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Don't Laugh, It Just Encourages Him
Saturday November 10, 2007
The official coroner’s report states that my brother’s death was caused by ‘potentially lethal levels of Oxycontin’. I don’t believe the coroner’s report.
I know what you're probably thinking - it's hard for anyone to believe their brother died of a drug overdose, but a coroner's report is almost always correct. After all, they use science.
Well, I'm a scientist - specifically a neural engineer finishing my doctorate. And I know full well the fallibility of those tests. Moreover, I don't deny my brother died from drugs. However, my brother's death wasn't caused by an oxycontin overdose… or at least not solely. My brother was killed by a pill now prescribed more than any other. My brother was killed by Xanax.
Again, I know what you're thinking. You have friends who use Xanax; perhaps you even use Xanax yourself. Xanax is just a harmless antidepressant, similar to valium, but more effective. If any of these statements are true, I'm begging you – please read further. If only to indulge the annoying little brother who had to watch the slow death of the older brother he hero worshipped his whole life.
I wish I could say I had conclusive evidence Xanax killed my brother. If I did, it would have shown up on the coroner's report. But I do have evidence; some of the evidence is based on scientific research, the rest is admittedly biased personal experience. I will try to be as honest as possible, despite my bias.
First, a VERY brief history. Xanax, also known as alprazolam, is an anti-anxiety drug manufactured by Upjohn (1-10). Xanax was approved by the FDA for use as an anti-anxiety drug on the basis of an 8-week clinical study (3); only the first 4 weeks of the study was used in the application for FDA approval(4).
Anxiety is often caused by neurons in the brain firing spontaneously, instead of in a deliberately driven fashion (1-11). Xanax acts on the GABA receptors of neurons, making it harder for neurons to fire spontaneously, and therefore decreasing anxiety (1-11). To be included in the 8-week Xanax clinical trial, patients were required to score at a given level on a test designed to measure anxiety objectively (3, 4, 7, 9). Over the course of the first four weeks of the study, the Xanax patients' levels of anxiety decreased markedly (3, 7). Based solely on these results, the FDA approved (and currently has only approved) Xanax for prescription use for periods not to exceed eight weeks (4).
What is not commonly known, are the results from the rest of the eight weeks of the study. During the remaining four weeks, the anxiety scores of patients on Xanax approached pre-trial scores (3, 4, 7, 9). When taken off Xanax, their scores on the anxiety tests were markedly WORSE than pre-trial scores (this is known as the Xanax rebound effect) (3, 4, 7, 9, 11). In summation, after 4 weeks, the patients became addicted to Xanax, and needed the drug simply to get back to where they were prior to ever receiving Xanax.
This is one of the problems with Xanax – over time you need more and more of it to get an effect. If you fail to take more and more of it, you become worse than you ever were initially (1, 2, 4-10). This has led to a group of what Xanax addiction specialists refer to as 'accidental addicts' (10). People who have never exhibited addictive behavior start to need more and more Xanax to function (10). When their doctors try to wean them off of it, they begin to purchase the drug illegally. Eventually they lie, cheat, and steal to get Xanax… and these are people who never previously drank or used drugs. In one study, fifty percent of the subjects were deemed 'addicted to Xanax' after only 6 months of low level Xanax use (2, 4, 5, 8, 10). In another study, it was reported that Xanax can produce dependence in 100 percent… I repeat… 100 percent of the patients to which it is administered (5, 8).
Despite these results, which are widely available, doctors continue to prescribe Xanax for periods well exceeding eight weeks. I'm sure you know a few people who have such a prescription.
I wish I could say my brother was an accidental addict, but that wouldn't be entirely true. My brother drank himself to sleep every night for twenty years. He was, however, a functional alcoholic, holding a job as a chief scientist at a major engineering firm, producing 11 patents, and running two successful side businesses. Typical of mid-stage alcoholics, my brother started developing problems with anxiety and insomnia.
My brother was first prescribed Xanax by his personal physician for his anxiety and insomnia. The dosage was 0.25 mg per four hours, a typical Xanax prescription. I admit, he did initially drink in conjunction with his prescription, a big no-no. As a testament to the addictiveness of Xanax, my brother eventually stopped drinking alcohol almost entirely, preferring Xanax.
My brother's doctor prescribed Xanax for about a year, and eventually started rebuffing my brother's requests to increase the dosage. My brother started taking more pills than were prescribed; his physician noticed, so tried to wean him off of Xanax. My brother simply went to other doctors, who were more than happy to prescribe more Xanax. In one case, our family doctor prescribed Chris Xanax literally two weeks after he finished a two-month stint in rehab for Xanax addiction (his rehab stint, along with his previous long-term prescription for xanax, were stated clearly in his medical history). Eventually my brother got Xanax delivered to his doorstep without a prescription via next-day delivery from online sources (yes, that spam you receive on a daily basis can get you drugs).
Xanax abuse is especially problematic for two reasons:
First, Xanax only lasts in the bloodstream for a very short time, approximately 9 hours (1-10). What this means is that a Xanax abuser had to constantly take Xanax to prevent the dreaded 'rebound' effects. When a Xanax abusers blood levels dips beneath a certain threshold, the neurons in their brain start firing like crazy. They experience severe insomnia, anxiety, mood swings, dyskinesia (impaired motor movement), hallucinations, and in some cases, seizures (1-10). Unlike most addictive substances, where withdrawal symptoms last for 72 hours to a week, Xanax abusers suffer protracted withdrawl syndrome (PAW) (2, 4, 6-8, 10). Withdrawal symptoms last for six months or longer, with symptoms reported out to a year and a half (2, 4, 6-8, 10). Many researchers believe the withdrawal symptoms may last longer than a year and a half, but the current studies don't go out that far (2, 4, 8, 10). Over the last two years of his life, my brother was either wasted on Xanax or going through withdrawal 24 hours a day– often both in the same day.
Second, Xanax causes severe memory lapses (some doctors have gone so far as to call it the 'Great Mind Eraser') (1, 2, 8, 10). To put it bluntly, Xanax users often forget if they've taken their Xanax. I can't tell you how many times my brother would take Xanax, only to come back 30 minutes later and take more Xanax… and this was before he was intentionally abusing. I'd have to continually remind him he'd just taken it. (After one hospital stay due to Xanax overdose, my brother had lost 8 months of his memory, which he never regained.)
I remember the addiction specialist who talked to me when my brother went into a coma after his second overdose. When I told her he was using Xanax at high dosages, she immediately exclaimed “I wish it was heroin. That would have been easier habit for him to kick…”
Despite the eyewitness accounts of Chris abusing Xanax that same week, and the empty bottles of Xanax found on top of him (coinciding with Xanax purchases we traced online earlier that week and tried to intercept), no drug was found in his system, and he was eventually released from the hospital. Oxycontin, or any other drug with a longer half-life, would have appeared on his blood tests.
I should also note that my brother was also found only two days AFTER his death by overdose; as demonstrated by his previous similar overdose, any trace of Xanax would have worked his way out of his system.
After his second overdose, we tried desperately to get my brother into rehab. We had a family member stay with him at all times, and we policed his internet accounts. We knew what he had purchased, when he had purchased it, but couldn't stop him from getting his hands on it. And in almost every case, it was Xanax – 25 grand of Xanax over the course of one year. I know the exact amount because as executor of the estate I got the receipts from his tax attorney; he had attempted to claim his online Xanax purchases as a business expense.
Oxycontin only came into the picture later as a painkiller when his Xanax abuse got particularly severe. He kept on falling and hurting himself while on Xanax - multiple cracked ribs and broken bones were found posthumously from his autopsy, all remnants of his many Xanax related falls. I remember one incident in particular where he had fallen down the stairs. He was bleeding severely and couldn't walk, yet was desperately pawing at the encyclopedia shelf on his hands and knees. When he died and we cleaned out the house, we found a stash of Xanax (and only Xanax) on that encyclopedia shelf behind the 'D's'. One of twenty or so stashes we found, all with mostly empty containers of Xanax.
In the months I spent with my brother trying to prevent his death, I almost never found oxycontin, only Xanax, and it's derivatives. Oxycontin is on the death certificate, but Xanax killed my brother. Even the coroner's wording, 'potentially lethal levels of oxycontin' instead of 'lethal' is suspicious to me. But even if Oxycontin was the bullet that killed my brother, Xanax pulled the trigger.
This was very difficult for me to write, and forcing myself to do the painstaking research to document these facts was even more difficult. I am putting myself through this for one reason - I need some good to come of my brother's death. PLEASE, if you know anyone using Xanax, pass this story on to them. E-mail this story to anyone you think is appropriate. Help my brother's story to help others. My brother started at 0.25 mg per four hours, and it spiraled out of control… and his Xanax story is hardly unique. This is the only way I can stomach my brother's death – if it helps someone else.
If you are currently taking Xanax, talk to your doctor. Discontinuing without tapering off slowly under a doctor's supervision can lead to seizures, or even death. This caveat should also underscore the severity of taking Xanax.
References
1. Allen D, Curran HV, and Lader M. The effects of repeated doses of clomipramine and alprazolam on physiological, psychomotor and cognitive functions in normal subjects European Journal of Clinical Pharmacology 40: 355-362, 1991.
2. Ashton H. Protracted withdrawal from benzodiazapenes: The post-withdrawal syndrome. Psychiatry Annals 25: 174-179, 1995.
3. Ballenger JC, Burrows GD, DuPont RL, Jr., Lesser IM, Noyes R, Jr., Pecknold JC, Rifkin A, and Swinson RP. Alprazolam in panic disorder and agoraphobia: results from a multicenter trial. I. Efficacy in short-term treatment. Arch Gen Psychiatry 45: 413-422, 1988.
4. Breggin P. Toxic Psychiatry. New York: St. Martin's Press, 1994.
5. Clark HW and McClanahan TM. Comtemporary Issues in Dual Diagnosis. In: New Treatments for Chemical Addictions, edited by McCance EF, Katz and Kosten TR. Washington D.C.: American Psychiatric Press, 1998, p. 151-182.
6. Marks I. Alprazolam and exposure alone and combined in panic disorder with agoraphobia. British Journal of Psychiatry 162: 790-794, 1993.
7. Marks I, Albuquerque A, Cottraux J, and Gentil V. The 'efficacy of alprazolam in panic disorder an agoraphobia: A critique of recent reports. Arch Gen Psychiatry 46
668-672, 1989.
8. McClanahan TM and Antonuccio DO. Cognitive-Behavioral Treatment of Panic Attacks. Clinical Case Studies 1: 211-223, 2002.
9. Pecknold JC, Swinson RP, Kuch K, and Lewis CP. Alprazolam in panic disorder and agoraphobia: results from a multicenter trial. III. Discontinuation effects. Arch Gen Psychiatry 45: 429-436, 1988.
10. Porritt D and Russell D. The Accidental Addict. Sydney: Pan Books, 1994.
11. Rastogi R, Lapierre Y, and Singhal R. Evidence for the role of brain norepinephrine and dopamine in 'rebound' pohenomenon af ter repeated exposure to benzodiazapenes. Journal of Psychiatric Research 13: 65-75, 1976. | | | |
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Tuesday October 30, 2007
A friend of mine asked me to enter a contest she was holding. The contest was to write a letter mocking yourself. This is my submission - the whole thing was written in ten minutes off the top of my head. Some of it is old jokes of mine (anyone who has read other stuff I've written should recognize some of it), much of it was ad-libbed on the spot and is brand new. I think I ripped off one of the lines from some comedian. Let me know what you think!
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Dear Kip,
I'm writing you this letter to disabuse you of that towering ego of yours. Seriously dude, the Great Wall and your ego are the only things you can see from space.
You are, at the very best, attractive in only a gravitational sense. The last time you went to the bar, three poor anorexic girls were pulled into orbit around your ass and spent the rest of the evening trying to stop circling you. Consider for once not eating the whole bag of Reeses for dessert.
Remember the old saying "once you go Black you never go back?" Well, once you go Kip you never go back, but in your case it's a bit more literal.
I know you can't be tone deaf. If you were deaf, by pure chance you would have hit at least one of the right notes when singing. I have to assume it's deliberate.
You know how Justin Timberlake is "Bring Sexy Back?" I suspect you're the one who made it go away.
Al Gore has reconsidered; your ass is now accepted as the cause of global warming. And for that matter, may violate the Geneva Convention.
If I had to say something nice about you, the best I could come up with would be either
A) Your personal hygiene could be worse…I suppose; but there would have to be a pig sty involved at some point.
Or
B) You are a semi-effective converter of oxygen to carbon dioxide for plants.
You're so bad with women, you've had to redefine 'getting to 2nd base' as failing to file a restraining order.
You're not supposed to break into a sweat walking to your car. See a doctor.
For that matter, you're not supposed to break into a sweat typing at the computer. Again, see a doctor.
When your football coach asked you 'What do you run a 40 under?', the correct answer was not 'duress'.
If there's a hell, you are definitely going, as it wouldn't be hell for me without you there.
When God made you he broke the mold. Still, to be on the safe side, your parents should be castrated anyway.
You're so quick when you have sex, your girlfriend mistook last time for a subliminal message.
You know how the Grinch's heart grew three sizes when he first felt love? Your penis wasn't supposed to do the opposite...
Hugs and Kisses,
wildpiguk | | | |
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Thursday October 25, 2007
This is a repost of one of my first blog's here on blogstream. Now that a few more people drop by my blog from time to time, I'm hoping to generate more discussion this time around.
I must admit, I’m absolutely shocked. Isaiah Washington, the actor who plays Preston Burke on Grey’s Anatomy, has voluntarily entered into therapy. Earlier this year, Mr. Washington made the news when he called T.R. Night, a homosexual member of Grey’s cast, a “faggot”. Later, at the Golden Globe Awards, Isaiah denied the incident, saying “"I did not call T.R. a faggot. Never happened, never happened."
I’m not shocked Isaiah checked himself into therapy; apparently hundreds of gay activists threatened to boycott the show because of Isaiah’s insensitivity… obviously a token P.R. move was necessary to appease the angered masses. I’m shocked the angered masses believe that modern therapy can cure being an asshole. This isn’t a fricking disease like alcoholism or anorexia; it’s an acquired personality trait, and one that has been encoded in the male psyche for thousands of years.
This story amuses me on a number of levels. First of all, I think it’s funny that any public figure thinks he can drop a negative gay slur on a member of the homosexual community without repercussion. No matter how homophobic the public figure is, he has to be aware that this is socially unacceptable public behavior. Secondly, denying the incident, while using the same epithet in the denial, is laughably stupid. Finally, I think it’s hysterical that anybody would boycott a show because one of the actors is a jackass. On any given show, there is likely to be one or more actors/producers/directors/key grips who are drug addicts, alcoholics, wife beaters, child molesters, etc. Considering this statistical fact, boycotting on the basis of an African American cast member showing homophobic tendencies is absurd. I suggest you also boycott all TV, Movies, Music, Sports, Government, Restaurants, Bar Mitzvah’s – and while you’re at it the local Chuck E. Cheeses.
Here’s the little secret all heterosexual men are afraid to let out in public – we all actively facilitate gay bashing. It’s encoded in our genes and our traditions; male bonding almost exclusively consists of trying to out “male” your friends, by throwing a ball farther, chugging a beer faster, belching louder, whatever. I’m sure it relates back to Darwin’s survival of the fittest; the more manly the male, the more likely they are to reproduce. The loser in these competitions is the lesser male, the one less likely to have sex with a female, which is in some twisted fashion akin to becoming more homosexual.
Listen closely to any group of guys – 90 percent of the jokes will include some sort of gay innuendo. Awkward violations of personal spaces, affected lisps… hell, simply all the attempts to “out male” your friends. There is a reason we find it funny when the Kids in the Hall or Monty Python dresses in drag, and it’s all related to the surprise of defying the norm. Yes, most of us have the decency to not openly engage in this behavior in front of a gay friend or family member because we have no desire to actively hurt someone to their faces. But behind closed doors, any male who says they haven’t engaged in this behavior is simply lying. In my experience, this sort of behavior is even more prevalent during male bonding in the African American culture.
No, the prevalence of the behavior doesn’t make it right. It is, however, the only form of bigotry I can think offhand that can be traced back to Darwinian linked rituals. Hell, I would argue that even the most open-minded of females is at least mildly homophobic.
Here’s the deal – homosexuality is not a choice. It has a likely physiological basis, and it is caused by a deviation from normal (being defined as the physiology of the majority only) function.
Taken directly from Kandel, essentially the Bible for neuroscience:
Three structural differences between the brains of homosexual and apparently heterosexual men have been identified. The suprachiasmatic nucleus was found to be larger in volume and to contain more neurons in homosexual men than in a reference group of heterosexuals. The hypothalamic nucleus INAH-3, which is larger in volume in men than in women, is reported larger in heterosexual than in homosexual men. Finally, the midsagittal cross-sectional area of the anterior commissure, which is larger in women than in men, was found to be even larger in one group of homosexual men…
It is conceivable that a change in hormonal production or response could alter sexual differentiation in one part of the brain but not another and thus contribute to a homosexual orientation.
(Chapter 57, pg 1145, Principles of Neural Science, Kandel, Schwartz, and Jessel 4th edition)
As there is a likely physiological basis, which may be created by a hormonal imbalance during the fetal development, the possibility of testing a fetus for this condition exists. Moreover, there also exists the possibility to treat the condition with hormones, restoring normal (again, normal meaning “like the majority”) function.
Thus I pose the question - if you could test your child for homosexuality in the womb and then treat the condition, would you? I suspect the majority of people would answer yes; most parents want their children to be normal, and avoid the unpleasantness that goes along with deviating from societal norms. However, if your answer is yes, you are at least mildly homophobic - judging a deviation from normal as somehow wrong. | | | |
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Friday October 19, 2007
A bunch of years ago, my friend Josh and I made a gentleman's bet. Inspired by seeing the South Park movie, we decided to both write a sketch. The rules of the bet were simple; we were both to write the most offensive sketch we could think of, while still being funny. We would then read our sketches to each other and decide a winner. After reading Josh my sketch, he immediately conceded the bet.
The winning sketch is below, which is so over-the-top offensive, I highly recommend you do not read further if you have delicate sensibilities. This is not for the faint of heart, and remember, this was for a contest to write the world's most offensive sketch. To give you a general idea of how far this goes, the central premise is baby raping. I always had this in mind as a 'Kids in the Hall' skit. I envision Kevin Mcdonald playing the priest, Mark McKinney playing the Frechman, and Dave Foley as St. Peter. The voice of God is Bruce Thompson.
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The Baby Raping Skit
A priest, a Frenchman, and Mother Teresa are waiting in the line to get into heaven. The Frenchman is the first in line of the three, followed by Mother Teresa, and then the Priest. The Frenchman is dressed in a grossly stereotypical Frenchman's outfit: A tight fitting turtleneck shirt with green and bright purple alternating horizontal stripes, tight black pants with a black belt and black shoes, all set off by a jaunty purple beret, slightly askance. The Priest and Mother Teresa wear the traditional Catholic attire for a priest and nun, respectively. The Frenchman has the habit of periodically playing with the ends of his pencil-thin, curly, mustache.
The surroundings are barren; the floor is covered in a foot or two of white smoke, which continues out as far as the eye can see. At the front of the line is an ordinary "build-it-yourself" desk, equal in quality to the desks typically found at a Meijer's or Home Depot. Seated at the desk is St. Peter, replete with large, white wings. St. Peter is looking over an oversized book, presumably the names of the lucky few who will get into heaven. Behind the desk is a large cast-iron gate, already open partway. About ten feet from the side of the desk is a thick, dark, smoky mist. Flashing lights periodically emanate from the mist, and the wails of damned souls can be heard coming from its depths. Peter can be seen briefly talking to each individual at the front of the line, who he then directs through the gate or into the smoky mist.
The camera pans in, focusing on the Big Three.
The priest appears to be slightly nervous, constantly moving around and fidgeting while staying in line. In an attempt to settle his nerves, the priest tries to start up a conversation. Mother Teresa's head is bowed, and is deeply engrossed in saying the Rosary. A little intimidated by Mother Teresa anyway, the priest decides to talk to the Frenchman.
"Hard to believe we're finally here, eh?" the priest asks the Frenchman in a warm, friendly tone while sticking his head out from behind Mother Teresa, speaking loud enough to make sure he gets the Frenchman's attention.
At first, the Frenchman begins to look around to make sure the priest isn't talking to someone else. Realizing that the priest is attempting to engage him in conversation, the Frenchman sighs and rolls his eyes slightly. In a completely over-the top French accent, the Frenchman replies over his shoulder without enthusiasm: "Yez, I must ahdmit I did not exzpect to be here so soon!"
"So - you a little nervous about getting in?" the priest asks, shifting his body weight back and forth from foot to foot.
Frenchman: "Non! I can honezstly say I lived a life zat would make any good Fraunnchman proud!"
"Well, good for you… good for you!" the priest responds with mock enthusiasm. The priest goes silent for few awkward seconds, and then adds "I bet you'd be nervous if you were in my place in line, though!"
"Why woud my place in ze line matter?" queries the Frenchman in a partially irritated, condescending tone.
"Don't you see who is standing in front of me in line?" the priest replies quizzically. "That's Mother Teresa!"
Mother Teresa briefly looks up from her Rosary and over her shoulder at the priest, and then returns beatifically to her prayers.
Frenchman: "And why do you care if you are behind zis Mother Theresa?"
Priest: "My God man, don't you know who Mother Teresa is?"
The Frenchman merely shrugs his shoulders.
Priest (the priest's voice begins to take on hints of outrage): "Started the 'Missionaries of Charity'? Dedicated her life to selflessly helping the poorest of the poor?"
The Frenchman shakes his head.
Priest (getting even more agitated): "She won the Nobel Peace-Prize for Christ's sake! Following her in the line into heaven is like going on after Sinatra!"
The priest closes his eyes and deliberately blows out a deep breath.
Priest (quietly to himself): "God, I wish I could just take a peek at Peter's book. I figured I was a shoe-in as a priest - just my luck to be caught behind Mother Teresa!"
A few moments of silence pass before anyone speaks again. Seemingly out of nowhere, the Frenchman interjects: "Your Mother Theresa, she was good then, Non? But she is nothing compared to a Fraunchman!"
"Really?" the priest responds sardonically. "And what exactly did you do in your life that was so great?"
Frenchman (swells his chest with great pride): "I waz a raper of babies!"
Priest (looking both puzzled and very concerned): "Uh…you lost me two laps in there, Chief."
The Frenchman, noticing the priest's sudden change in behavior: "Oh, I am zo zorry. My English, she is not very good. You muzt have mis-understoud me!"
Frenchman (speaking deliberately): "When ze baby is bad, we like to give ze babiez a good raping!"
Priest: "I still think I'm missing you here."
Frenchman (even more deliberately and speaking with his hands for emphasis): "To keep ze baby from doing bad… we like to have sex… with the baby… against its will."
Frenchman (jovially, while changing pitch in stereotypical 'French' manner for emphasis): "At least, we like to think it's against the baby's will. After all, it iz just a baby… "
Frenchman (throwing his hands up in the air while laughing to himself): "Who can tell?"
Frenchman (with a conspiratorially hand next to his mouth and a 'French' snort): "Maybe ze baby likes it a little, Non?"
The camera focuses in on the priest, who looks appropriately shocked and horrified by this revelation.
At this point, the camera pans away from the Big Three, and there is now an empty gap between Frenchman and St. Peter's desk. Noticing the gap, the Frenchman quickly scurries up to St. Peter's desk with Mother Teresa and the priest trailing behind. As the Frenchman, Mother Teresa, and the priest approach the desk, St. Peter tilts the book on the desk in front of him up slightly, revealing only the two words 'Danielle Steele' on the front cover.
The priest is now standing shoulder to shoulder with Mother Teresa, arms crossed in front of him, looking very smug as St. Peter confronts the Frenchman.
Peter (somewhat sheepishly): "I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but we haven't been paying that much attention to earth the last few millennia or so. I really have no clue who has been good or bad. I'll tell you what… I'll just go ahead and ReauxShamBeaux you for it." Author's Note: Reaux! Sham! Beaux! is the French version of Rock, Paper, Scissors.
Priest (alarmed, looking considerably less smug): "WHAT!?!?"
Peter (slapping his closed right fist against his left palm three times, while counting out loud): "One, Two, Three, SHOOT!!!"
Peter quickly tosses out his pointer and index finger for the universal sign of 'scissors'. The Frenchman, a split second afterwards, desperately throws out his right fist for 'rock'. The Frenchman's eyes briefly meet Peter's in a silent question. In answer, Peter nods over his shoulder to the gate to heaven, and then shakes his head in affirmation. The Frenchman gleefully strolls through the partially open gate.
Completely furious at this point, the priest steps directly in front of Mother Teresa and barks angrily at St. Peter: "WHAT IN THE BLOODY HELL WAS THAT!?!?"
Peter (nonplussed): "What in the bloody hell was what?"
Priest (yelling): "YOU'RE A FRICKING ANGEL!!!! YOU'RE OMNISCIENT!!! HOW THE HELL DO YOU LOSE AT ROCK, PAPER SCISSORS!!!"
Peter (slightly chagrinned): "To be completely honest about it, were omniscient and omnipotent, but were not really all that bright!"
Priest (still screaming, letting out each word like it was an individual explosion): "YOU… COMPLETE… UTTER… IMBECILE!!!!"
The priest takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then speaking slowly as if to a child: "You – can – see – the - future! All you have to do is think about whatever you opponent is going to throw next… Rock, Paper, or Scissors… and throw whatever will beat it!"
Peter (excitedly): "That's a great idea! Who's next in line?"
Mother Teresa steps forward without saying a word. Peter counts to three and throws Scissors; Mother Teresa throws paper. Peter gives the priest a quick wink as Mother Teresa head sags and she walks off dejectedly into the black, smoky, wailing mist to the side of Peter's desk. The priest turns away disgusted for a moment from St. Peter desk, groaning while placing his head in his hands. His hands start to shake uncontrollably, and the priest begins to make a primal, guttural sound. Suddenly unable to hold back his frustration and longer, the priest leaps over the desk and starts throttling St. Peter. The scene slowly fades to black.
As the lights come up again, the desk, the gate to heaven, and the people have all disappeared. All that remains is the floor thick with smoke, the priest, and a very bright light off in the distance. The priest is looking directly into the distance light, which bathes his face in a veritable nimbus of light.
Priest (in a contrite, pleading tone): "Thanks for agreeing to speak with me, God. Look, I'm really sorry about strangling St. Peter back there. I just went a little crazy."
The priest waits briefly for an answer, only to be met by silence. He pauses for a moment, and then continues speaking. Notably shaken by the lack of response, begins to ramble, in part to himself.
Priest: "It's just that, well, this is all a little ridiculous - nothing at all like I was taught to expect. You let that French Baby-Raper into heaven for the love of God! I know we're suppose to turn the other cheek and all, but I figured baby-raping was a definite 'go to Hell, directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars' sort of offense."
Priest (building to a crescendo): "And you sent Mother Teresa to hell… Mother Teresa! She dedicated her whole life to helping others. She deserved better than that."
Priest (shaking his head, and turning around to walk away from the light, while speaking dejectedly): "Well, I guess you're not really. There's nobody here to listen to me, is there?"
The priest takes a few steps away from the light, when an overpoweringly loud voice with a distinctly French accent responds, causing the earth beneath the priest to tremble violently:
GOD: "THIS MOTHER THERESA OF YOURZ, SHE WAS GOOD, NON? BUT NOT ENOUGH BABY RAPING!!!"
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Sunday October 7, 2007
I have an almost instinctual difficulty in dealing with authority figures. Partially it’s the alpha male syndrome; it galls me to be in a submissive position. Although I can tolerate someone in a position of authority over me, I absolutely cannot keep my mouth shut when they screw up. There is something inherently more shocking about mocking an authority figure directly to their face, and therefore funnier. My problem is exacerbated when it comes to police officers, as evidenced by the three speeding tickets for five miles an hour over the limit I have talked my way into, instead of out of. In all three cases, the police officer was using the five mph over the limit as an excuse to check if I was drunk leaving a bar at closing (luckily, in all three of those cases, I was the designated driver). They would have let me go, but I kept making sarcastic comments to antagonize the cops. Outside of those tickets, I have had two significant run-ins with the law. Not surprisingly, in both cases my big mouth almost got me in more trouble.
Story 1: Aiding and Abetting Urinating in Public
My first run-in with the law was during a homecoming game for Central Michigan University (Fire up Chips!). As with all of the CMU tailgates, my friends and I celebrated the impending CMU debacle by drinking entirely too much for our own good. My friend Chad had to go to the bathroom, but didn’t know where to go, so he asked me to take him to the port-a-potty. Notice my use of the singular ‘potty’; some idiot decided that 17000 fans drinking beer in the stadium parking lot only needed one port-a-potty. Upon seeing a line that rivaled Hands-Across-America for said toilet, Chad asked me if I knew anywhere he could urinate ‘in private’. We walked up a hill to the alleyway behind a strip mall, where seven guys were already facing the wall, pissing away. Chad joined the ‘firing squad’, and I politely turned away to face the dumpster and wait. Oddly enough, for a guy who has the bladder of a ninety year old with an enlarged prostate, I didn’t need to go.
After a few seconds, a police van came roaring up the alleyway out of nowhere and screeched to a halt, like something out of the fricking A-Team. Four cops quickly jumped out of the back of the van, and all of them started writing tickets. I couldn’t believe it; knowing full well there weren’t enough port-a-potties to service the crowd outside of the game, the campus police had set up a ‘urination sting operation’! All four cops were wearing sun glasses, and the dichotomy between the officers’ business-like appearance, and the fact they were placed on ‘piss patrol’, was strikingly funny. Or at least I thought it was funny, until one of the officers came up to me and started writing me a ticket also.
“What in the world are you writing me a ticket for?” I asked both annoyed and confused.
The cop looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Uh, a U.I.P…” He replied in a condescending tone.
“What the hell is a U.I.P?”
“Urinating in Public.”
Annoyed by his attitude, and convinced he couldn’t give me a ticket for something I didn’t do, I started getting very snippy with the officer. As snidely as I could muster I quipped “I’m not sure if you were sleeping that day at police academy, but I’m pretty sure you can’t give someone a ticket for urinating in public, unless they have actually… I don’t know… urinated in public?”
A little less sure of himself, the cop responded “Are you saying you weren’t urinating?”
“Bingo, Einstein! Did you actually see me urinating?”
“Well why were you facing the dumpster?”
My voice dripping with sarcasm “I don’t know about you, but I generally don’t try to stare at another guy’s penis while he’s taking a leak. Maybe that’s your thing though…”
Starting to get very annoyed, the officer snapped “Don’t get smart with me kid!”
“Believe me officer, I’m sure that would be a waste of time. Now unless there’s some sort of ticket for aiding and abetting urinating in public, I’ll be on my way.”
Needless to say, I got the ticket.
Later that week, I went down to the city court to plead my case. I was allowed to talk to the judge in his chambers. The judge told me that he believed me, but if I fought the ticket in court, there was still a possibility I could still lose. Because urinating in public is technically exposing your private parts for the world to see, and courts are harder on you if you fight a ticket instead of owning up to it, losing could have entailed me being listed as a sexual offender. As the ticket was $75, he advised me to just pay the ticket and not take any chances. He said if I made out a check right there and then in his chambers, he could take it down to the cashier’s office and I could be done with the whole thing.
Annoyed that the judge didn’t simply just dismiss the case, I added “Bribe to Judge ******” to the memo line of the check, and handed it over.
I wonder if he noticed.
Story 2: Conspiracy to Commit Urinating in Public
I had just moved to Ann Arbor for grad school, and had gone out drinking with a bunch of my new labmates. We had closed out the bars, and eaten at a late night diner to sober up before driving home. I must have had five diet cokes at the diner, and had yet to relieve myself of the last few beers I had drank, much less the five cokes. I thought I could wait until I got home; I was mistaken. We were walking the two miles from the diner to the parking lot where we had parked, when finally the urge to pee became absolutely overwhelming. I looked for a public bathroom of some sort, but couldn’t find any. Knowing there was no way I was going to make it any further, I excused myself from the rest of the group, and found a large group of pine trees to block me from public view.
I hadn’t even touched my zipper before the blinding search light on the top of a cop car pierced the spotty blackness of the trees. O Dear God, Not Again!
When I walked out from behind the trees, there were two police officers. One officer was already writing up the ticket, while my friend was in the face of the second officer.
“Haven’t you two anything more important to do than give tickets to people who aren’t causing trouble?” My friend barked heatedly.
“Uh, your friend was urinating in public…” responded the officer.
Not being able to resist, I joined the conversation. “Actually,” I began, in as condescending a tone as I could muster. “I went out of my way to find a place as private as possible. Hence you guys having to find me with a search light in the trees. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I DIDN’T URINATE!”
I couldn’t believe I was going to get a ticket for urinating in public, without actually urinating in public, not once, BUT TWICE!
At that point, my friend’s wife was trying to drag him away from the police officer. I thought this was a very good idea; I don’t smoke, but my friend and his wife are both stoners, and I knew from earlier that evening that he had some pot on him if the officer got annoyed enough to search him. I decided to focus the cops’ full attention on myself.
“Hmm… let me think… can you actually get a ticket for something you didn’t do, but were thinking about? I’m assuming you officers have probably had a class or two at some point – is there a ticket for conspiracy to commit urinating in public?”
“Listen Smart-Ass, there is a ticket for drunk and disorderly, and you’re asking for one!”
My bladder about to burst, I was starting to get desperate.
“Look Officer, how much is the U.I.P. ticket?”
“About 100 bucks.”
“As I never did get to pee, if I give you an extra 100 for a second ticket right now, can I go back and actually pee?”
The officer writing the ticket simply tore off slip and handed it to me in response.
Unable to leave without a parting shot as my friends and I walked away, in a voice deliberately loud enough to carry I remarked to my friend “Have you ever noticed that the people with the smallest penises compensate by being the biggest dicks?”
I had walked about a block away from the officers before I took the whiz which had already earned me a 100 dollar ticket. In retrospect, it was worth the money. | | | |
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