pleading for help with his alcohol addiction.

Local drunk Neil Winters was assaulted here Friday after opening the door to the apartment of Olive Pit bar babe Serena Slattern where he has been holed up in a lame attempt to wean himself off alcohol.

During a discussion with a bottle of booze Winter's foolishly keeps by his side just to be safe he crawled to the door thinking Slattern had forgotten something after she earlier had promised to give up drinking too.

Winter's eyes bugged out when a man barged into the room braying, "Give it up. Give it up right now."

Confused by the hip-hop lingo at first, Winters was befuddled until the attacker began speaking in English that he wanted money.

"All I’ve got is that bottle," Winters rhapsodically babbled as smoke poured out of his pants in fear.

Suggesting his attacker take a TV which didn't belong to him, Winters, the bottom of his pants suspiciously bulging with poop by now, incredibly invited the predator to have a drink with him!

Identified at the sleazy Olive Pit bar fly known only as "Juice", the villain knocked the bottle out of Winter's hand sending it crashing to the floor.

Like a teething baby Winters began begging for a drink. Even more disgusting than what he was doing, Juice called Winters "pathetic" and ducked as the drunk took a swing at him. Incensed, Juice battered Winters senseless knocking him out cold and breaking his nose in the process.

Ripping Winter's fancy watch off his victim's arm, Juice also took his money, his keys and the address of his apartment before fleeing.

At her work place, Slattern was seeking time off to help her drinking pal kick his addiction when she learned a fellow employee had given out the address of her apartment to a member of the local rift-raft. Fearing the worse, Slattern raced to her apartment where she found Winters stone cold unconscious.

After being asked if he was okay or if he always sleeps on the floor Winter came around. It was then that Winters blurt out another mindless statement.

"Why would he rip me off in a place like this?"

Granted, Winters had just had the crap knocked out of him and his big nose was busted but still the pointless carp made no sense. Would he have preferred to have been ripped off at the Hilton?

The few intelligent citizens of Genoa City stood in disbelief Friday when word began spreading that Jabot Cosmetics executive Brad Carlton will demand local drunk Neil Winters immediately enter rehabilitation.

While it was agreed that maggots like Winters need to be taken off the street for their own good and to keep society pure, there's an old saying, "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink". No pun intended.

No amount of threatening - even incarceration - can make any addict do something they are not ready to do. It is apparent, by his amoral actions, that Neil Winters is not prepared to change.

There is a slim possibility that threatening Winters with the loss of a valued family member might get the monkey off his back. That tactic was tried and failed but only because the wrong family member was offered up as a sacrifice.

No addict is willing to give up his drug of choice in exchange for a relationship with a disconnected nephew. Especially one who reminds him of the deceased half-brother who slept with his wife.

However, there is one person Carlton might be able to use as a weapon to get Winters to heel. Even in his most sobering sobriety Winters has never mentioned "Boo Boo Bear."

Boo Boo, as Winters used to call his daughter, was the apple of his eye until the child's mother took her away to Paris. Since that day many father-daughter days at the office have come and gone as have birthdays and holidays without a peep about Lily Winters.

Despite the fact that Olive Pit saloon skank Serena Slattern had met Dr. Olivia "The Butcher" Winters only a few minutes earlier, Slattern wasted no time here on Friday before berating the Butcher for not supporting town drunk Kneel Winters during their confrontation in the alcoholic's apartment.

Olivia was shocked to find the man she's always loved lip-locking a complete stranger. When the disheveled dipsomaniac came up for air and noticed the Butcher in his apartment, he hollered, "What's wrong with you? Don't you know how to knock?"

The witch doctor explained that the door was open. She had just returned from Denver after attending a medical conference called How To Kill Patients Quickly Without Impunity. Olivia merely wanted to see how he was doing.

Suffering from a severe sauce craving, Kneel blurted out, "Liquor store, I'm on my way", and rudely rushed out of the apartment. It's also likely the lush wanted to avoid an uncomfortable encounter with the Butcher.

His sudden absence left the two women awkwardly alone. Olivia shut the door, mentioned only her first name, and said she was a friend of Winters. Slattern spat out her given name and called herself "an acquaintance" of the scotch sponge.

Donning her detective's cap, Serena quickly deduced that the Butcher was the mother of genetic freak Little Big Man Nate and the widow of Malcolm Winters. If only Genoa City's own Paul "Clueless" Williams had such highly honed investigative intuition.

Wanting to know at least as much about the bar babe as she knows about her, Dr. Squinty pumped Ms. Olive Pit for information about herself and her relationship with the boozer.

Slattern didn't appreciate the inquisition. What the hell right did the bitch have to grill her? Olivia haughtily explained that as a member of the whiskey fiend's family, she had every right.

"Family huh? Sounds nice. Doesn't mean much though," Serena snorted snidely.

Furthermore, if the Butcher cared so much about the bottle nipper, she wouldn't insist on abandoning Kneel while he's pickling himself and force him to hit rock bottom in an effort to help him.

Once again, Ms. Olive Pub's perceptiveness is uncanny. Unless she's an authentic Miss Cleo, there's no way she could no so much about Kneel's fractured family ties since he mentioned none of this.

Before departing, Slattern advised Olivia that if she had something to offer Kneel that he couldn't get from Mr. Scotch, that's great. If not, Serena spat, "You are not the answer. You are part of the problem."

A short time later, Winters returned to his pad. Before entering his own apartment, the crocked coward swiveled his head from one side to the other while peeking through his halfway open front door. Believing the coast was clear, he slithered inside.

After enjoying a fresh belt of booze, Kneel was surprised to find Olivia, who had been lurking out of sight, walk right in front of him.

Announcing that Serena had left, it was no more than a minute before the Butcher bombarded him with questions about the bar babe. Who is she? Where did he meet her?

When her questions went unanswered, the witch doctor expressed concern for the wino's welfare.

Mr. Winters wasn't buying it. In fact, he went ballistic.

"Is that why you're here? To pretend that you care when you really don't give a damn?"

While holding the genetic freak nephew's picture, the whining windbag started crying and carrying on about the Butcher instructing her Aunt Pain Me not to let him see Little Big Man. How the hell could Dr. Death stab him in the back? Doesn't she know the growth stunted gnome is all he has left?

Olivia tried to reason with the delusional dolt. After the way he mauled the little runt last time, she had no choice but to keep Winters away from her son.

When she compassionately urged him to face up to his drinking demon by getting some help, the loaded loser turned accusatory.

"You're using Nate against me as a weapon, and that's cold. That's really cold!"

As a tear ran down her face, the Butcher reluctantly left.

Still holding the Little Big Man's photograph, the sloshed sicko started hitting himself in the head with the blasted thing. Then he got up from his chair, grabbed the pictures of the rest of his kin folk, and deposited them in a desk drawer. To drown his sorrows, the dejected jerk took another slurp of scotch.

If Winters believes the Little Big Man is all he has, then he has nothing. Nate hardly barely cares whether Uncle Kneel lives or dies. The squeaky voiced mama's man has choir practice, bedtime stories, and sugary sweets to make him happy. Furthermore, it's beyond weird that Winters is so fixated on his 19 year old nephew. Is this dipsomaniac a future pedophile?

And why even bitchy broads like the Butcher and the psychic saloon skank would waste a moment of their time on this pickled, slobbering, milquetoast of a man is a mystery. They should truly move on. Also, it's highly presumptuous of Slattern to consider Dr. Death culpable for the odious opprobrium Winters' worthless life has become.

Feeling the need to reach out and touch someone, lonely lush Kneel Winters dialed up money grubbing bar babe Serena Slattern and invited her to his apartment here on Thursday. By the time the Olive Tree trollop tried to leave his pad after the brief visit, the town drunk was pitifully begging her not to leave him!

Before he placed the call, Winters nervously paced his living room while turning backward the photographs of his dead brother and growth stunted nephew. After that, he took a sizable sip of scotch and phoned Slattern during business hours.

After Kneel identified himself, Serena snapped, "What do you want?"

When he invited her to his place, the surly saloon slut didn't exactly dance a jig. She didn't think she'd ever hear from him again after their recent inebriated mattress mambo.

Despite the fact that it was happy hour at the Olive Pit and her she was in the middle of her shift, Slattern zipped across town in a taxi to Winters' lair. Since he never mentioned his address or even his last name while on the horn with the ho, how she located the scotch fiend is a mystery.

Blessed with a gift for gab, Serena complimented her host by admitting that his neighborhood's "not too shabby."

When Winters asked if she was surprised by his high class 'hood, what was Strumpet's refined response? She knew he didn't "live under a bridge."

After complaining of having to shell out cab fare to travel from the ghetto into the high rent district, Kneel reimbursed the crude chick with a $50 bill.

Highly insulted, Serena snidely reminded him that she rode there by taxi as opposed to a limo. Clearly, there was no pleasing the brittle bitch.

Suspicious Slattern ignorantly inquired, "What do you expect in return?"

The booze hound assured her that he wanted the wench as nothing more than a "drinking partner."

Still not satisfied, the shrill shrew griped that she wasn't surprised he didn't want to screw her again after the wham-bam thank-you, ma'am he treated her to the last time.

Winters, trying to be charitable, described their trashed tryst as "really nice."

Realizing she was being patronized, Serena snarled, "Gee thanks!"

Since she claimed to be short on time, Slattern nixed the opportunity to bottle nip, and huffed that she doesn't drink while on duty. This was no problem for the booze hound. All the more hooch for him.

Trying to engage the tramp in conversation proved difficult. After Kneel asked how long she's poured drinks at the Olive Pit, the creature spat, "Are you really interested in all this?"

Because the vile viper wasn't into sports and doesn't watch Fox Snooze, Kneel brought up their night of booze induced boinking. Does Slattern always screw strangers?

Predictably, the hag hit the roof and hissed, "Are you trying to insult me, or does it just come naturally?"

"I just asked. You don't have to get snarky," the clod barked.

Things moved from bad to worse when Serena started asking about his genetic freak nephew Nate when she spotted the Little Big Man's picture. Is this the kid he hurt so badly? Why did the brat need Kneel so much?

Winters explained that Nate's "dad" died. That's when Slattern saw Malcolm's picture and began blabbering about how good looking he was.

Kneel tersely admitted that Malcolm was his brother before ranting and raving that the bar babe was pushing his buttons. He labeled their visit a mistake.

"Yeah, maybe it was," Serena cracked, as she walked to the front door and opened it. Before Slattern could walk away, Winters stopped her.

Confused as to why he acts like "such a jerk", the saloon skank suggested, "Maybe it's the booze."

Wanting her to stay, the scotch soaked, silver tongued skunk played the sympathy card.

Admitting he didn't invite her there to talk, the crocked kook cooed, "You're the first lady I've been with in a long time. Please don't leave."

Taking the bait, Serena embraced the lush. The hug led to some seriously sloppy spit swapping.

Just as things were getting hot and heavy, who was watching them play tawdry tonsil hockey but The Butcher herself! Dr. Olivia Winters could hardly believe her squinting eyes.

Whatever happened to the proud, honorable drunk who suffered in silence while pickling his liver? If Winters were a real man, he'd either imbibe himself into oblivion privately, or haul himself into rehab. This business of begging and paying perfect strangers to hold his hand while he spews self pity is shameful.

As for Serena Slattern, she may sympathize with this loser enough to hug, kiss, and hump him, but what happens when he asks her to hold his shaking hand while he crouches before the porcelain throne and pukes? She's hardly the nurturing and noble type. And what's with the righteous indignation routine every time Winters offers her cash? Since she walks, talks, and behaves like a whore, that's precisely what she is.

While bombed out of his mind Wednesday, town drunkard Kneel Winters descended further into hell by going home and bedding down with Olive Branch Bar bimbo Serena Slattern after paying her $20 to listen to him unload his petty problems!

Interestingly enough, Slattern was the same vile viper who had been fired only days earlier for charging witless Winters $20 for a lousy glass of ginger ale.

When Winters returned this evening, he was surprised to learn surly Serena had been hired back. It turns out only the scum of the earth would lower themselves to work in such a dump. The owner obviously realized bar maids don't get any lower than her.

Kneel knocked back the scotch with utter abandon. Slattern didn't even get to place a drink on the table before the pathetic lush lunged for it, and made her spill its contents! Winters managed to restrain himself from licking the sauce off the floor. Serena scolded the clumsy oaf, and forced him to pay up. After handing over the loot, he demand an immediate refill.

In a display of brutal boorishness, bottle nipping Kneel ignored his next shot of scotch long enough to ask of Slattern, "How much do you cost?"

Serena should have slapped the plastered pig's filthy mouth, but she snidely informed him she's no streetwalker. She's only there to serve the hooch.

Winters took his big foot out of his mouth and explained that all he wanted to buy was her ear in order to bend it. He asked what kind of chat he could obtain for $20.

Slattern explained it depended on whether or not his tale of woe was a snore. He'd better start flapping his gums because "the meter is running."

The loser wasted no time blathering on about his growth stunted nephew finding him drunk when the genetic freak came to show the blitzed boob his book report.

At first, Serena's reaction was a cavalier, "That's it? That's all?"

However, when Winters explained how hurt and disillusioned Little Man Nate was, the shrew's stone cold heart thawed ever so slightly.

Soon though, the meter ran out and Slattern wanted to get the hell home. She offered to call the scotch sponge a taxi, but he wanted to stay put. The Olive Branch management is especially kind in allowing alcoholics to crash for the night.

Serena stated that her place was only a block away. She has a sofa suitable for sleeping off stupors.

Foolishly, Winters inquired if she was extending him an invitation. Slattern snorted that it was no skin off her beak what he chose to do.

Sure enough, the two were soon holed up in her one room dive. Kneel was surprised to see Serena appear with a bottle of scotch and start guzzling. Obviously, the two are kindred spirits.

The coarse creature began miserably mumbling that she drinks to forget, but was incoherent as to exactly what memories she's trying to drown.

Predictably, Winters was drawn to the scrawny scarecrow. When he went over to her bed where she sat, the slut soon rammed her tongue down his stinking throat. While they played passionate tonsil hockey, Serena straddled the stud as the bed beckoned.

Genoa City's sordid history is littered with dysfunctional duos, but these drunken dolts surely take the cake. It's one thing to screw someone without the slightest thought or emotional investment. But to have unprotected sex with a perfect stranger in this day and age is self destructive and irresponsible to the point of insanity. These two don't even know each other's full name!

Serena claimed she's not a whore but her actions prove otherwise. This hardened ho has a lot of mileage on her body, a nasty mouth, and a Gibraltar sized chip on her shoulder. Perhaps this woman knows that only the most desperate and despicable of men would give her the time of day. She's fortunate Winters isn't a rapist or serial killer. Hasn't she ever seen Looking For Mr. Goodbar?

As for Winters, he's no better than a common gigolo who has no idea where this guttersnipe has been. Just because he's a lush doesn't mean he has to be deaf, dumb, and blind. He'll soon discover Serena has sagging breasts and a bullet hole in her backside.

STD's were invented for such reckless, wasted weasels. Or, if Slattern finds herself pregnant, she and Kneel could wind up saddled with a spawn afflicted with fetal alcohol syndrome.

Apparently dissatisfied with the designation of Town Drunk, Victor Newman's former executive butt-kisser Kneel Winters decided to add Town Leech to his questionable repertoire by nearly mauling to death his growth stunted nephew!

Little Big Man Nate Hastings, the genetically defective 19 year old man doomed to forever have the appearance of a 10 year old, visited his Uncle Kneel to show him the book report the booze hound supposedly helped him write during a rare moment of sobriety.

Drunk as a skunk, Winters had no memory of the assignment or his role in it being written. He pitifully pretended to be pleased as punch by his nephew's accomplishment.

"That there is a big, fat A," Winters babbled, before cackling like a loon, and rubbing Nate's soft head.

During all of this, Victoria Newman, Kneel's former associate at NE, whispered to Nate's mother Dr. Olivia "The Butcher" Winters and Aunt Pain Me Johnson. Winters was hitting the sauce again. The hushed consultation by the so-called therapists was unheard by the two men.

Alarmingly overdoing his pride in his nephew, whacked-out Winters suddenly grabbed Nate in a choking embrace while breathing toxic, scotch scented fumes in the man-child's face. The frightened gnome squealed like a pig until the dipsomaniac released him.

The irate butcher instructed Pain Me to take Little Man Nate home. Hastings wanted to know why his uncle stunk to high heaven and was acting like such a weirdo, but Johnson got him out of there before his questions were answered.

When Newman and the Witch Doctor dared to reprimand Winters for his vile display of lechery, the lush exploded. He accused the two shrews of being "out to get him", and vamoosed.

Later, Ms. Brash and Sassy informed the Butcher and Pain Me that the drunk had told Victor Newman to take his job and shove it.

When he appeared, Little Big Man naively suggested that Uncle Kneel should see a doctor. His mother humored the remarkably naive little twit by telling him it was a nifty idea. Before departing for Denver to function as keynote speaker at a medical conference called How To Kill Patients Without Impunity, Dr. Winters warned Pain Me to keep her impressionable son away from the reeking, imbibing slug.

And who can blame her? Olivia may be a bitch, but she knows Kneel is headed straight for the crapper. Booze is no excuse for Winters choking his genetic freak of a nephew nearly to death in an appalling attempt at male bonding. Surely, a handshake would have sufficed. Did Uncle Kneel have a bulge in his pants while holding his nephew in a vice like embrace?

Perhaps this soused, sorry piece of raw sewage will start frequenting playgrounds while wearing nothing but a trench coat in order to flash innocent children. Winters is one sick, seriously screwed up S.O.B. Detoxification from the hooch will no longer be enough to reform this dysfunctional degenerate. He should be locked in a room and zapped by an electrical charge while viewing images of children. Try having a drink after that, Mr. Winters.

Fed up with juggling his chronic bottle nipping with a full time job, Newman Enterprises "right hand man" and town drunkard Kneel Winters told CEO Victor Newman to take his stinking job and shove it!

The pitiful scene unfolded in Winters' office, where Newman caught Winters taking a swig from a small bottle of scotch.
A model of restraint, Vic asked for an explanation from his errant employee.

Desperate to rationalize his blatant un-professionalism, Kneel babbled that his imbibing, "wasn't what it looks like." The man was trying to recover from a "rough night", and needed something to "take the edge off."

Never mind that the booze hound wandered away from an important meeting with a bigwig named Carlos Amarente the day before while in a serious sauce craving trance. A fresh shirt and a sip of scotch made Winters a new man. He was ready, willing, and able to take on Amarente today.

Newman informed the loser that his daughter Victoria would handle the meeting. He wanted to sit Winters down and discuss his drinking. When Kneel attempted to wiggle out of the chat, and excuse his incompetence of the previous day as an attempt to play "bad cop", and prevent the evil Amarente from trying to "gouge" the company, the Vic-man finally took the gloves off.

"Don't B.S. me! You walked out on that first meeting," the Great Man bellowed.

Newman quickly calmed down, and regained his compassionate tone. Because Kneel was a "friend" and a "valuable employee", Vic announced that he'd "compile a list of all substance abuse clinics in the country." All that wino Winters had to do was show up. No expense would be spared and Daddy Warbucks would pick up the whole tab. Once he finally dries out, the drunk's job will be waiting for him. It was an offer only a massive moron would refuse.

Proving that denial ain't just a river in Egypt, Winters thought an appointment with a head shrink was all he needed. Newman said no dice. The dipsomaniac simply wasn't strong enough to wrestle with the bourbon beast on his own.

In response to Newman's rare display of kindness and common sense, the Winters weasel ignorantly inquired, "Are you going to stick me in a room with a bunch of addicts and losers?"

For uttering such a rude, repulsive, and offensive statement, Kneel's elitist ass should be kicked from one end of Genoa City's skid row to the other. The "losers" Winters scornfully referred to are responsible adults who are attempting to take charge of their own lives, and face their demons head on. Something this weak willed wimp knows nothing about.

Arrogantly and defiantly, Kneel rose from his office chair, looked Newman in the eye, and poured liquor down his gullet.

After ambling to his office door, Winters suddenly rendered his resignation by boldly declaring, "I quit. I quit. I quit!"

Goodbye and good riddance to this unpleasant, unbalanced, irresponsible, self pitying, and self indulgent sack of fecal matter.

The only unfortunate aspect of this long overdue occurrence is that it was Winters' choice to part company with the company. Newman should have given him the bum's rush many months ago. This degenerate's ineptness has cost NE millions of dollars. By holding the man's shaking hand, Kneel's friends, family, and co-workers are nothing but co-dependent accessories to his self-destruction.

Perhaps the best possible outcome of this so-called tragedy would be for Winters to drown in his own scotch scented vomit. Knowing the ninnies in Genoa City, his premature death would drive one of his legion of mourners to drink.

There's only so much of Genoa City's town drunk loathsome display of helplessness residents should be subjected to. The time has come to put Neil Winters out of his misery and simultaneously put an end to the pointed questions he's been peppered with by mindless bar babes, bar owners, bartenders, wannabe Alcoholics Anonymous sponsors, co-workers and family members.

When a customer passed out on a table at the Olive Tree Bar Wednesday night employees of the fine establishment were so overwhelmed with compassion they allowed the drunk to sleep it off. At closing time the man hadn't moved. Most bars would not have hesitated to call the police and have the bum tossed out on his ear. But there was something special about Neil Winters so a brilliant decision was made to leave him alone overnight.

Stumbling in for work the following morning the bar owner wasn't surprised to see a man had spent the night. When Winters came around the owner did what any compassionate man would do. He poured him another drink remembering at the last moment the most important thing. Money!

Winters whipped out a ward of bills and something in his sick mind made him think he had been robbed. Plopping down a bottle of scotch, the bar owner quipped that robbery in the Railroad District isn't unheard of.

As Winters sucked on the bottle the barkeep surmised that a woman must have caused the hopeless, self-esteem devoid drunk to be crawling in society's gutter.

"Why would you say that?" Winters slurred as he took another drink.

Pulling himself together, Winters hobbled off and amazingly found the way to his place of employment where again, reeking of body order, he had to have another drink.

Winter's wallowing in self-pity is disgraceful and nothing short of grotesque. If this sorry excuse for a man cannot get a grip he should be civilly committed to a mental institution for some serious detoxification. Winters has turned into a little cry baby and doesn't deserve all the sympathy. The sooner he gets busted for being drunk on the job and has that fancy position at Newman Enterprises snatched away from him forever the better off he'll be.

Being on unemployment for awhile may give Winters the humility he needs. Sniveling, whining, bawling and feeling sorry for himself isn't doing anybody any good.

It's a common scam and a major headache for shop owners operating on Genoa City's seedy side of town known as the railroad district. Business here is in a depression. The top jobs are held by siblings and their spouses and those lucky enough to get the grunt jobs are paid minimum wage. It is the way in a country said to be the wealthiest in the world. In order to make ends meet some of the grunts look for enterprising ways to make a few bucks. Employee theft is common and overcharging customers is becoming an epidemic.

The Olive Branch Bar is just one example of establishments where the buyer had better beware. Cocktail waitresses at the Algonquian and 3rd street bar are always on the lookout for city slickers with deep pockets. Maybe it's the fancy silk suits they wear or the glazed over look in their eyes that gives them away when they realize they've wandered into a part of town reserved for bikers and drug dealers.

The management of these seedy gin joints says it's in a war and is quick to weed out the rift-raft. To show the war on overcharging is being won, the Olive Branch was on the prowl Wednesday for shady waitresses it could make examples of.

Dependent on her lowly job to pay the rent and put food on the table for her three illegitimate kids, Olive Branch employee Serena should have known better than put the squeeze on the man who walked into the bar looking for directions.

Obviously not from the neighborhood, Neil Winters appeared stunned. How did he manage to get himself lost? Is this what happens when one can't stop thinking about his brother's fiancée?

Like white on rice, Serena swung into action. Asking if he wanted a drink, the bar babe was pleased when Winters gave his position away. "No! Just tell me where I am," Winters said.

Serena explained they were in the railroad district and offered Winters the use of a telephone to call for help. Declining the offer Winters ordered coffee and sat down. It was apparent from the disheveled look on his face that he had recently lost his best friend.

"Sounds like you have a story to tell," the bar babe prodded anxious to get the mark to let his guard down. Sensing the woman was an annoying fly Winters shooed her away to the bar where she later returned with a glass of ginger ale. Although he had ordered coffee, Winters didn't object to the ten dollar charge. It was, according to the bar babe, the same price with or without booze.

By now Serena had determined that Winters was an easy target. Spittle seemed to well up on her lower lip as she pocketed the spare change and without hesitation had the gall to remind Winters to leave a tip.

Done with his drink, Winters shuffled up to the bar for a refill. When the owner of the bar volunteered that ten dollars was too much to pay for a soda, Winters, supposedly an educated man, didn't seem the least bit phased. $10, $20, what's the difference?

The bar owner flexed his muscles and summoned the bar maid. "Get your butt over here!"

After being reminded that she had been warned previously to stop the over charging practice, the owner fired Serena on the spot. Taking the termination in stride, Serena got up into Winter's face.

"You did this. It was only a couple of dollars. Now I don’t even have this crummy job," she spewed.

Placing blame on others for their criminal and unethical practices is a common ploy used by slime like Serena. Preaching love and peace while bombing innocent bystanders is their motto.

The interjection of blame triggered a massive brain spasm in Winters' head.  The war on overcharging - like the war on drugs - would never be won. Slipping into depression he ordered his drug of choice, Scotch.

It's a sad day in Genoa City when a man becomes so wrapped up over the woman his brother would have married he can't sleep, eat, work or stop thinking about what might have been. A normal man, one with his head screwed on tightly, would simply move on. But not Neil Winters.

The Newman Enterprises executive pressured his brother's lady so hard she felt obligated to tell him once that had she not been in love with his brother they might have pursued a relationship together. Winters didn't get the message that Alex Perez didn't want him. He saw her polite way of saying thanks, but no thanks, as an invitation to turn up the heat. He had a sick desire that even the alleged death of his brother couldn't prevent him from fulfilling.

Perez must have noticed there was something odd about Winters when his bereavement was all but non-existent. She tried convincing Winters that he was to blame for his brother's disappearance but like most weak women was forced in the end to accept the responsibility.

Cleverly shifting the focus away from himself Winters whined that Perez was still blaming him. It was she who had gone to Africa with the man she loved only to have the brother show up later to purposely complicate matters to the point of driving her man off a rickety old bridge to a watery grave.

Having grown weary of living in an apartment that constantly reminds her of all things bad and continually running into the man who made it happen, Perez announced her decision to leave Genoa City. Unlike most who flee to New York, she would move to Minneapolis.

Instead of accepting that keeping a woman in a city against her will is wrong and would be cruel, Winters pleaded with Perez to stay. He went so far as to offer the services of his dysfunctional family.

"Mamie, Olivia, Nate and I want to help you," Winters begged as if a ten-year-old who still needs to be read bedtime stories and babbles about his "daddy" or the former wife of the supposed dead man would be of any benefit.

With Perez out of the picture Winters will continue his agony over why she choose his brother and not him. His thoughts eating away at him like acid rain, Winters won't be able to concentrate and like most losers seems destined to turn his soul over to alcohol.

Becoming a full-fledged alcoholic might be just what the doctor ordered for Winters. As his liver rots away and what few brain cells he has are burned out he may, just before his death, get it through his head that falling in love with members of his family and/or their love interests is not healthy. There are plenty of women outside the family he could have pursued.

In the meantime it's expected Winters will seek sympathy from those who could care less or point him in the direction of the nearest AA meeting. In denial, Winters won't admit he needs serious help even when he finds himself unemployed. Boozers have to hit bottom before they'll get help which usually means they'll create a lot of damage before they land.

Unwilling to let his half-brother rest in peace, Newman Enterprises nonessential employee Neil Winters continued rehashing the death of photographer Malcolm Winters Friday with the support of his brother's fiancée Alex Perez and nosy Newman heir to the throne Victoria Newman.

While he should have been more concerned with informing his parents and whichever parent made brother Malcolm half a Winters that their son is dead, Mr. Winters agonized over who should be blamed.

In need of a few helpful hints, Winters rambled how his brother must have heard him talking to Perez about the "feelings" he had for yet another of his brother's women and vice-versa.

"If I’d gotten on that jet like I was supposed to my brother would still be alive," Winters spewed as if could-a, would-a, should-a would change anything.

Always the brilliant one of this moronic bunch, Ms. Newman asserted again that it may be that they'll never know what really happened on that fateful night in Africa.

To prove she was on the same page, Perez burst out her sentiment; "If I’d gone shopping like I said I was going to Malcolm wouldn’t have been on that rickety bridge." Again, how these boneheads think that doing something other than what they did would change anything boggles the intelligent mind.

As leader of the unholy alliance, Winters felt it was his duty to call Africa again regardless of the time zone difference. Reaching the tour guide who led the search effort for his brother, Winters asked if there might be anything new to add to the already dog-eared story. Given an unequivocal no, Winters rudely hung up the telephone without saying good-bye.

The bothered and bewildered Winters continued to fret until another member of the women exchange poked her nose into the scene and asked what was troubling the man she had sex with once and was subsequently kicked out of bed for eating crackers.

Winters wailed to Olivia Winters how he and he alone is responsible for his brother's death.

For the first time in recent memory, Mrs. Winters squinted her eyes and then issued a stunning impact statement.

Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce - Malcolm Winter's death was no fault!

In wasn't clear whether or not Neil Winters got the message. The one-man pity party as been leading the charge to place blame for so long he would much rather pursue the now-clearly-bizarre obsession until somebody steps up to the plate and hands the blame to him.

The head-spinning blame game reached new heights this week because Winters knows the benefits it can produce. If manipulated properly, eliciting sympathy could get him the woman he's wanted all along. 

"He was an important fashion photographer here in town," Winters pleaded.

Scratching their heads over why the death of a fashion photographer should rate any paper space, some reporters don't know what they would write even if there was space.

"I’ll send copy and pictures," Winters eagerly volunteered.

Privately, Winters may be considering hiring "extras" to stand around during the memorial service waving American flags and clutching pictures of Winters while wiping away tears for greater media attention.

Said to be a good man who was brutally, viciously and unjustly taken from the caring people of this city, Malcolm Winters' life and future were snuffed out by a villain filled with violence and hate.

If there is any justice, an investigation into Winter's death will be forthcoming. For now however, honoring the dead takes precedence. In Genoa City, death is a big deal.

It was spooky. No sooner had Newman Enterprises executive Neil Winters and local attorney Alex Perez stepped off the We Fly You Anywhere Air flight upon its return to Genoa City via Africa, than they were off to the photo studio owned and operated by Malcolm Winters.

"This is Malcolm's world," the sleepy Perez said as she looked around at the memories the studio held of her dearly departed fiancée who presumably died in Kenya due to what many suspect was a murder for hire.

The sympathetic longing displayed by Perez was less than convincing. Why, after a long flight without sleep, would a woman want to return to the place where she and her man had sex on satin sheets? The same sheets which were not cleaned after the copulation and would later be used by an unsuspecting model.

Neil Winters, his emotions in check, put off alerting his brother's former wife of the suspected death until arriving at the photo studio. Were there no phones on the plane or the airport or inside the taxi returning him to the heart of the city? And what about Winter's cell phone which was in his pocket all along?

Yes, Winters stated he wanted to deliver the bad news in person to Dr. Olivia Winters. But if that were true, why didn't he go directly to her home or office?

The bawling fit Neil Winters threw in concert with Perez was a good show but couldn't cover up the suspicion that one of them is a cold blooded killer. The more likely suspect is Winters since Perez has no apparent motive. Malcolm Winters was prepared to marry her. Why would she kill him?

Neil Winters wanted Perez for himself. He tried to to deny that she didn't want him but when push came to shove, a desperate time called for a desperate measure.