DRUG WAR ENDS IN HUGE SUCCESS!!!
There’s a headline you’ll never see, unless it’s Backwards Day (which I am still trying to get Congress to officially recognize). Unfortunately, the War on Drugs (hereafter to be referred to as “Randy”) seems to be getting marginalized these days. Everyone’s attention has shifted to even more unwinnable battles like the War on Terrorism and The Osbournes.
Used to be, if you asked Americans whether they would like their increasingly limited tax dollars spent on education, food, opportunity, or medicine for their families, they’d say, “Fuck the kids! Send my money far, far away and make right-wing guerrillas kill all the villagers they can. And hey, while you’re at it, can you throw all those lazy, lottery-ticket-buying, good-for-nothing-but-day-labor niggers in jail for life? They scare me.”
But is Randy winnable? Can we really become history’s first clean and sober nation? Hell yeah, bitch! All we have to do is identify the people that use drugs and eliminate them. Then we need to find the reasons behind drug use and eliminate those, too.
WHO DOES DRUGS?
Almost everybody. Okay, fine, so what’s the reason why? Why?! Because they are all bored out of their fucking skulls, that’s why. Come on, what’s wrong with you? Have you looked around at your fellow “dude” lately? He’s a fucking infant that will never contribute anything of value to anyone, ever. This dude can be found in every class, too. UPPER CLASS
Any retard can don a $3,000 linen suit, fly to Majorca, and parasail, but it takes a special kind of adventurer to purchase, cook, and shoot some killer shit brought back from Tora Bora. We will kill these guys through the magic of overdosing. They won’t mind, either, because they’ll be famous forever amongst their stupid, boring, rich friends. MIDDLE CLASS
Still trying desperately to squeeze a drop of happiness out of that catalogue of unaffordable shit they saw at Kyle and Theresa’s house. It’s unaffordable because they keep buying blow so that they can stay out and party, which they have to do or they will go nuts because they just put in a 65-hour week that they have to work so they can afford to keep buying the blow, etc, etc, round and round. We’ll give them heart attacks and cancer to make them die. WORKING CLASS
Then, traveling further down, we find the absolutely hopeless, minimum-wage-earning, heartbreaking (yet awe-inspiring in their capacity to expand the concept of “loser”) worker ants. They’re the poor fuckers who have to work a shitty, mind-dissolving job for some equally bitter asshole who makes all his employees’ lives miserable because he knows that they hate him and he hates them too, the whole time ignoring the fact that everyone is just getting deeper in debt. There’s not as much work to be done with these people because most of them wise up and kill themselves, doing the job for us. DOWN AND OUT
And finally as low as we can go to the federally subsidized lump of less than nothing, who figured out long ago that if they don’t mind living amongst human shit and pork rinds they can a) get a couple of bucks from Uncle Sam and b) drink moonshine all day. They only live till twenty anyway, so there’s that. SOLUTION
Okay, so we’ve identified the who’s and the why’s and eliminated them all, but what about the long-term solution? Obviously we need to find a viable and affordable replacement to fill the void left by an absence of those desperately needed, reality-avoiding, delicious and fun drugs that God, in his (open to discussion) wisdom, has seen fit to shower upon us. After taking a small hit of speed, I walked over to a friend’s apartment where I smoked a super-quick bowl and then headed out to the library to do some research. I was almost there when the Vicodins started to kick in, so I stopped in at this one bar to get a quick pop. I was just about to put my money in the Golden Tee 2003 machine when I remembered something from way the fuck back in my memory. I remembered seeing a bumper sticker on a nun’s mini-fridge (a long, weird story for another time) that seemed silly at the time, but all of a sudden its stunning simplicity and eloquence overcame me. The bumper sticker said, “Hugs, Not Drugs.” Fucking hugs! I didn’t realize that I was crying for the first few minutes. Everything was effortlessly fitting into place like a jigsaw puzzle made for the nearly blind. It was all making sense now. Perhaps the combo platter of drugs was influencing my emotional state, but perhaps not. How could we be so shortsighted? There it was, in front of us the whole time. Quietly beseeching us with the wide-eyed, sweetly dumb innocence of a turn-of-the-century Canadian child. I was so happy, even blissful, that I gladly ate the pinkish pill that what’s-her-name gave me at the Blonde Redhead show. My mind became a crystal-clear lake with fabulous, friendly sea creatures in it, all helping me to understand concepts previously hidden from me. “Jesus, why are we stopping at hugs?!” I shouted. “Here’s an even better idea: fucking free, federally subsidized, ice cream socials!” I was sobbing in great heaving waves, the tears blurring my vision. “Listen to me! Every one of you glorious idiots! Here’s the answer: free make-your-own-sundae bars!!” The guys at the bar who were dressed up as cops decided to help me outside. “Do it for Randy!!” I didn’t care about the barf that I was excitedly placing all over me and the bar, for I had found the solution! “Ice Cream and Hugs! I love my life!!”