The Feinstone Report 1/28/03
Fellow Inhabitants of the freeworld,
Damn, now I lost my train of thought looking for a cigarette. That freak of nature nicotine has plagued my soul ever since I started drinking professionally. The drugs make the cravings worse. Kind of like dedicating your life to being a vegitarian and compromising on eggs and fish. You tell yourself it isn't that bad, but the non-smokers still see you as the devil. Those damned freaks that want to eliminate smoking in restaraunts have never tasted the sweet nicotine nectar after a healthy meal of slaughtered animal. It's private industry and our government is fucking with it. Almost communist it seems. Ironic, though, cause the Russians are the ones that invented cigarettes. Look it up, a little peice of trivia Marge Simpson's sisters will probably tell you in their haze of an apartment.
Like eggs and bacon to any red blooded American, a smoker enjoys his fix like a warm comforting blanket to a troubled child.
Back to the basics. I have finished my cigarette and will now recap the weekend as it is my self proclaimed duty ever since Sandra Seesitall gave up. Or maybe she found somthing else better to do.
This weekend was as full of excitement as it was daring to kill ourselves. Friday was the night in which we were to celebrate the passage of our dear friend Andrew Stroli. This occured at the residence of 23rd and Holdredge and of couse the kegs of beer were there like a sorority girl at a fraternity party. It was a good time and all the proceeds went to the occupants to assist in their endevor to suppress their rent payment. It was like a high school soup supper with a much deeper cause. It was not extra curricular, it was the fact of survival. And what better way to do it than suppressing the urges of our alcoholic freinds, than to throw a keg party with a cover charge. Many people came that we did not know. Most of them paid the cover and left appropriatly when the police came. This left the true freinds to give Strohli a good sendoff. Marty dealt with the cops, and as always, kicked out the ill behaved people we had no buisness associating with. The wonderful Lori was kind enough to bring in the final pony keg from the liquor store. And after it was drained, it was time to give Strohli a souvenier he would never lose. He had mentioned that he would be in the mood for a brand. But, when the opportunity presented itself, second thoughts were had. McMurtry fueled these oppostions with his wisdom. But, the cheap vodka served that night from a plastic bottle stiffled these atempts and somewhat encouraged the devil to take his course. A brand was formed from a sturdy wire clothes hanger and was immediatly placed on the stove until proven red hot. Strohli needed more encouragment by the bastard vodka and finally the iron was place on his thigh by Jason Lee. Never have I encountered more incoherent screaming than I did that night. Words were uttered that have no language or dialect. The worse part, however, came when he was told the banding iron would have to meet his skin another time to make the mark worth while. Again, more uncomprehensable speach was blasted and the deed was done. He was one of us, I thought, forever and a day he will never forget the permanant mark we left on his body and soul. Never say that alcohol will never affect your life, cause it can when hanging out with people like us. Why do people persist to try and enter our sick twisted way of life? I will never know. I compare it to heroine; You feel great and get your high the first time. After that you feel like every time is the first and you are addicted. It is great fun to live our lives, but down deep you know it is detrimental to our body, mind, and soul.
As the last of the evil brands was being laid for the evening, Mike Nichols came upstairs claiming that the wierd smell in the house was not us or the burning flesh. But, propane leaking itself from a cracked pipe someone had hung on earlier that night. The instructions were to leave imeadiatly and not to light any cigarettes. Marty, being of sound state and mind, thought this would be the optimum opportunity to end it all in a "Blaze of Glory", so some of us sat smoking cigarettes hoping it would be quick. A good hearted savior name Phil shut off the gas, and later we were told that 15 more minutes and we would have seen Elvis or John Wayne. Would it have been suicide or sheer ignorance? Only God could be the judge.
Later, we all ajourned to the residence of MikeyB. All of us who could still function of course. More alcohol was imbibed by the freaks we associate ourselves with. Then came 5a.m. when the decision was made to get breakfast at Perkins. After that uncomfortable event, Poor Mac's was then visited by the dedicated members of our sick society. It is sad when an individual can walk into a bar at 6am and be considered a regular after a whole night of drinking. We saw the depletion of our funds and picked up an 18 pack of beer on the way home. Why, because we percieve ouselves to be immortal and persist on testing this theory. We finally passed out listening to the Charlie Brown theme song, and talking to McMurtry on his way to the duck races.
The next two nights were like a good record skipping. It always sounds good, but it gets monotnous when the repetition sets in. Another keg party at 23rd and Holdredge, and Loftis and Bruning went to Omaha for band practice. I heard MikeyB is still a pimp, and there is some skinny girl that digs Brunings fat ass from Omaha.
Sunday was a good glass of tomato juice and an aspirin for the dedicated. The good ole country boys went to the Pla Mor ballroom for some country twang. And, the others frequented Jacks bar for beers and peanuts.
Hope to see you all next weekend for another adventure in this life that is cool enough to make a movie. Can't imagine it being any better. Cheers!
"It was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right." Hunter S. Thompson
Who has a cigarette,
Dr. Mitchell Hannibal Feinstone
p.s.- As for the conflict in Iraq? "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke