GUEST MUSE: Brian Beutler

Heaven is a Fully Flushing Toilet
by Brian Beutler

I clogged my toilet the other day.

Under almost any “normal” circumstances I wouldn’t so boldly state something so foul and embarrassing. Fortunately—for you readers, anyhow—a few bits of good old fashioned luck made this sad occurrence exceptional. (Let me apologize now if this is crossing the usually negligible line of good taste… I just figure enough of Paco’s essays are devoted to the topic of all things “poopy” that, realistically, nothing I could add would be considered tasteless by comparison.)

At first I was swelling with a strange feeling of pride at having created, for the first time in my life, something so ponderous and robust that neither the eroding power of water nor the disruptive force of a jostling, counter-clockwise swirl could tear apart. I felt exactly how I assume the Wright brothers felt like when, after hundreds of attempts, they built a contraption that didn’t succumb to the forces of gravity and wind… and it actually flew! This called for a celebration! Yup, a celebration straight down to the local pharmacy to buy a plunger.

Which leads me to the second reason this event is worthy of telling, and then perhaps retelling. The truth is, I inadvertently told a Salvadoran clerk all this before any of you, and so I overcame much of my shame long ago. You see, though this event could have just as well occurred at any old time of day to any old chap, the gods of malice and odors decided instead to let (mis)fortune fall at exactly three minutes ‘til midnight to a lonely guy who didn’t own the silly contraption required to fix the problem—and whose only crime was an over-indulgence in happy-hour favorites like tacos and spicy wings. So, after my brief celebration (which involved dancing in front of my mirror alternately raising and lowering my twirling index fingers), I sprinted down to my friendly neighborhood CVS to rescue my apartment from the... uh… putrid (some might say “poopy”) smell. Yep… there goes my last ounce of dignity. Actually I have several more ounces to go through. Here’s a few of them.

When I arrived, standing in front of the door, which had been locked for all of four minutes (it was now 12:04), was a demure young woman who, in broken English, told me to come back in the morning. I managed to bite my tongue (which is something of an inaccurate cliché… perhaps lesser known clichés from the American Compendium of Clichés would do… “Hold my nose” might work. Maybe even “Submit to my subconscious affinity for the smell of my own poo”) about the whole, well, affair and sleep through the nausea. But I secretly cursed her existence and her ‘by the book or they’ll deport me’ attitude and put her on the enemy list. Yes, right under PETA, the Natural Law Party and Carlos Santana.

At eight the next morning, the jig was up. At the counter working the register was my new nemesis, as sweet as ever.

Buying a plunger from a woman who knows how desperately you needed it a full eight hours ago is oddly confessionary. Her inner monologue SCREAMED out “You clogged your toilet didn’t you? Yes, you clogged your toilet a full eight hours ago and have been living with the repercussions ever since. You didn’t even try to mask the urgency by buy buying a pack of gum and a diet coke along with your declogger. You loser. Haha to your pathetic smelly existence. That will be $10.”

After a healthy soak, my favorite progeny was all too eager to come undone. I won’t get into the details of that, but will advise any future plunger-users not to press too hard. The plunger will invert. You may have to put your hands on it then. Sweet Zombie Jesus the INDIGNITY!!!!!!! I’ll put it this way: Circus freaks don’t know shame quite like I do.

Well, that was my first problem of the past week with things that go “Flush.” The next one is – thank lower-case god – much less incriminating. Here’s what happened:

The old building I work in is scheduled for a total renovation at the end of the year. In preparation, the managers have decided that unnecessary repairs will not be made. Since the building is being gutted anyhow, why bother?

So, first on their list of things not to fix were the urinals in the men’s bathroom on my floor. This begs the question: How do you discover that your urinals don’t work. Answer: Well, sir, first you pee in them, and then, instead of hearing the familiar sound of pee being whisked away beneath the Dixie® rubber and the urinal cake, you watch in futility as pressing the flusher does absolutely nothing.

Unfortunately for us male tenants of floor five, management decided to put plastic bags over the urinals (and by the by, aren’t urinals weird looking?) without draining the stagnant peepee. Hours, days, weeks went by and I became all too nostalgic for the smell of fresh urinal cake. In fact, any other type of inferior urinal pastry would have been an improvement. During the minute or so I spent in that bathroom each weekday, I would yearn for the scent of urinal éclair or urinal croissant or urinal soufflé – urinal anything – to replace the profound thickness of old peepee-lugie-chewing-gum-pube mélange that by then had outstripped even the day’s most impressive flatulence.

Somebody finally complained and, as punishment for his petulance (whoever he was… bastard), the building has removed the urinals from floor five altogether. This makes for a sad conundrum when the ollllllll’ bladder must be emptied. I could, I suppose, use the toilets, but that tactic is taken by most of the other men on the floor so often that to follow suit requires stepping into puddles of yellow nasties.

The other option is to use a men’s room on another floor… and take the stairs... My feelings on this particular solution can be summed up with three words, exaggerated for your reading convenience: Soooo muuuch effooorrtt... And the morning’s coffee isn’t waiting around for me to agonize. So, I’ve decided upon a wholly unoriginal pattern. Yellow nasties first, stairs the next time. That’s right, switching it up. Keeping it fresh. Zzzzzow!

Nothing of this sort, I don’t suppose, ever happens to ladies. I’ve learned that the way society treats men and their bathroom habits is about the same as the way it treats men and their penmanship. Kindergarten teachers enable our sloppy handwriting by doing nothing if our letters are formed neatly (except perhaps wonder if we’ll turn out to be gay). Yet they congratulate girls’ efforts by rewarding their bubbly cursive with candy and smiley faces on their “A” papers.

Yeah, fuck you Ms. Nelly… bitch!

Likewise, women’s bathrooms sparkle as if anointed by the Queen, and are adorned with skylights, bright tile and two-ply; far nicer than the concrete outhouses offered to us men. And how do girls respond to this gift, this never having to deal with repugnance and disease? They twirl tampons around like lassoes and whip them onto the walls. They do this in teams and hold races to see whose will slide down fastest. And then they make condescending remarks about the failed state of the men’s room as if we had a choice in the matter. Oh the contradictions.

I’ve gotten off track… this was supposed to be about me and my problems, right? My tragedies occurred only days apart making me wonder if the porcelain gods (to whom I’ve been told we pray when we puke) are out to get me. Two events do, after all, make an undeniable trend, or so math and science agree. Therefore, I’d like to take a moment to speak with Jorge, the Zeus of Toilets and Urinals and (since we’re talking about porcelain here) Mom’s China:

“Jorge, I thought we’d bonded. Remember the night of unending booze when I knelt before your most tortured minister in the skankiest bar in all of Berkeley? Remember how, despite the cracks in its rim and the unflushed toilet paper and the love puddles and the rest of the awfulness, I promised never to treat one of your children with such disrespect? Remember how, after disposing of a few beers and some dinner in your gracious bowels, I cleaned up after myself?

“Why would you do this to me? Why Jorge, why?! I can accept only so much abuse, so keep this in mind, sir. If one more toilet tragedy should befall me this month, we’re through, you and I. If I’m on a date and you fail me, letting her (and the entire restaurant) know I had an ‘episode’; if my tiny bathroom floor is covered in soiled water and the floods extend to my cheap nylon carpeting; if I, in my stumbling drunkenness, slip and hit my head on the edge of any of your subjects… be warned. I will be ruthless. I will enter no bathroom without a cartoonishly large hammer or some other device to destroy the front-lines in your white, chair shaped army. I will put inconspicuous electrical tape over the auto-flush lasers that make life easier for your beloved receptacles. I will purposefully misaim. And I will upper-deck as many toilets as I can! (For a definition of ‘upper-deck’ please email Paco.) This I promise you: I will have my revenge!”

That’s all!


Brian Beutler is a regular editor of Paco's Wasting your Time, an intern at the Washington Monthly and the author of his own journalistic blog: Up and Coming. On a more personal note, Brian prefers his beverages from straws and has remarkably effeminate wrists.

Capitalist Cupid

From all accounts, society is encouraging chivalry out the door (as well you know, society lives in a duplex. Once chivalry is gone, society and his friends, hedonism, selfishness and parsimoniousness, all play XBox together and talk about how much of a jerk chivalry is). Standards of chivalry might be slipping because they could potentially undermine standards of equality; after the women’s movement of the 60’s and 70’s—when, among other things, women vied for the right to earn comparable salaries for comparable work—some women viewed opening doors and paying for meals as condescending and, ultimately, oppressive (studies later conclusively proved that acts of chivalry, rather than being active attempts to undercut salaries and rights, were actually meager tactics to get, you know, laid). Concepts of “going Dutch” emerged at a monumental crossroads in history. Not only were women beginning to earn more but, as luck would have it, anthropologist/adventurer Howard Carter discovered Holland in 1981. Not only did it become more acceptable for a guy to buy his own cheeseburger and movie ticket, many girls now insisted on covering their own checks.

But, like a dying Catholic grandmother, chivalry can’t go peacefully without leaving you feeling at least a little guilty. As much as I embrace the idea of paying just for myself, it’s still a little awkward to have a waiter place the check on the table equidistant between a girl and me (especially when I make an explicit point to cross my arms and avoid eye-contact with both her and the check). It then becomes a showdown of wills; the gunfighters of the OK Corral never knew tension like I do. My knee will begin bouncing furiously as I struggle to find something (not money or meal related) to discuss. “So… I hear it’s supposed to rain this weekend. How ‘bout that, huh?” In all her cunning and deviousness, she’ll casually point out that it is, in fact, Saturday night and that she had heard it was going to be really nice out. Agg! Foiled! The black, vinyl folder with the check in it sits “unnoticed” next to ignored condiments.

Finally, one of us will come up with something to talk about (probably her, because I’ll still be reeling from her parry and riposte) and the waiter will come around, pick up the folder dealy and ask if we need any change. We’ll both apologize for not having looked at the check yet and then the pressure’s REALLY on. Eyes dart from the check to the face across the table… the waiter’s, well, waiting… throats will be cleared, forks fumbled with… having exhausted my one conversational silver bullet (stupid weather!), I’ll dejectedly reach for the infernal check. Not until my fingers reach the corner of it will she reach halfway to the check in a pathetic display of attempting to pay. She’ll invariably say something like “What do I owe?” or “No, no, let me cover it” in such a way that it sounds like “Ha! Sucker!” I’ll force a smile and say “I wouldn’t think of it” or “Trust me, it’s my pleasure.” She’ll ask if I’m sure as I flip through the seven dollars and overdrawn credit cards I have in my wallet and I’ll assure her that I’m perfectly sure. Just once, I’d love to win that battle. Even if she lets me win because she knows I’m pathetic (and poor). Even if she had a full meal and I only had a Dirty Martini (so it’d only be fair if she covered her tab). Just once, I’d love to win.

Anxious (read "pathetic") men are torn between conflicting ideologies: “fair is fair and even is even” and “Darwinism is trying to eliminate the cheapo-gene from the pool”. We’re struggling to reconcile the virtues of equality with the intrinsic desire to satisfy animal needs (with the full knowledge that naked girls beat abstract nouns damn near every time). Truth is, an entire element of commerce is founded on the premise that residual chivalry will, by force of guilt, make men buy things for women. Capitalism—which normally agrees with me—tells men they need to pay for Y under Z circumstances; capitalism also tells women that if men don’t get Y at Z, they’re to be given no X.

Random Angry Interjection by a Fictional Reader:
“Wait, wait, wait! Paco, I can’t believe you would suggest that women are so materialistic they’d submit to having sex with someone that bought them things.”
Editorial Response:
I can’t believe you would suggest that tactic has ever actually worked for me.

I find a prime example of capitalism’s treason every Friday and Saturday night in the bars and restaurants of most big cities. Chances are good that if you’ve spent a lot of time in the bar districts and restaurant rows of large cities, you’ve seen the guy with the basket of roses walking around. It will generally be an older, kind-looking man (although I’ve seen a couple of girls and ladies from time to time), they don’t have to be foreigners, but they seem to be most times. Anyway, Eddie Extortion will walk into the restaurant, let’s say, and scan the room for tables with one guy sitting with one girl, because he knows they’re potential gold mines. He’ll flash his roses disinterestedly as he breezes past a group of women, he’ll completely ignore a group of men, he’ll make a half-hearted effort with an older married couple, but he’ll never take his eye off the twentysomethings in the corner.

The guy at the table—unless he’s swimming in money—will see Eddie Extortion walk in with his basket of love and make every conceivable effort to plead with Eddie not to offer him roses. He’ll scratch his temple and look out the window. He’ll shift his chair slightly so as to avoid any kind of eye contact. He’ll abruptly shift the conversation into a loud and emphatic diatribe on his hatred of foreigners. All the while squirming (to his mind, imperceptibly) as the rose guy closes in unfazed. Eddie will finally reach the table, with a bundle of roses in hand and look at the guy as he waves the roses directly in front of the girl's face and will (without fail, no matter what part of the country you’re in) utter the same four fatal words: “Roses for the lady?” He doesn’t say “Would you like roses?” because the answer is clearly “No, I don’t want roses, thanks!” He doesn’t ask the girl if she wants roses. He lets her get a whiff of their aromatic villainy and essentially tells the guy with those four words “Look, buddy, we both know you’re gonna look like a bastard if you don’t comply with my demands.”

SIDEBAR: Before There Were Roses...
--Used Volvo for the lady?
--Wood-chipper for the lady?
--Celibacy for the lady?
--North American badger for the lady?
--Geoger Clooney for the lady?


The girl, who has all the while pretended not to see Eddie Extortion until he got to the table, will make one of three moves. A few girls will answer politely for the guy and then feed the guy some line about being inconvenienced by having to carry them around all night. Another few will look expectantly at the guy and all but say “Golly, do I ever love having flowers bought for me.” A large majority of girls, however, will say to the guy (note: not to Eddie the rose peddler), “It’s okay, you really don’t have to.” Then they’ll stare a hole into the guy’s face. “No, no, really. I don’t want any.” The hole starts to itch and she’ll start cocking her head to one side; kinda like twisting a knife in someone’s gut to ensure they bleed to death. The guy’s cornered. Should he risk believing her and rely on his charm to pull him through the night straight into her candlelit room? The girl and the rose guy have never met nor will they ever see each other again, but for that instant, they’re allied against the guy. At this point, she’s started smelling individual roses and caressing the petals. “It’s okay,” she’ll say.

Remember that whole thing about animal urges versus abstract nouns? Sweat has formed on his brow at this point and he’ll look over one last time in vain for any signs of sincerity. Then he’ll buckle under the pressure and try to play off his hesitation as an evaluation of the quality of the roses. “Give her the best rose you have,” he’ll say… defeated. If Eddie and the girl could, they’d slap hands.

“They come by the half-dozen, sir.” Eddie owns the guy at this point; he could say they come by the truckload and Darwin wouldn’t excuse him from his obligation.

“Well then, let’s have the nicest half dozen.” Notice the guy hasn’t asked how much the roses cost. He can’t. Inconceivable. Were he to ask, the slightest grimace when he’s told $45 would expose to the girl exactly how much he thinks she’s worth (or, to be accurate, exactly what she’s NOT worth). Eddie will fumble through the roses, make some ridiculous comment about one particular set of roses being the best of the evening and only tell the guy how much they cost after the six dreadful, hateful, detestable roses are in the girl’s hands. The guy hands over the money, hates the rose guy, the girl and, most of all, himself. The girl and Eddie thank each other and Eddie goes on to start the cycle again with another helpless victim.

But, no, friends, it doesn’t end there. It’s been said before (by many a smarter, more miserly man), Valentine’s Day was conceived specifically with the same idea in mind. See’s, Hallmark and 1800flowers.com came up with Valentine’s Day in 1959 to bolster profits after two consecutive quarters of poor sales. Similarly, Zales invented engagements (and later marriage) as a means to sell all the shiny rocks they’d found. To all this, there’s really only one thing I can say…

Cupid sold us out.

That’s all.

This Story isn’t Worth a Dime over Two Dollars

Any school yard chum can tell you that other countries just don’t have the same standards for material value that Americans have. I have it on good authority that in every other country the world over (save perhaps England with all their dignity and whatnot), one could theoretically haggle down the price of just about anything. For example, a buddy of mine—fresh from a trip to Argentina—paid 20 Argentine Pesos (6.92 in real money) for Happiness. Imagine that, paying just under seven dollars for an abstract noun that would cost millions in the US… all because he haggled it down from 40,000 Argentine Pesos. Call us resolute. Call us greedy. Call us better. Whatever you call us (I generally just go with “better”), you can bet your bottom dollar (whatever the hell that means! If you’re more comfortable with betting your top or middle dollar, you’re welcome to. This, of course, presupposes that you, much like me, only have three) that Americans love knowing that we’re the best negotiators in the world.

Incidentally, foreigners the world over love knowing that Americans really believe they’re the best negotiators in the world. They, then, make it a point to dress meagerly and look as ignorant and pathetic as possible (in some cases). Prices are gouged to orders of magnitude what their actual retail value might be and silly tourists feel like nouveau conquistadors because they skimmed ten dollars from the ticket price. Everybody wins! I’m willing to bet that the vendors of Acapulco are only too eager to “negotiate” with an American tourist who took two years of Spanish in high school and is convinced, thereby, that he (more often than not, it’ll be a he) will impress native trinket vendors with his guile… in their native tongue. Golly, wait ‘til Sammy Suave gets back to the states and tells all his buddies about how he bargained himself a steal (in Spanish) on a porcelain salt shaker in the shape of a Mexican in a sombrero sleeping! Ay Dios mío, wait ‘til Pedro Peddlerez tells all his amigos about all the silly Americanos that paid $12 each for a little statues fashioned from old Chihuahua poo!

SIDEBAR: Souvenir Savvy
It seems that tourists have a tendency to buy the most ridiculously useless mementos they can find. Rarely will you buy anything that, in retrospect, you had any intention of keeping, ever could have imagined that you actually wanted or really believed the person you bought it for was going to like it. Vendors have caught on to this (probably via the Internet… where all real truth is born) and have become masters of selling tacky crap you don’t need. What’s worse than tourist actually buying these monuments of frivolity is the fact that tourist themselves probably generate the ideas for production. Do you really think a Mexican guy in an outlying province of Cancun came up with a drawing of two frogs wearing ponchos engaged in various acts of carnal appreciation with the words “Órale Cancún!” spelled across the top in order to represent Yucatan culture? What about a Spaniard who conceived a bottle opener shaped like a penis because that’s how they used to open bottles in the old country? Have Persian rugs really always had images of AK-47’s and tanks on them? Oh, you mean, that’s what Aladdin flew on? No. A number of tourists had gone in there and perused their selection of kitschy bottle openers before they reluctantly asked the store attendant if they had one more in the shape of, you know, a wee-wee. Preferably an American wee-wee.


Then, you get the professionals. Professional hagglers are tourists that are originally from whatever country they’re touring. They’re not necessarily visiting home as much as they’re showing their (now) American kids what the motherland is all about. This kind of haggling is not for the weak of character or expectant mothers; it can get brutal. My Nicaraguan father is among the best hagglers I’ve ever had the pleasure (and disgrace) of seeing in action. I can’t think of the last time he paid the original price when we’ve been in any Latin-American country (okay, so maybe we’re not Mexican… but the Mexicans don’t know that, so it’s close enough to being from that particular motherland). His haggling philosophy stems from essentially two things:
1) He understands that he very likely doesn’t want—and most certainly doesn’t need— whatever the hell he’ll end up buying.
2) They wouldn’t sell it to him if they weren’t making a profit, so there’s no point in feeling bad when the limping orphan walks (or sorta hops, I suppose) away with only 10 cents instead of the 25 she was asking for a packet of gum.

He’s ruthless. He’s unforgiving. And, it’s kinda cool to watch. First of all, my father has a mug that yells “I couldn’t possibly be less interested in whatever the hell you’re saying or selling” (I’ve tried to replicate it on my own haggling adventures, but I think my mug yells “I’m constipated and also perfectly ready to pay what you ask”). He’ll walk slowly past a street vendor (as an example) and wait for them to try to get his attention. “Señor, you want a nice gold bracelet?” they’d say.

My dad will stop, closely (but disinterestedly) inspect the bracelets and quickly assert that they aren’t real gold. He’ll take two or three steps before they call out to him that they are, in fact, real gold and that because he’s a paisano, they’ll give him a special price.

“Oh yeah?” he’ll say in Spanish… so it sounds more like “Ah-ha!?! Let’s see here, compadre, what you consider special.” The vendor will tell him a price and before the man finishes, he’ll interrupt him with “No, no, no… that’s the special you tell the gringos. They’ll buy your fake gold for any price. What’s the special price for real paisanos?”

The vendor, without fail, will reaffirm how special his price is and say that he actually charges gringos twice that much. My dad will look at the vendor, look down the street to where other vendors are presumably standing (waiting for him not to buy from the first vendor) and he’ll offer half of what he thinks the bracelet is actually worth. The vendor, stunned by such a ludicrously low offer, will talk about the quality of the bracelet and knock the price down from, say, $65 to $55.

“Nah. 15,” my dad will say.
“15!?! No, no, no… how about $50?”
“50! Only if you had a gun to my head! I’ll tell you what… $16”
“16!?! You’re out of your mind; this is real gold. People pay a lot more that 16 for these bracelets. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, how about $45?”
“Well, good luck finding someone who wants to pay $45, because I’m definitely not, amigo,” and then he’ll take another few steps away.
“Fine, fine, señor. You’re breaking my bank here, but you can have it for… $35”
“20… not a dime more”
“25! And I can’t go any lower”

My dad will pause, stroke his beard for a second, look back down the street towards the other eager vendors and say “14.”

“$14! You just said 20! You started at 15! No, there’s no way!”
“Yeah, and that’s what I wanted to pay then… you missed it. Look, compadre, I’m going to spend $14 on a crappy bracelet right now and I don’t care who I buy it from. If you don’t sell it to me, that guy will. If he doesn’t, the guy next to him will and you and your neighbor can complain about me being cheap while the other guy eats tacos and drinks beer. I don’t even want the damn bracelet.”
“Okay, señor, $20” the vendor will say exhaustedly.

My dad will grudgingly pull out a $20 bill, pay the man and look disappointed as he pockets the bracelet. He’ll then run to us and excitedly tell about working it down from $65. He’ll haggle just about anything and is usually fairly successfully. The skill he has that most people who engage in 30 minute haggling sessions can’t bring themselves to do is being capable of just walking away. Lots of people feel obligated to buy something since they spent so long banging out the price. No guilt for Old Man Ramirez… No, sir! If they didn’t want their time wasted, they shouldn’t have tried to overcharge.

Then there’s my cousin Beatrice; even my dad gets embarrassed when she gets into thrifty mode. Bea seems to have an encyclopedic knowledge of not only what things are worth, but how much every other vendor in the world charges for them. This is the depth of her depravity. She won’t allow herself to buy something in a foreign country unless she’s firmly convinced that the seller is making just pennies. I don’t think it’s a matter of thrift and savings for her, because (again) no one ever really needs the crap you buy in other countries, it’s knowing that the vendor is kicking himself for letting it go at such a low price and having legitimately wasted so much time.

Bea’s been known to go to respectable restaurants in Mexico, order her meal, eat it and then haggle the price when the check is presented. Wow, we’d all think, this is absurd. Then we’re floored when it works. “Fuck ‘em,” she’d say, “every one of them is trying to rip you off.” We’re further impressed when she leaves a pitiful tip, “What? Do they think we’re a bunch of tourists?”

My dad would be the only one to regain hold of enough cognizance to say, “Bea, we ARE tourists. You’ve never even been here before!”

Never seems to bother her.

I, however, don’t seem to have the Ramirez family fervor for bargaining.

“Señor, you want to buy t-shirts with drawings of boobies that look like fruit?”
“Do I ever!” (in Spanish, of course)
“Three for $25.”
At this point, I like to cross my arms, look down the street towards other hopeful vendors, make the constipated face and say, “Can you break a hundred?”
“No, señor, sorry. I haven’t sold a shirt in two years.”
“Wow. That’s sad. I guess I better buy 12 then.”
“Are you interested in a coffee mug that looks like a booby?”
“Am I!”

That’s all.

Yelling: How to Win an Argument

Persuasion is a tricky thing; it’s an artful balance of reason, conviction, charm and confidence. Not only do you need to find the appropriate levels of each for every new situation, but they must be effectively executed with precise timing. Whether it is a heated philosophical or political debate amongst intellectual equals, a misunderstanding or disagreement with a significant (or maybe not-so-significant, but she pays the rent) other or conflicts of interest with larger, drunker men (by which, of course, I mean your interest is not to leave the bar bloody and ashamed), every potential argument brings about its own special set of circumstances. Notwithstanding, certain time-tried principles of persuasion will help you keep your moral righteousness and air of pomposity in impeccable tact. With any luck, such principals can give the average person a fighting chance at avoiding impending conflict by saying the right thing, in the right manner, at the right time.

Students of forensics (the ones who blindly make references to Nietzsche, categorical imperatives and hierarchies of needs, as opposed to the ones that wear rubber gloves and touch yucky things) have worked tirelessly since the very first disagreement in 399 B.C.—when Socrates first shook his head violently while uttering the words “nuh-uh”—to perfect the art of formal debate. The best debaters in every age have managed to scrupulously choreograph the most effective gesticulations by watching professional wrestlers intimidate their opponents. As an example, Chester MacBadger, the winner of the 1989 National Debate Championships, employed what’s now known as the “Hogan Offensive” to defeat Jaspy Miller in the final round. After Jaspy asserted a weak evocation of The Federalist Papers, Chester rebutted by arguing that The Beatles had actually conceived the American system of representative democracy in 1963. He then proceeded to run from one side of the stage to the other, stopping only to rip off his shirt, circle his hand in the air and dramatically bringing it to his ear, eliciting support for his argument from the crowd and the adjudicators. Jaspy, unable to recover from such devastating gesticulations, relapsed into a debilitating stutter he’d worked months to suppress and lost the round four votes to one.

Forensics students agreed that it would take more to master the art of argument. They turned, naturally, to the use of analogies. One of the most well known series of presidential debates occurred throughout 1860 between two exceptional debaters and orators: Stephen A. Douglas and Abraham H. Lincoln. The two had met on the political/philosophical battlefield in 1858, just before Douglas squarely handed Lincoln his own ass for the office of US Senator from Illinois. Lincoln, distraught by his defeat to a man he was clearly taller than, dedicated the next two years to studying the tactics and strategies of phenomenal debaters. He emerged from his training with a firm mastery of analogy drawing. In the final televised debate before the election, Douglas was making an airtight case against abolition by arguing that every other great civilization in history had employed slavery as the backbone of its national superiority. Lincoln, slightly distressed by the merits of Douglas’ position, but satiated by his mid-afternoon snack, accused Douglas of “comparing apples to oranges”. The American populous concurred; Douglas had, in fact, been making that very comparison. Lincoln won in a landslide and went on to become famous for making plenty of other contributions to the American compendium of clichés.

Forensics students met again and agreed that it would take more, still, to master the art of argument. This time (we’re talking maybe around 1996), they turned to Ivy League types for inspiration on how best to show others how very wrong and intellectually inferior they are. Dr. Alan Thunder, a rhetorician at A University That Isn’t Georgetown, postulated that when defending a weak argument, an effective strategy is to point out how much more intelligent and better read you are than your opponent by quoting “books” (as they’re called) you’re certain your opponent hasn’t read. “For example,” writes Thunder, “when contending that crunchy peanut butter is far and away better tasting than creamy peanut butter, studies of Ivy League students has shown that it is advantageous to quote Kierkegaard as having postulated—and it is important to use the word postulated—‘When we objectively investigate the truth, we reflect objectively about the truth as an object to which we are related. We do not reflect upon the relationship, but upon the fact that it is the truth--the truth to which we are related. When this to which we are related merely is the truth, the true, then the subject is in the truth. When we subjectively investigate the truth, we reflect subjectively upon the relationship of the individual; only when the how of this relationship is in truth, is the individual in truth, even if he is thus related to the untrue.’” Dr. Thunder adds that you’re guaranteed to further trump your opponent by adding, “But, surely you would know that if you’ve read Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling.” That’ll teach those imbeciles to question the value of crunchy peanut butter!

These increasingly masterful debaters met one final time to pensively stroke their collective chin on the subject of successfully winning every argument. “We’ve covered, what seems to be, all of our proverbial bases. We’ve mastered body-language and reason, not to mention shamelessly flexing our philosophical-lexicon muscle… what could we possibly be missing?” they seemed to say. They sat and pondered furiously. “If only there were someone that could guide us…” they added (inwardly).

Well, friends and comrades, I have the answer. When the “Razor Ramon Approach” fails… when your opponent counted their chickens after they’d hatched… when you’ve discovered that no one’s impressed by the musings of Bertrand Russell… talk louder! It’s that simple. Don’t just yell; yell profanities. The louder you manage to raise your voice, the more likely you are to get away with saying completely irrational, abundantly ignorant things. Yelling, without question, is the perfect defense for an otherwise indefensible position. Timing, however, is key; the sooner you start yelling, the better it is for your position. Don’t waste precious rebuttal moments on niceties. Go straight for the jugular. For example:
“Hey Paco.”
“Hey, buddy, how’s it going?”
“Great. Real great. Listen, I haven’t said anything for the last few months, but you’re… you know… not exactly on time with your rent this month. Or last month, really. I really hate to hassle you, man, but do you think you could get that to me in the next week or tw—“
“WHY CAN’T I TAKE A GODDAMN BREATH WITHOUT YOU CONSTANTLY NAGGING ME ABOUT THE RENT? YOU THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME, DON’T YOU? I’M SICK AND TIRED OF YOUR… YOU KNOW WHAT? GET OUT BEFORE I DO SOMETHING TO GET ME SENT BACK TO JAIL!!!!”

Should you defend the merits of reason, cooperation and wit, I defy you to attempt an argument on any subject, in any language against Al Pacino, the master of yelling. Do you think you’d tell Tony Montana that he short changed you 85 cents? How about telling John Milton (his character in The Devil’s Advocate) that he should be more considerate? Would you really ever tell Don Michael Corleone to calm down and be reasonable?

Yelling: beating reason and morality since 1972

Part II… Violence: How to Win an Argument Against Someone Who's Read “Yelling: How to Win an Argument”

THAT’S ALL!!!

Pacotopia: Just like Civilization, Only Absurd on Purpose

I’ve always laughed a little at games like SimCity and The Sims because the basic idea behind these games always seems to be: you’re going to do on the computer what you would very likely be doing during the course of your day, only you feel empowered because the consequences aren’t real and you can creatively name banks and fast-food restaurants “Institutional Robbery” and “Poop Stand” (respectively). Well, perhaps you didn’t; you better believe I did. Although I generally find videogames tedious and a waste of perfectly good napping time, I grasped why these kinds of demigod role-playing games are appealing. It’s probably the closest most anyone is ever going to get to having unadulterated control over everything that happens on a much larger scale than real people can actually comprehend (I get wrapped up on how the computer makes the tiny computer people remember to drive to work and protest things. I also can’t play these games without getting intensely sad when I eventually give up and start over because my SimTown sucked. Surely, SimCitizens can sense they’ve been abandoned… poor, little SimSuzy and SimSammy. I can just see their tiny SimFaces SimPouting. I need a drink).

Barring, say, the ability to cause great fires, hurricanes and evil flying saucer/spider monster attacks, what if you could manage to rebuild civilization from scratch? You take the same human organisms with the same inherent traits and try your hand at the same goal of propagating this civilization of yours. It’s easy to say “Legalize drugs and lower the drinking age, baby… yeah! That’s what I’d do with Ted-town!” (if your name should happen to be—just as an example—Ted) or even “I’d make it just like France”, but history’s taught us these plans are destined to fail (or at least grow terribly tiresome).

So, exactly where does one start when founding civilization? Okay, name: check.. Overbearing, self-indulgent societal architect: check. Well, I have the critical facets of a society down, now on to the details (Incidentally, Aldous Huxley, Thomas More and George Orwell all went through this exact same thought process. Any history book will tell you that even Karl Marx, when he first sat down to pen out his manifesto, allegedly said, "Okay, let's start a revolution... a rev-vo-lu-tion! Let's call it... hmmm... Karlsvilles? Nah. Let’s see… Karlopotamia? Nah. Name, name, the revolution needs a name. Think, Marx, think! Marxism. Great! I'm on a roll!")

Pacotopia, unlike every other Utopian society ever conceived, is not an island, isolated compound or moon colony. It’s a mid-sized municipality of 85,000 Pacotopians within an hour’s drive of a major, sprawling metropolis. Its city limits are marked with signs that say “Welcome to Pacotopia! Population: One more than we wanted now that you’re here”. I would work exhaustively with city planners to ensure that zoning, construction and public spaces fit together in such a way that, from above, Pacotopia looks like a Magic Eye photo. At first glance, it’s a city like any other, but if you try to cross your eyes, the image of a puppy peeing on a tree pops out at you (needless to say, the puppy would be smirking).

Aesthetically, the neighborhoods and business districts seem as though their owners had built them without any knowledge that anyone else was ever going to build around them. Colors are painfully bright and nauseatingly uncoordinated. The architecture in Pacotopia is marveled at for its biting commentary or playful irony. Financial institutions are generally deeply underground—beneath untended fields—and are marked by rather ominous black, iron gates guarding stairs with the phrase “LASCIATE OGNE SPERANZA, VOI CH’INTRATE” (Canto III, Line 9) spelled out as you descend each step. Fashion malls and beauty parlors are inside ugly, industrial factories with giant smokestacks pouring thick, black smoke into the air. Charities and homeless shelters are in monstrously gaudy, baroque buildings and the office of the city planners is desperately disorganized.

There isn’t a police force in Pacotopia; instead, there are very, very large men who wear reflective yellow vests and call themselves “Helpies”. Helpies are never off-duty, they live their lives as they normally would only they always wear the yellow vest and have the authority and responsibility to beat evil-doers senseless. They carry neither guns nor billy-clubs, they’re just really scary looking and probably have impressive scars and tattoos. There has only ever been one reported complaint concerning a Helpie loose-cannon who abused his power by parking in front of fire hydrants, intimidating Pacotopians into letting him cut in lines and took bribes (consisting principally of éclairs) from Marty, the crooked bakery chef. He was promptly investigated by his peers, found guilty, publicly beat lifeless and asked to leave town. His wife stayed; she married Marty and gained forty pounds.

Pacotopia doesn’t have a fire department either. The collateral duties firefighters have conventionally handled (getting cats out of trees, emergency medical services and posing from hunky calendars) are the responsibility of all Pacotopians and, when in severe circumstances, Helpies. Happily, in 1985 (when its supreme leader was a bouncing toddler of two), Pacotopian scientists (the only useful ones the world over) invented a system so that nothing ever burns (even toast) unless it is supposed to. They also invented what went on to become a worldwide retail juggernaut: the happy weather coat. A coat that gives its wearer the sensation that it’s sunny, 78 degrees with a gentle breeze carrying aromatic sea-spray no matter what the conditions might be outside. The happy weather coat went on to sell millions upon millions of units and became all the rage in Prague during the winter.

The happy weather coat gave way to the happy weather canopy, happy weather lawn furniture, the compact happy weather sports visor and—the ever popular—happy weather lip gloss. Pacotopian economists determined that outsourcing production to Bolivia (where nice weather and aromatic sea-spray were originally invented in 1967) would improve profit margins. Unfortunately, quality control went down and the Japanese innovated on happy weather merchandise to create the Variable-weather-for-pleasurable-moments-at-any-weather-condition-you-might-desire line of products. Happy weather merchandise was criticized, but Pacotopians didn’t care; in fact, they chortled together all the way to the Institutional Robbery.

City Hall in Pacotopia is a well sized building made entirely of durable, transparent plastic. All the walls, cubicles and office furniture are completely transparent and the front door never locks. After former Mayor Embezzlucious J. McGillicutty, a short, balding squat of a man with a handlebar mustache, was implicated in a series of misappropriation scandals (for which he was pulverized by Helpies who disliked both Mayor McGillicutty and handlebar mustaches), the citizens of Pacotopia decided it would be best to have City Hall completely exposed to public scrutiny. The next mayor was fundamentally in favor of the idea as it allowed him to display his endearingly white teeth and painstakingly perfected mayoral wave to Pacotopians as they passed his office. Everything ran smoothly the first day of (new) City Hall until shortly after lunch when staffers found the practical joke the architect and engineers had played on them: the restrooms in the only completely transparent building in town faced the busiest intersection on Main Street. Two disquieting weeks later, an outhouse was installed fifty yards behind the building; when the door locked, instead of “occupied”, a red sign above the handle declares “DO NOT DISTURB: Important Matters of State”.

There are few laws on the books, but society runs on the principle that no one person (or group of one persons) can impose their will onto others such that they wouldn’t be able to pursue their own amusement. Helpies mediate conflicts of interest and apply appropriate physical pressure after a Pacotopian has made it clear he or she doesn’t want to play nice. Pick a purse: get a beating. Steal candy from a baby: get a beating. Cheat at poker: get a beating. If two strapping, young bucks decide that their problems are so very irreconcilable that it has to come to fisticuffs: they’ll call for a Helpie and he’ll watch them beat the hell out of each other. Should one decide to ride their motorcycle without a helmet, no one will bother them. Should one decide they don’t want to wear a seatbelt, no one will bother them. There’re no speed limits in Pacotopia, but if one were to lose control and smash through a storefront, Helpies would quickly be on the scene to help them out of their car… and proceed to beat them.

Pacotopia is not particularly well known for its healthcare system. There are clinics throughout the city for cuts, burns and broken bones, emergency rooms for more traumatic accidents and only a handful of specialists (for things like births and rectal exams… because even Pacotopians can’t escape that particular shame... rectal exams, that is). Pacotopians, on average, maintain fairly healthy diets and lead moderately active lives, but are not immune to plagues and cancers. While they very much value life, there is a deeply engrained cultural acceptance that people can and will die when their time comes. The citizens of Pacotopia don’t want to live forever; instead they strive to accomplish what they will in the time given to them. Those Pacotopians that choose to smoke, drink or engage in what would be considered life-shortening activities do so with the understanding that they’re responsible for their choices and embrace the consequences as their own doing. They die when they’re supposed to and funerals are modeled after Dean Martin’s celebrity roasts.

Churches in Pacotopia modeled themselves after Blockbuster video-rental stores. Pacotopians go in at their convenience when they feel they want spirituality, religion or enlightenment. Some go two or three times a week, some only once a month, some daily and some never. Church-goers go in, select whatever they’re in the mood for (maybe some action-packed Christianity… immensely funny Judaism… a dense Buddhist thriller… maybe a Mormon horror) and proceed to the checkout line where a cheerful pastor tells them they’ve made an excellent choice and that it’s due back next Tuesday. While there are no late fees, rarely are things not returned on time. Church officials claim there used to be a huge problem until they posted a big sign on the exit that reads “There are no late fees, but there sure is a hell!”

Pacotopians revel in their individuality, but share many cultural interests. There’s no one preferred kind of music, but something always seems to be playing. Theaters are highly acclaimed worldwide for their impressive productions, exceptional actors and beautiful stages, but shows are generally under-attended. Almost every kind of cuisine is available at a variety of fine restaurants, but even the most exotic of restaurants offers Lucky Charms, burritos and Buffalo chicken (insert noun) on their menu. Pacotopian chefs experimented with the development of something called Paco Charms (which were just like Lucky Charms, only the marshmallows were flavored and shaped like chicken wings and burritos), but—surprisingly—the idea never caught on. Bars and pubs are remarkably affordable for having such generous servings and each one has air filters working feverishly to allow smokers and non-smokers to coexist. The vineyards of Pacotopia are small, but respectable and the Martini Orchards (They did it again! Those amazingly useful scientists actually went and invented the Martini Tree) are renowned.

The singles scene in Pacotopia has perplexed sociologists and social psychologists alike for decades. Single men and women go to the bars (or Martini Orchards) and, upon entering, wave their hands furiously in the air signifying their interest in finding other singles. When an attractive woman waves, a waving man approaches her and introduces himself. She greets him, says it is a pleasure to meet him and continues waving her hands furiously. He tries desperately to say something charming or clever, perhaps asks if she’d seen the most recent play at the theater (which all parties involved knows neither of them had) in an effort to coax her arms down. She’ll wave more furiously, at which point he’ll begin waving again and find another waving woman. The cool guys in the room have a patented wave that makes them appear as if they’re really not all that interested. They lean against walls and lazily raise their hands in the air with each finger trying to look more disinterested than its digit neighbors, occasionally jolting it so as not to be confused with someone just wanting to clear their tab. Surely, when too many non-cool guys attempt the cool wave, the cool guys will change it thereby dating the non-cool guys and making them not cool all over again. A vicious cycle.

Should a studly waving guy find a pretty waving girl and they go on to find love together (perhaps behind a Krispy Kreme… where love was invented) they’ll probably get married and probably have kids. Weddings are an interesting experience in Pacotopia because they’re also essentially roasts—similar to funerals, only much meaner. Everyone goes to the Blockbuster video rental and, for the first half of the ceremony, the groom’s family tries to convince the bride why the groom is such an awful choice and vice versa. The second half of the ceremony involves the bride’s family trying to convince her that the groom is worthless and vice versa. It always starts fairly civil—“Bobby wet the bed until he was 20”—and moves on to just outright malicious—“Susan is a filthy whore and you know it and she knows it and that filthy whore of a mother of hers knows it too!” Finally, after everyone is shocked and the bride’s father is terribly embarrassed by what he’d just said, the priest asks if they want to carry on with their marriage with the knowledge that they only have one shot at it, and once that shot’s spent you’re only allowed to marry lepers. The couple will either agree to carry on or decide to call it off (either of which is a happy event); if they agree, they recite their vows and the priest ends by saying “I now declare you husband and wife… always remember how much you thought you loved each other at this very moment.” They do and the divorce rate is low in Pacotopia.

The population growth is at a slow, but steady rate. Rarely will couples have more than two or three children, but when they do, it’s traditional to name that child in the order it was conceived. While it isn’t terribly unusual to meet someone simply named Four in Pacotopia, there have only ever been four Sevens and only one Thirtyone (born to Pacotopia’s most famous fertile dyslexics). Children are, from a very young age, encouraged to be funny, but are generally governed by very strict rules. Spankings by unfamiliar adults is common in markets and parks with only two accounts ever of Helpies stepping in to savagely beat an adult that overdid it. Children are bombarded with school work from the time they can reasonably speak, walk, eat and pee-pee/poo-poo on their own.

At the age of 15, young boys are ceremoniously forced through rings of fire, pits of burning coals and cages of ferocious, ravenous animals in order to prove their readiness to take on manhood. At the age of 9, girls (since they mature so much faster than do boys) are given credit cards and undergo exhaustive training on the subtle arts of frivolity and irrationality (because even in perfect societies, girls are still girls). When they emerge from their tests, young people are given considerably more liberty and independence, but are also expected to work the most ignoble, tedious and (sometimes) repulsive of jobs so that real adults can go on waving arms at one another and not be concerned by who has to clean gutters and collect animal poo from public places.

The principle feature of Pacotopians is their intense affinity for sarcasm and humor. Rarely does anyone ever get offended and even rarer does one intend to offend. Instead, jibes and cracks are as banal as asking “How are you?” at the beginning of a conversation when everyone knows that the only answer they really want to hear is “Fine” or perhaps “Great”. Anything else would throw us off and force us to actually pay attention to what the other person is saying and feign interest. By saying “I’m very sorry to hear that” (e.g. “I’m very sorry to hear your parents died at the mouth of a volcano as a sacrifice to appease the gods of wrath”), most people really mean “I’m so very sorry you told me that… and, consequently, me having to hear you say it… golly! Why couldn’t you have just said ‘fine’ like everyone else?” Pacotopians eagerly invest their focus in commenting on another’s shoes, hair, blunder or personality quirk as a means to express joy in seeing them. They believe it’s far more genuine than “How are you (please say ‘fine’, please say ‘fine’)?”

Perhaps everyone in Pacotopia isn’t totally happy all of the time, but most of them are most of the time. Chronically miserably people are encouraged to travel more and constantly angry, belligerent people are beat by Helpies. Pacotopians take pride in being very different from those in the surrounding communities and are okay with the fact that they’re well hated. A man can find a quarter on the street (change is randomly sprinkled on sidewalks by Helpies, at the expense of (new) City Hall, for just such an occurrence) and that man will feel compelled to tell the first person he sees about how lucky he must be. That person will feel obligated to tell them that he’s right and, perhaps, he can use it to call someone that cares “…just a thought”, the stranger would say. The sun sets on Pacotopia and content Pacotopians stop to watch it descend, appreciating how much better they off they are than anyone else. Life was absurd today—much like it was yesterday—and I couldn’t ask for more… they seem to say.

Good night clear building where city affairs are discussed…
Good night yellow vested Helpies…
Good night happy waving singles, good luck to you…
Good night boy in the pit of burning coals…
Good night smirking, peeing puppy…

Hellooooooooo Martini Orchards….

That’s all.

Lame Attempt to Change the World (wide web)

If the internet were a guy, here’s the letter I’d send:

Dear Mr. Internet

I certainly hate to disturb you, sir, as I’m certain you have your many hands full, what with kids downloading music and pedophiles streaming videos of kids downloading music, but you and I have some issues to discuss. Until recently, I’ve been completely satisfied with the services you’ve provided to me; I very much enjoy seeing funny pictures of monkeys doing zany things, being informed of when my favorite bands are playing and especially having an opportunity to acquire some of Bill Gates’ wealth by simply emailing my friends and relatives.

Notwithstanding, perhaps you’ve gotten the wrong idea. You see, sir, I’m not particularly interested in collecting any more winnings. I feel as if others are more deserving of reclaiming whatever money may be owed to me by the government (maybe the government should keep it, they do work very hard, after all). While your offers for financial independence are certainly appreciated, I’m not quite sure I want any more credit cards, regardless of how spectacular their APR’s may be. For the record, I don’t even own a house; I ask you, how am I supposed to refinance it? One would think that given your extensive web of information (worldwide, I’ve heard… bravo) you would have known that.

On to more personal matters... While I’m not necessarily on the best of terms with my ex-girlfriends, I think it’s unfair that you should give greater consideration to their emails concerning the size of my… well, you know. Moreover, I think it is mighty thoughtless of them to enlist your services in subtly bringing to my attention that perhaps my sexual performance is less than par (far less, judging by the number of hints you’ve sent me). I think there are far more tactful ways to address matters of stamina, endurance and potency than to send letters to total strangers. Especially if those total strangers have connections with most homes and business from here to Calcutta. Yes, perhaps I’m not the studliest of gentlemen, but, really, how will deeply-discounted and questionably legal steroids help my cause?

Regardless of what rumors my have floated around my high school, I have no need for any product from any company that has the word “jock” in their name (international or otherwise). And another thing, I take offense, sir, to the recommendation that I can increase the size of my breasts! For your information (which, again, you’re purportedly FULL of), I’m perfectly satisfied with their size and contour. Simply put: my breasts are absolutely none of your business. I ask that you discontinue recommending natural supplements for them!

I’m concerned about my ex-girlfriends’ and high school “buddies’” insistence if I receive not only subtle hints, but what seems to be thousands of emails a week concerning these very issues. I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Internet; I would have hoped that you, of all people, would know better than to believe everything you read.

Look, I’m neither an angry nor an unreasonable man. You’ve been doing okay in the last few years. God knows I dedicate hours on end to popping your online bubble-wrap. Ingenious, if I might say so. And I do appreciate the hard work you do. I’m not upset at all of the emails you send me so very consistently. For example, of the 900 bulk messages I received today, I must say that I AM interested in the 200 or so messages concerning lonely housewives in my neighborhood. Very interested. I have been rather enthralled with the online activities of whoever Tina and Kristy might be and I appreciate that they personally invited me to see them… well, you know. How thoughtful of them. I do have one question though… what, exactly, is a “Lolita”? I can only presume they must be fabled mountain girls—much like Heidi—because, according to you, they seem always to be doing something with farm animals.

In closing, while I only receive an email from a real human being perhaps three or four times a month, I’m a little uncomfortable with the attention you seem to dedicate to me and (presumably) only me. You could spread the love a little more; perhaps diversifying is all you need to make a name for yourself. As a suggestion, Brian Beutler is most definitely interested in the singles in his neighborhood (and if he isn’t, he should be). He’s also much more likely to order something from a company called “Randy” and, from what I understand, he’s well acquainted with most every naughty web page you have. Surely you knew that, though. I’m certainly not one to propagate rumors, but if anyone needs those emails regarding size… well, I think my point’s been made.

Thank you for all you do, Mr. Internet. If I may offer some encouraging words of advice: keep at it! I really think you may be on to something. I’ll ensure to tell both of my friends to check you out. Oh and please extend my warm regards to Mrs. Internet.

Always,

Paco Ramirez

P.s. More Tina and Kristy please!

That’s all.

Inebriation: The Slacker’s Guide to Enlightenment

Wine is good in Europe, man. Yeah, it’s good. But, beer is important in this country… and it’s an important thing that it’s important. That’s how it should be. You see, because (pause for pensive frown) because Americans just understand better.

Oh yeah? In what sense?

Themactically (sic). You see, I’m American and I’m at 10,000 feet and I understand better. You’re American too, I guess, and you’re at 10,000 feet and you understand too. But, the Germans over in Deutschland are at sea-level; they don’t understand, man. You see? …you and me probably understand better than most. We’re that city on the hill, man. A real, real, real… tall hill. You know what I like about rain, man? It’s so… vertical. Yeah, man, the verticality. Awesome. It’s a shame people just can’t understand, dude.

Indeed it is, my friend. Indeed, it is a shame. Truth be told, I was only one martini deep during this particular conversation; needless to say, I was at sea-level. My friend, however (a very bright, very well read kid) was well on his way to a bender of Herculean proportions. He’d killed off a pint of Jack Daniels in an effort to better comprehend Jim Morrison. It’s been said before—plenty of times, I’m sure—but I’ll go ahead and reaffirm: drunk kids are funny.

Never mind stumbling. Never mind exhibitionism. Never mind feats of acrobatics one is firmly convinced they’ve always been able to do, but have simply never been so inspired to attempt. Drunken philosophy is, far and away, the most entertaining aspect of pseudo-intellectual intoxication. Get a little knowledge and a load of booze in a kid and you may as well put up signs that read “Genius at work”. It baffles me how alcohol can make an otherwise brilliant mind fully capable of conceiving the notion: The summer is like bread. It’s… ummm… great… and tastes… ummm… great. And when it’s hot outside, you get toast. Which is still kinda like bread.

Does the same sober mind conceptualize these absurdities and consciously subdue them? Presuming that alcohol works to free us of our inhibitions, the implication is that perhaps we really do (or really did) believe what will inevitably become our drunken ramblings. There are certainly numerous examples of extraordinarily gifted authors, artists, musicians and philosophers that discovered their own best work the morning after a night of heavy substance abu…. er… appreciation (in Hemingway’s case, perhaps months later). There are other examples of brilliant drunks that are painfully boring teetotalers; their art never recovers from their sobriety. Kerouac’s On The Road would have been a travel guide without booze. Nirvana would have been called “Optometrist’s Waiting Room” without the drugs. Not only would Mick Jagger have got his fill of satisfaction, but he would have probably been mildly contented all the time.

If we’ve learned anything from the Romans, it’s likely that In Vino there’s always Veritas. The Romans decided conclusively for the rest of humanity that we can only really tell what we believe to be the truth when we’re drunk (for those with dissenting opinions: I defy you to cite even one instance in which the Romans were wrong about anything at all). Does this mean, then, that I really believe that jam would totally beat peanut butter in a fight? Even crunchy peanut butter? It must. Absurd as it may be, I must also believe that when trees fall in the forest and there’s no one around to hear, not only do they make a noise, but other trees and assorted foliage applaud. At one point I determined that the question is not how the miniature ships in bottles were built; the real question is why the hell did those tiny men in the bottle think that somehow they’d be able to sail themselves out. Surely they must have been drunk when that particular idea came up. Finally, I must feel very strongly that that Kierkegaard character is (yes, present tense) a wanker.

Golly, what a sad state of affairs.

SIDEBAR: Latin Phrases That Didn’t Catch On
In Vino Audentia: You’re much more likely to provoke fights with ridiculously bigger guys in wine.
In Vino Paupertas: You’re guaranteed to go home broke in wine
In Vino Adamo Hominis Profundus: Every dude you’re drinking with is your soul-mate in wine.
In Vino Claudeo: There’s a possibility of impotence in wine
In Vino Citatio Caligo: You’ll be sorry you had your cell phone on you in wine.
In Vino Hippopotamus: You’re buddies tried to warn you that she didn’t look like Angelina Jolie, but you just wouldn’t listen, would you…. in wine

As well you know, before the Romans with their Latin were the ancient Greeks with their ancient Greek (the Greeks were to the Romans what the older brother that went to an Ivy League—which dad would always use as a way to guilt younger siblings into performing well—was to the younger brother that dropped out of high school and went on to become a multi-platinum rock star). The ancient Greeks had Dionysus, the god of wine, who is credited with inventing debauchery, intoxication and peace. What a guy! Anyway, scholars are resolute on the theory that Dionysus benevolently gave humans an added bonus with inebriation… enlightenment. The other gods became very poopy that Dionysus (who looked remarkably like Dean Martin) gave humans a brief window into what it feels like to be a god.

If ever you’ve questioned why both ancient Greek and Roman civilizations failed, the answer is simple: deity conventions looked something like Thanksgiving at Irish households. Everyone yelled over the controversial issue of whether or not the pumpkin pie had the image of Jesus in it.

The fact is that not only do you really believe the silly gibberish you utter when you’re drunk, they’re (perhaps regrettably) probably the most enlightening things a slacker like you is ever going to come up with. Too bad everyone else thinks you’re an idiot.

That’s all.