This young Brit is a man that enjoys a good drink every once in a while. Known for his practice as an Existential Therapist, and antics as a raving drunken lunatic, he has also helped form Prank Machine along side fellow co-creator’s Cockreng, and Manchester.
He has lived in America for just over twenty years in that time he has since been married eight times, and has had six children probably due to the fact he is known for using the same condom over and over again for “good luck.” When he is not inebriated from his habitual rendezvous at his favorite cocktail lounge (“The Poor Saps”) he is off giving advice as an Existential Therapist to hapless victims who are a product of their own miseries, and unfortunate bad choices. The people he deals with on a regular basis are thee exact cause of our own sorrows, these patients are the consequence of their own ejaculations. The poor souls that find companionship with their palm and make that their date to the forum, Dr. Watkins help them. Dare not shake their hand for it is already taken! These stains on the cushions of life, use poetry and art to try and “express” themselves, when god (whom I do not believe in) knows that these are just mere attempts to avoid the harsh cruel realities of life, the pains, the deaths, the frowns, and eventually the smiles.
Art, a useless attempt to hide from your own reality, of course, keep your hand busy my Painter Boy, but not too busy you’ll need it for later… Dr. Watkins sits in his chair pen and pad in – hand, listening to the same old recycled expressions these shmucks use to help others understand. Useless combinations of words running into some long winded speech on why he or she thinks they can’t talk to their mother and father (who provide for them, feed, a clothe them). Jeremiah sits there listening, trying not to jam his inkless pen into his own eye, out of complete insanity caused by the nameless shit sitting on the couch in front of him. And you wonder why our good Doctor drinks so much! But the poor painter boy lays on the couch ranting, while the good doctor does not gauge his own eyes out, but instead he dreams of his future martini.
Meanwhile, painter boy, talks about his art “passionately” even now the vagrant shit denies life once again. While the good Jeremiah accepts the fact that he will take is five fingered companion on the best night of its life when he gets home. Once the session is over, our painter boy goes into his world of never ending gray, and Doctor Jeremiah Watkins will leave to the Poor Saps Lounge, where “We can’t fix the problem, but we sure can drowned it!” But once again with his closest friend, he sits there, at the end of the bar, drink in hand, three hours gone past since his grand entry, and one too many later talking to his friend about what life means. When asked why he drank tonight, it’s not because of sorrow or because of anything below the belt. It is because Jeremiah realizes that he is the product of a broken condom, and failed abortion.