Tom Knapp is Managing Editor of Free-Market.Net and publisher of Rational Review.
What a long, strange trip it's being ...
Life as seen through the bottom of a tumbler had its attractions after the carnage of 9/11. I was tempted. Really. Good bourbon takes the edge off of dealing with thugs like Dubya's new Rough Rider wannabes. It steadies the nerves. Can't afford to have a shaky whip hand when the rattlesnake is coiled up six inches from your bare foot and clicking its clack at you, fangs bared and decks cleared for action.
As early as the 12th, though, I could see that this just wasn't going to cut it. The New Era of Death for All Evil-Doers was going to require something stronger than my customary Old Crow and coke Coke (the fountain beverage, not the pharmaceutical product that was once part of that beverage). Something that leaned more toward the cortically stimulating and less toward the chronically depressing.
Serious times require serious drugs, folks.
If Osama bin Laden can make the World Trade Center disappear from the New York skyline then we must of necessity resort to something that can put it back for us. Justice and the blood of the innocent dead require no less.
Don't tell me that you don't know what I'm talking about. And don't pretend for a moment that the months since September 11th haven't seemed like an extended replay of that time you freakishly decided to drop two hits right before a blind date. This is politics. Serious business. And we must not shirk or evade our duty.
God only knows how many billions of dollars the feds have blown on anthrax vaccine -- no doubt of exactly the same sort as I received in 1991, in Al Jubail, Saudi Arabia, against my will and from tubes marked DO NOT USE ON HUMANS -- Cipro and assorted other quackery, when what America needs is a good stiff drink and a thousand mics or so of Sunshine Daydream.
We can hold them off, you and I, with our whip, our stool, a little liquor and some good psychedelics. We'll cow the vicious bastards back into the feces-strewn corner whence they came and put a few stripes on their backs for lipping off. See if we don't.
Don't shrink, friend, and don't cower. Mayhap we're paranoid ... but what the hell else can be expected of us when everyone seeks our undoing? You're on the bus or off the bus, hayseed. The Shrub in the White House and the grubs in the Hill House are most assuredly off the goddamn bus.