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Ric Flair 30 Jun 2005 06:34 PM

Fear and Loathing in America #1
The first in a series of Gonzo Journalistic entries, about life, the American Dream and Drugs. BTW, I hereby affirm that these are the events that happened to ME, they are NOT Hunter S Thompson stories...

A Saturday night at the farm can be just the experience that a man needs to clear his head, a place where he can get to be one with his creator, and himself, shuffling off the coils of propriety and letting himself become a beast of nature…just what God intended him to be. Its not an easy place to find, even harder in the dark with a head full of DXM. I was driving West on U.S. 127, at speeds unsafe for any god-fearing person at 11:30 on a Saturday night, passing cars like they were standing still. Seeing the reactions of the people in the cars beside me gave me just the satisfaction I needed at this particular moment in time. I was sure of what they were saying in their cars…

“There goes another one, Sharon. Look at him, he’s wearing sunglasses after dark, and he’s going ninety-five. Ninety-Five! He’s probably all hoped up on that dammed Crack-cocaine!”
“Surely not Tom..” Sharon will say
“I have the right mind to call Vehicle Enforcement on him…what’s his license plate number? Holy Hell He’s already gone…what if there was child playing in the street? He would be killed!” and the Sharon will look out the window and wonder where Tom’s testes went as she drifts off back to sleep.

The farm was a place where people go to lose themselves for a little while. Ten people all looking for a way to cut loose. The last remaining vestiges of the counter culture in central Kentucky were here…incredible. How could it have come to this? I had hoped that the Bushes would have lost, but they didn’t. I had hoped that America would come through, but it didn’t. And now, less than a year later, the spirit of freedom has been broken, the chains of tyranny have been successfully forged in the belly of the Beast of Power. We live in a world where righteous men are turned in by their neighbors and the rich feed off the bones of the poor, unsuccessful sots who thought God was on their side, not the other way around. I tried to tell myself it hadn’t come to that, that we would win, that in time the good deeds of just men would be recognized. But I knew it wasn’t to be, things were too far gone…

So I had made it to the farm, I was there with all that remains of the voice of hope, justice and civility in the world. At least the local world. The campfire was built and there was booze enough for even the highest of tolerance levels. If anything is to be done in this world of Bush, it should be done one of two ways: 1. Totally sober, without the hint of alcohol in your guts, THC in your bloodstream, or smoke in your lungs. This will ensure that you will be surrounded by people of the same chemical balance and your actions will be appreciated by them, scorned by those that aren’t sober, and ignored by the masses. 2. So incredibly drunk/stoned/twisted etc. that normal people will have nothing to do with you, children run away in unadulterated horror, adults look at you disapprovingly and candles are lit for your soul at mass. This will ensure that your deeds and thoughts, while queer to the mainstream, will be remembered and looked upon as greatly and reverently as Hannibal crossing the Alps, Lincoln freeing the slaves and The Beatles farewell tour all rolled into one.

The only advice I can give is this…do things the second way, and ignore the people who do things the first way…

So by taking the second route we were in the throes of having a good time. Ten or eleven college students with 110 acres of land, enough booze to kill an antelope and a seemingly endless supply of fun. That was what the doctor ordered for our souls…that is what is needed for the country’s soul. And, after all, I am a doctor. It was granted to me by the good folks at the University of Landsbergis, in Germany. For the right amount of money, I became a Doctor of Economics.

We had decided to break the dirt bikes out. Open up the night with the sounds of speed. I was ready for this, I wanted to unwind, take the pressure of being a responsible adult off my shoulders for a few minutes and breathe. Five of us took the trails, leaving three couples back at the barn to engage in what would surely become an orgy of lustful desires. I needed speed. Beneath me…not on top of me. The thrill of cheating death and jumping over creeks and streams was what I wanted. The freeing thought of knowing you could die at any moment, the choice of life or death totally in my hands was a rush that couldn’t be gotten anywhere else. The feeling of knowing death had grabbed your heels, but couldn’t hold on was better than sex.
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Maybe not better than sex, but it was a close second, and besides, the women weren’t attractive tonite anyway. The sounds of flesh on flesh were rising into the night as we rode away. The nut-busting hour was here…God’s mercy on them…with any luck the prophylactics would hold up as well as the phalluses supporting them…this was no place for a conception of any kind.

We had ridden for an hour, cutting across the woods like pioneers. And in a way I guess we were. We retro-neers. Reclaiming the past, to survive the future. We stopped in the meadow, surrounded by the woods. All of us sitting, gazing upwards at the cloudless sky. We spoke of how beautiful it was. Two of the men in the conversation began speaking about eternal beauty, and the numerous stars looking at us. For a moment, I felt as though they would try to kiss each other, sodomize themselves right in front of us. No sir, not today…nope…no way. On the farm there is a pond, about fifty feet wide and seven feet deep. It was the only thing that had never been jumped. I quickly turned conversation to it, in hopes of avoiding the inevitable Song of the Sausage I was sure to hear.

“I think I can jump the pond.” I stated emphatically. Everyone looked at me as though I had just pissed my pants, voted for Bush or both.
“You’re a fool!” shouted Tim. The others echoed his sentiment, but it was too late. I had already kick started the bike and was headed back to the pond. The others followed, yelling for the amateur porn stars to come watch as well as we passed the campfire. We stopped at the campsite, which overlooks the pond, and I sized up the length and speed required for the jump. I grabbed an American Flag that was flying by the barn and tied it around my shoulders.
“If there’s hope for the country…there’s hope for me. The American dream may still yet live!” I shouted as I put a cigarette in my mouth.
“YOURE MAD!” shouted one of the girls.
“Yes…isn’t everyone?” I replied as I sped away.

I was off. Moving fast and shifting gears hard. I was in fifth in no time, and the pond was coming up fast. I has a sense of calm, peace, clarity…I could have easily stopped, turned around, not gone on. Don’t give up! Shoot yourself out of the cannon, because if you don’t, someone else will. Shit, I was too far gone anyway, I was in the air in no time, taking the hope of the generation with me. We were both riding high, the water below us, the heavens above us…then down I started to go…too soon in fact, a great splash shattered the night sky. The tranquility was shattered in a holocaust of noise and despair. They all came running towards the shore as I picked myself up out of the muck, and tired in vain to light a cigarette…
“Why would someone try to do something like that?” they all asked me.
Why indeed.?

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