by va
I wanted to get a head start on the dawning liberal era of (holy shit) a black president, so I experimented with "dope" the other night. Paul Campos said I would probably dig it, and god knows I get all my good ideas from LGM. So. A friend who is knowledgable in the rites of "weed" "rolled" a "blunt" from which I took a couple "hits." Taking stock after a minute, something seemed wrong. The beginning of a corporeal event was rippling through my limbs, and I realized that it would probably prove massive, and messy in the end. So I staggered to the bathroom. I wasn't at all sure how best to address myself to the facilities, however, and in the meantime lying down on the tile seemed like the most reasonable course of action. I closed my eyes and waited for the thing to take hold. As it intensified, I tried to move, but I couldn't. Even my eyelids were paralyzed.
It went on. I was certain that the last moments of my existence were upon me, but I was surprisingly content. I had seen my share of beautiful things, I found. My life was better than I could have hoped for, the circumstances of my death notwithstanding. (I always expected my death to be the result of a suicide that looked uncannily like a comic accident, or vice-versa, but no, apparently I was going out ingloriously, on a bathroom floor, from marijuana.) In the foyer of my mind, a host of my selves gathered. There was a solemn donning of coats and a murmur of quiet adioses as organ music played softly in the background. On every face was written regret at departing so young and so handsome. Then the great door creaked open onto the howling abyss. A hush set in, then agitated shuffling. With an amiable salute, the neural network representing my memories of the New York Yankees' 1989 campaign clicked his heels and leapt into that good night. But, happily, a cursory day-after census would reveal that to be the sole casualty.
The door banged shut, and there was relief all around. As for me, well, it felt like the bottom of an inner soggy grocery bag finally gave out, and I vomited. Copiously. The honey of heaven may or may not come, but that of earth both comes and goes at once. Thus did I ritually observe the amazing ascent of Barack Hussein Obama to the Presidency in this, the year of our Lord 2008. Amen.
It went on. I was certain that the last moments of my existence were upon me, but I was surprisingly content. I had seen my share of beautiful things, I found. My life was better than I could have hoped for, the circumstances of my death notwithstanding. (I always expected my death to be the result of a suicide that looked uncannily like a comic accident, or vice-versa, but no, apparently I was going out ingloriously, on a bathroom floor, from marijuana.) In the foyer of my mind, a host of my selves gathered. There was a solemn donning of coats and a murmur of quiet adioses as organ music played softly in the background. On every face was written regret at departing so young and so handsome. Then the great door creaked open onto the howling abyss. A hush set in, then agitated shuffling. With an amiable salute, the neural network representing my memories of the New York Yankees' 1989 campaign clicked his heels and leapt into that good night. But, happily, a cursory day-after census would reveal that to be the sole casualty.
The door banged shut, and there was relief all around. As for me, well, it felt like the bottom of an inner soggy grocery bag finally gave out, and I vomited. Copiously. The honey of heaven may or may not come, but that of earth both comes and goes at once. Thus did I ritually observe the amazing ascent of Barack Hussein Obama to the Presidency in this, the year of our Lord 2008. Amen.