Coming Clean
This morning, I met Anselmo for our daily campaign update slash pancake breakfast, and while the flapjacks were particularly moist and sweet, Anselmo’s countenance was troubled. Gone was the quiet and joyous sparkle that so often danced in his ebony eyes. When I asked him if he was feeling well, he told me that, in fact, something was troubling him. He said he was concerned that certain activities in my past might come back to haunt me. Apparently politicians, especially those involved in the high-stakes world of presidential electioneering, are routinely brought down when their former improprieties are brought to light. Now, Anselmo and I have been in this game a long time together, and I suppose he’s right to be a bit concerned. I mean, imagine how embarrassing it would be if it were reported in the New York Times that in college I once admitted to the emergency room with severe anal bleeding after a Frat party? Embarrassing, of course, if it was broken by the media.
You see, I suggested to Anselmo that I should simply come clean about any of the juicy tidbits that lie in my past, and thereby diffuse any potential embarrassment. After all, it’s worked in the past. Everybody went goo-goo for Dubya when they found out that he had been a lush and a raging snow-nose for all those years. And the only reason everybody was pissed at Clinton for his pot debacle was because he acted like a total puss about it. Well I inhaled, so don’t worry. Good and deep. Repeatedly as well. In fact, I constructed what was for a time the largest gravity bong (by displacement) east of the Mississippi River! The awesome bongs notwithstanding, I deeply regret the numerous times I smoked marijuana, and it is this powerful regret that makes those memories so wonderful.
Anyway, Anselmo thought that coming clean about my indiscretions was a mistake. But who cares what he thinks? When he runs for president, he can make the decisions. Besides, I’m proud of the shame I feel about these things, and I can’t wait to ask for forgiveness, so lets begin:
We’ve already covered Marijuana, right? WRONG! I used to grow it. Yeppers. I sold to everyone in my dorm at Harvard, and to several dorms at Yale. I tried to move some green at Oxford, but that came to a quick end when I was severely beaten by a “competitor.” I won’t say who it was, but let’s just say he’s running against me.
Don’t worry, the fun doesn’t stop with pot. No sir. I also experimented with hallucinogens. That was one of the most interesting and embarrassing decades of my life. It started with paper; standard white blotter. Later, I would get the gels, which were way better. Eventually, we just flew out to Cali for liquid by the vial. Buying in bulk saves, right? Just ask Sam Walton’s corpse (oh yeah, I said it). We used to go out to the woods and get loaded on the stuff. You know, light fires and hunt each other. Sometimes we mixed it with PCP, but that was only when we really needed to chill out.
Of course, Anselmo’s trying to pull me away from the keyboard now. Not now you Bastard! Can’t you see I’m trying to come to terms with my past? How can I move forward and ask people to give me the ultimate power for which I lust if they cannot trust me? No. I must do this. I must beg for forgiveness. And forgiveness can only be given through an honest reckoning of truth. Right, Anselmo? Get the hell out of here!
Where was I? Right, so this one night I was totally wigging balls and listening to Led Leppelin III. I could hear this repeating pattern in the music (”Since I been loving you” I believe) that sounded like someone whispering “you’re on fire, you’re on fire,” over and over again. Just when I was about to freak, a buddy of mine came up and pushed my chair over. I looked up at him, and he was laughing, but it looked like his face was totally melting off. It was crazy. And shameful.
Coke. Yeah, I blew some. Big whoop. And it was fun, too. If you don’t believe me, you can ask Dubya. He knows what I’m talking about. If you approve of his administration, that is. If you don’t, just forget about it; I’m not anything like that guy. As I was saying, I spent more than a few nights shoveling snow, if you know what I mean. I was like “eight balls? hells yeah.” That stuff made me paranoid, though. The last time I did it I found myself standing on my front porch holding a letter opener to a pizza man’s throat. I thought he was spying on us, and I was about to “return to sender” when my roommate came out and stopped me. Turns out he had ordered that pizza! Talk about boners! Needless to say, I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Of course I don’t touch any of it anymore because it was completely wrong and immoral to begin with. It’s in the bible, maybe.
Wow, this is fun. Catholics get to do this kind of thing all the time, right? Now, I never touched heroin, mainly because I can’t stand needles. Smokable heroin, though, yeah, guilty as charged (though not in an actual court). I’ll keep this one brief: it’s as good as they say.
Hmmm, now I know there’s more. What Wolf? Prescriptions? No, never got into those for two reasons. First, it’s way easier to get the illegal stuff. Second, I just don’t trust those drug companies. Unless they need some legislation passed, of course. In that case, I’m your man. Crack? No they didn’t have that stuff when I was growing up, or Meth either, except in prescription form, and I just explained that one.
Now, In the late eighties, I started to get into the whole zen thing and so I took some time off and traveled around Asia. I met many interesting folks along the way, and more than once shared rice and water with peasants on the straw covered floors of a dung-ridden hovel. Needless to say, I saw some things. In fact, it was here that I tried something that I am reluctant to bring up here because it is, well, unconventional. But you can’t hide things from the public, can you? Of course not. I engaged in an obscure practice known as “quỳ, quỳ xuống đá” in the original Vietnamese. This translates into something like “kneeling to the stone.” It is apparently very taboo, and it was only later that I learned how it was made, but I’ll try to explain. First, you grind up a quantity of dried testicles and a bit of honey in a stone dish. I don’t know what type of testicles they were, and I didn’t want to. Once you have a fine paste, you mix in an equal quantity of Kava powder, which is made from dried, ground leaves from some Polynesian plant. The resulting mush is then rolled into small (half inch) balls which are dried and then inserted into the anus. I know. It sounds totally crazy, but it was the best high ever. It started off with rage mixed with an intense feeling on invulnerability, then tapered off into a mellow sense of well-being and oneness with the universe. The whole thing lasted for about 30 hours. I haven’t done that one since. Who has that kind of time, anyway?
Ok, I think we’re good for now. Don’t worry, though, if I think of any more I’ll let you know.