A Map Of Human Vice

A map of human vice divided into four provinces: Politician, Lawyer, Journalist, Writer. Politician and Lawyer are connected by a common thread of alcoholism. Makes sense. Politicians are Lawyers with no ideals left to whore out. Lawyer prefers shots of Irish whiskey and stiff gin & tonics while Politician survives on a liquid diet of Kentucky bourbon. Lawyer and close cousin the Jewish Surgeon are known to partake in pollens of white cocaine. Politician wages a war on drugs so he can’t give in to hypocrisy. Well at least not THIS time. Lawyer orders another Crown Royal on ice while Politician pisses drunk on passed out staffers.

—What the fuck happened to my copy of HR678?

Well sir, I believe after we finished off the third bottle of tequila you began to urinate on Tom and Jim who were using copies of the bill as pillows.

—No shit? Those crazy bastards from K Street sure know how to throw a fucking party!

Politician and Lawyer continue reenacting their frat house glory days until one finds god, usually Politician, and Republican Jesus becomes the new addiction. Lunatic Christian demagogues take control of The State and a new theocracy is established. The American Taliban has returned! Hide your Darwins and your dildos! Mandatory book burnings will be held on the first Friday of the month: Can’t have any of those dangerous books corrupting the minds of American youth, now can we?

Segue into the vices of Journalist & Writer: Journalist and Writer are both heavy drinkers but because they deal with the endless possibilities of the written word they figure, Why confine ourselves to just 1 brand of poison? Liquor, pot, coffee, cigarettes, coke, acid, speed, mushrooms, a rainbow of anti-depressants and painkillers, LSD, river boat casinos, pornography, the horse tracks, heroin and sex are all potential options for our word smiths.

Journalist will taste any number of these within their lifetimes and like their words they tend to gravitate toward specific beats. Anna Wintour’s faggots with pens and fashionista slaves snort lines of coke and Adderall dust during Dior haute cotoure fashion shows. The boys over at the sports desks are thirsty for more blow jobs and beer. All court, cop, city council and public school beats are manned by an army of chain smokers and functional alcoholics. Copy editors type with numb fingers and the dead fish-eyes of Zoloft zombies. Arts beats are covered by middle-aged stoners and chronic masturbators. Any interesting pitches for our Sunday Lifestyle Edition?

—Yes, I was thinking we could do a feature on the social and cultural importance of the amateur porn industry. I mean, I’ve already been doing some really in-depth research.

The only ones missing out are our political reporters. Not enough personality to experiment with mind altering drugs. And even if they did, who the hell would want to waste their drugs on someone so fucking pretentious? The real party monsters are those New Media kids. New Journalism requires the least amount of activated brain cells allowing the New Journalists to spend their weekends binging on a plethora of narcotics and flavored vodkas.

—We’re all absolutely, incredibly and hopelessly fucked so why not go out with a bang?

Our Writer can utilize almost any of these predicted scenarios to produce The Great American Novel. Classic works of literature have been born out of opium dens and acid-wash dreams. Poetry emerges from bongs, blunts, bottles of Merlot and speckled mushrooms. A syringe or a pill of bliss acts as a momentary muse. These words are descended from faggot visions and clouds of Colorado marijuana. Good writers, however, never become apostles for their addictions. The only hunger worth preaching for is a junkie’s desire for Imagination. Be it in hip-hop or Hemingway, this entire democratic experiment has no chance in hell if Imaginations become fossilized reminders of human brilliance. So take a hit and finish off your whiskey. The shadow lands loom in the distance. A sea sparkles pink and silent. I can feel a tremble. I hear the staccato strings! The cosmic drums! The trumpets of glory! The trill of the whippoorwill! The songs of the people! The bass kicks of 70’s Soul!

An American Poet once said: The Imagination must adorn and exaggerate life, must give it splendor and grotesqueness, beauty and infinite depth. And in his memory, I plagiarize to say that I will write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please.

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