How I Fraternized with a Godless Pink Commie
and Lived to Tell the Tale
January 12, 2010
I don't know what's wrong with the world these days. I'm amazed at how short our memories are. Nobody is really all that concerned anymore about the threat of a communist takeover in the United States. Because of that complacency, you see how an emboldened President Obama has been going about with his minions in Congress in an effort to pass socialist legislation designed to make this country into the United States of Socialist Rubbish, or USSR for short -- where have we seen that before, hmm? Fortunately for us, he is destined to fail, because the Rapture will arrive first, at precisely 3:47 PM Eastern Time on April 24, 2010.
Has everyone forgotten how, for decade after decade, we trembled at the thought of the terrible Soviet menace that lurked on the other side of the Arctic ocean with its missiles of nuclear destruction poised to launch and obliterate everything that we hold dear and cherish as Americans, things like corn dogs, for example? Well, at least Sarah Palin has remembered that the Russians aren't our friends any more now than they were before, and we thank her for keeping a watchful eye on them from up there in Alaska. And no, she doesn't have to still be governor of that state to serve such a very critical function, you simpering scumbag!
Fortunately, we had great presidents like Eisenhower, Nixon, and most of all Ronald Wilson Reagan -- the greatest human being that has ever existed in the history of the universe, with the possible exception of Rambo -- that stood up to the red threat, that faced it down, talked tough to it, didn't blink, and were fully prepared to launch an all-out nuclear war that would have fried the entire planet to a charred, smoking, sizzling crisp. In short, they were prepared to do whatever was necessary to protect democracy, freedom, baseball, apple pie, Mom, and a thoroughly deregulated financial industry.
Then, the Berlin Wall came down after Reagan told Gorbachev to tear it down. You see, if Gorbachev hadn't torn it down, Reagan would have bombed Russia off the face of the earth. Don't listen to those phony historians who say that the USSR crumbled under its own weight, and that Eastern Europe was freed from the grip of Soviet domination because of the former republic's internal collapse. Let me tell you, Reagan single-handedly destroyed that godless nation by the sheer force of his all-American personality. Because of Reagan we are free and strong, and we will live happily ever after, the end. God bless you, Ronald Reagan, but as far as movie actors go I still prefer John Wayne.
So, anyway, you see that with the demise of that atheist nation, the entire question of whether communism or capitalism was better was laid to rest forever, or so a rationally-minded and reasonably sane person might think. The proof is in the pudding, friends -- we are still here just like we were before, and they were downgraded to being just Russia.
Still, I didn't count on the capacity of some deluded and satanically possessed individuals to turn a blind eye to history and, in spite of everything, nevertheless embrace the twisted and sick philosophy of Marx and Lenin, and actually consider themselves to be standard-bearers for that utterly discredited hodgepodge of confused ideas -- I'm not referring of course to socialists, which, bad as they are, are only a kind of communist-light, but rather to full-on, unapologetic, poisonous, deadly, and deodorant-free commies. I didn't imagine that I might actually meet such a person, or that he would move in to my house, or that we would share a number of mind-bending experiences together, or that I would eventually have to hire a professional cleaning service to deal with the aftermath of his extended visit to my home. But it all happened, my friends, it all happened.
I first met Corey at my favorite coffee shop. He overheard me talking to someone else about international politics, so he put in his two cents, and we commenced to arguing and shouting at each other. My blood pressure rose and my face started to burn with rage. He aroused within me the deepest indignation, disgust, and ire. I was addicted to his presence immediately.
Everything that man stands for is complete garbage. He would have the government control every last aspect of our lives, right down to the type of toilet paper we might be allowed to use, he has said so himself. He thinks that anyone who believes in God should be re-educated in special detention camps, that the government should provide free LSD, marijuana, cocaine, and hard liquor to its citizens, that he ought be made commandant of a one-day-to-be-created Ministry of Revolutionary Mind Control, that virile and strapping men like himself should be enrolled in government-sponsored programs for increasing and maintaining sexual stamina, and that I should buy him a cup of coffee because he didn't have any money on him at the time and he would pay me back right away. Thus began our association.
Corey had been in town for awhile. He was kind of from here, but he had left and returned a few times. When I asked him where exactly he was staying, his response was: "That is only a concern for imperialist oppressors of the people." A question about his source of income was also met with a similar roundabout answer. When I pressed him for specific details about how he obtained money with which to live, he screamed at me and insulted me -- called me a capitalist pig, a lousy old fart, a hypocritical and condescending petit-bourgeois leech, and that such personal information was none of my freaking business. In response, I called him things a billion times worse, and before I knew it he had grabbed me and wrestled me to the floor, and let me tell you, he lifts weights regularly -- he practically tore off my arm.
Well, that did it for me, when he let go I got up, and I was ready to call the police on him, but I found him reduced to tears and crying like a baby. The guy had a complete breakdown in the coffee shop. He tearfully told me that he was under a lot of stress, that things hadn't been going his way, that he needed a good stiff drink. I don't know what happened to me, but I somehow found myself walking with him to my house and promising him that he could sleep on my couch with my trusty dog, Mr. Twinkle.
If only I had known then that Corey would prove to be completely unwilling to share the couch with my canine companion -- that he would actually curse my beloved Mr. Twinkle and brusquely push him off the couch hundreds of times -- I would have never brought him into my house. Yes, I will admit that Mr. Twinkle was inordinately fond of Corey's right leg, and took every possible opportunity to make passionate love to it, but that in no way justifies that foul and filthy communist's furious fits of yelling and screaming every time my dog got a little bit confused about the birds and the bees thing.
It turned out that Corey had an unrelenting fondness for pure grain alcohol as well as for all kinds of drugs, whether legal or otherwise. At the time, I didn't realize that all that stuff he was bringing over was against the law. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd heard about those things for years, but I'd never actually seen them, so I had no idea what they looked like, and that sly fox never actually told me what he was really smuggling into my house. It wasn't until after he was long gone that I did a bit more research and realized what he'd truly been up to, after which I was about to put out an all-points bulletin for his arrest, except that it also dawned on me that a court of law might not fully understand the unwitting role that I had played in his illicit activities. But just so you know, I think they should put him under the jail in a septic tank for a zillion years for using that junk.
He raided my medicine cabinet and starting going through all my over-the-counter stuff as well as my psychiatric medication. He ground my laxative tablets up into a powder and tried snorting them. He pulverized several different pills that he found and mixed them all up together, dissolved them in a tall glass of my best rum, threw in a few pieces of little paper that I now know was LSD, chopped up some of his funny-looking mushrooms and threw them in the mix, dumped in a bit of white powder that he called his special sweetener, and stirred it all around with a white plastic spoon, which began to turn black and melt. The guy is a freelance chemist or something. He could give Dr. Frankenstein a run for his money with that unholy mixture he came up with. Then, he took a sip of this bizarre concoction, smacked his lips with pleasure, and invited me to try a sip of the heady brew. Kids, don't try this at home.
It was like the devil himself was trying to tempt me. But I am strong in the Lord and know how to resist his advances. I told Corey that under no circumstances whatsoever would I drink more than a few sips.
I figured, I know how to hold my liquor just fine, I already use all of the psychiatric medications that he put in there, and what can a bit of white sugar powder and a sprinkling of chopped mushrooms do to me? I mean, I eat mushrooms on my pizza all the time. As for the little pieces of paper, I figured that they were just for testing the pH levels of the mix -- you know, if the tabs turn a certain color you know whether it is a base or an acid. However, as I was soon to find, those were a few sips too much for me to handle.
Once I had imbibed the mixture, Corey produced a small, hand-rolled cigarette and invited me to smoke it with him. I told him no thank you, I already had my own cigarettes, but he was very insistent and told me that his specially scented cigarette was rather exceptional and would be capable of reorienting my political views. Well, you know how it is, when somebody throws down a challenge like that to Thurston Thornton, he will never back down, because as a true red-blooded American I never change my views on anything -- ever -- unless I receive divine revelation and am spoken to by a disembodied voice from on high, which is kind of what ensued after I smoked that funny cigarette with Corey. Actually, in my mind I heard an absolute mega-church choir of disembodied voices singing "The Star Spangled Banner," and every last one was completely off-key and sounded like a hissing weasel.
I don't remember too much of what happened afterwards. It was like my head had been screwed off my neck and shoved ten feet up my keister. I had visions of the American flag in kaleidoscopic form and in a variety of festive non-red-white-and-blue colors. I thought for a moment there that I was talking to the Lord himself, but it turned out to be Mr. Twinkle, who licked my face with what seemed to be a tongue made of solid reinforced stainless steel. After we tried to swing from the dining-room chandelier and ripped it out of the ceiling, Corey ended up doing this thing he calls Pilates for libido enhancement while I fruitlessly attempted to step on the thousands of bright orange tarantulas that had suddenly showed up from out of nowhere, and then we threw up all over the living room. We regained consciousness the following day just as the sun began to set.
My dear reader, you must certainly suppose that I never again made such a serious mistake. May the truth be told, after I came to, I told Corey in no uncertain terms that I would never again do such a thing, to which he responded: "Oh, so you can't handle it, can you? It's just too much for you to deal with, huh?" His taunting was so insistent that I finally swore to him that I could keep it up longer than he could.
So, for about the next three weeks we did nothing but stick to Corey's rigorous revolutionary regimen of drugs and alcohol. In the process, I lost forty pounds, drove my car into a duck pond, buried my television set in the back yard, disassembled my desktop computer and stored the pieces in the freezer, and practically emptied out my bank account in order to give Corey the money required to pay for the supposedly legal and homeopathic -- as he called them -- items necessary to sustain our ongoing chemical challenge.
This duel might have gone on forever had Corey and I not gone one day to the supermarket for twenty frozen pizzas, where we happened to meet a lady named Joanna that he had met a few months earlier at a nude anarchist poetry reading. After a bit of small talk, she invited us to her house for dinner. It turned out that she was a single mother with kids. Well, after dinner, Joanna put the kids to bed and Corey whipped out his bag of assorted mind-altering substances, which she supplemented with a bunch of wine coolers. They ended up in her bedroom and I found myself alone in her living room, so I got up and went home.
I waited for a few days, but Corey did not come back nor did he call. I was kind of missing our constant disagreements and fighting. Finally, I went over to Joanna's house and asked to come in. He was still there, sitting in front of the television set clad in a pink, fluffy bathrobe and drinking a beer. At first I tried to act civil and unconcerned, but in the end we ended up arguing again about NAFTA, one thing led to another, and I accused him of living in sin with a woman not his wife.
He jumped up and we started fighting. Joanna picked up a broom and commenced to swatting at us, and we ended up wrestling in the front yard, where Corey's bathrobe came off in the midst of the struggle. So, he was completely butt naked, and we were rolling around in the grass and the mud, since it had just rained. He pushed my face into the ground and I couldn't breathe, but Mr. Twinkle came to my rescue and bit him full-force several times in the hindquarters. Corey had to go to the hospital and get a bunch of shots and around seventy stitches. That serves him right, if you ask me. No sir, you don't mess with Mr. Twinkle.
I pretty much tried to put Corey out of mind after that and went back to my usual humdrum routine. A few days went by, and then I got a relatively brief e-mail from Corey, part of which I share with you here:
"I have hired a lawyer and you will hear from him shortly. I expect monetary compensation for the medical expenses incurred as a result of your dog attacking me, as well as for emotional distress. Oh, and one other thing I must add. I never did like you anyway."
In the end, I met with his lawyer, and we were able to settle out of court. After he got the money, I never heard from him again. In spite of myself, I'm going to really miss that guy. You don't meet people that can argue about politics like that every day.
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