New is the new old. Unwarranted sobriety is a social networking disease. There is a time in a young man’s life when lubricating jelly must be kept handy, that is, readily available. We hold these truths to be self-evident.
In my nearly 12k days on this Earth I have never before witnessed such a disastrous economic depression as I’m witnessing in my 401(k). Jim Jones and his insanity mob have infiltrated my shiny nickel-and-dime database. One by one the mighty have fallen, helpless as mops. Blood flows in the streets. Mad Dog 20/20, an incorrigible saccharine despot, once again beatifies itself as the wine of choice, self-replicating like agamogenetic bunnies in the supermarkets—the myuck! has inherited the vertebrate palate. We must unite against such atrocities or prepare for a malfeasant, spunk-lathed world just riddled with cruel paradoxes and unfathomable injustices. Imagine if you will your darling tweenage cupcake, a bastion of unbridled innocence, a veritable reservoir of impregnable desire and untested salacious charm, a vessel in which your own shattered hopes and dreams may find purchase, as she arrives home from volleyball practice (that American primer mix of rugged individualism and aggressive social functionality) to discover her parental units, you sir! you madam!, splayed over the family ottoman sans pooch like amorphic gelatinous starfish twisted in frothy lustful coition. And worse! you have brought mirrors from other rooms so you may witness via panopticon your own violent regression into atavistic depravity. This behavior might be considered exemplary, exciting, banal, Cupcake might even shout a Hurrah in your favor, but not when she notices the empty, morally bankrupt container from which you have imbibed! Imagine the horror, imagine the stockpiled acres of medical bills accrued from that future raptor-psychiatrist, all because one eerily labia-pink bottle of Mad Dog caught your eye while passing the super-cooled supermarket bargain bin en route to the uncrowded, meditative, temple-like atmosphere of the wine stacks. O but how it undulated seductively, fluidly behind its pop cartoonish Romanesque label….O but how it clinked just so, the tintinnabulary resonance as one bottle struck another in my lifting, sweet as a Siren’s song….Listen to your conscious, people! Two-for-five-bucks spells mayhem!
You might think me chevalier, by which you mean “a horseman” or “a knight.” You would be correct. I’m writing this from the stirrups of my childhood rocking horse, naked in my chaps. A stiffening winter breeze from the window keeps my blood racing. The squeaks from the plastic pony’s many springs are the squeaks of universal terror! The soothsayer has shucked her goddamn eyeballs from the roots! The meliorist freaked and caved for McCain! We must rise above this subprimocalypse and solidify our resolve—no! we will not disavow honest laboring and craftsmanship and artistic excellence by investing in the dregs of flamboyant consumerism and paltry pandering—no! we will not loosen our proverbial belts and respective loins as we self-consciously improvise semi-accurate autobiographies (nee memoirs) over a wooden bar to a lovely Other while in earnest tip-toeing across our most tender fallible intimate desires while under the influence of any spirit that does not share with us the possibility of a humbling, vinegary failure or the eruptive benefits of a full-bodied generous reward—no! we must demand as global conspirators of cosmopolitanism a vintage borne from the phallus and womb of classical cultivation and hard-nosed activism (non-respectively), a liquid ouster of the artifact and easily manufactured, a wine whose dexterity and verve strengthens with age but whose surviving voice contains an unyielding remnant of that vibrant astral pitch exhibited at its inauguration.
Hard times require that the ingenuity of ambition be tempered by the pragmatism of conservation, but even harder times require a fusion of the two. We are at a moment when it is necessary to be both ambitiously conservational and inventively pragmatic. The times require sacrifice, but that must not mean we should sacrifice our spirits. We each carry within us an intrinsic understanding of the value of a single Lincoln, but I implore you to consider the great benefits to be gained from introducing but one more!