This Unholy Mess

If the Ten Commandments don’t really do it for you but you can’t quite stomach Dr. Phil either, then why not dip your mental big toe into This Unholy Mess? I can sound as authoritative as Oprah, as enthusiastic as Joel Osteen, and as esoteric as Ron Hubbard—and I can do it all without the terrible burden of wealth and notoriety that might risk infusing my writing with a bit of legitimacy. Much of what you will find on the blog is political, if only because I am a fan of tragi-comedy; but there are plenty of offensive religious and social topics to disturb just about anyone with a reasonably closed mind, a slight chip on his shoulder, and a desire to confront people belligerently from the safety of a computer keyboard. Enjoy!

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Our Attorney General has spoken. “You can’t have the President of the United States talking about marijuana like it’s no different than taking a drink,” he said, wearing his stern face that says “Jail time for making fun of my chubby cheeks.” Wielding that same level of helium gravitas, he also said, “Good people don’t smoke marijuana.” Finally, I got the message. He was talking to me, after all. I’m a good person (acquaintances’ testimonies to the contrary available on request). At first I tried to hedge my position, thinking that edibles might be okay, but I couldn’t long avoid the penetrating, squirrel-like gaze of the AG. He was deeply scandalized not only by the idea that marijuana could be legal, but that good, upstanding citizens would consider using it. And of course he was right. I suddenly saw what was required of me, to live up to the highest American ideals, to embrace what has made our country great, to do my part in getting us back to our glory days as a nation: I needed to drink. Drink seriously. Drink copiously, dedicatedly, patriotically. How else to restore the prestige of those by-gone, Mad Men days of three martini lunches? How else to make America truly normal again? So I drove right over to my nearest dispensary—which, appropriately enough, happens to be a drug store—and bought myself a half-gallon of respectable social anesthetic. It was a fraught, historical moment. I was not giving in to sleazy, back-alley alternatives, but proudly exhibiting my main-stream choice for mind-alteration and societally-sanctioned liver damage. In a zealous demonstration of loyalty to the cause, I opened my half-gallon in the car and took a few pulls right out of the bottle. Can’t recall now if it was the clear stuff or the amber type, but I do remember that after some additional swallows I felt a powerful urge to share the message of decent, wholesome, time-honored values with other people in the parking lot. For whatever reason, none of them seemed interested in a drink right then, but I urged them at least to reflect on the beauty of drinking as a tradition, a way of life, one that is spread out across our nation’s history like vomit on a frat house rug. I...   Read more