There I was, sitting on that humid, sweaty Sunday morning, reading a damp newspaper and drinking something that tasted like it got scooped out of the head of some unfortunate lobotomy patient. The rain had just stopped, and the air around my front porch stank of dead worms, which my nine year old son was happily chewing in half, throwing me the occasional mischievous glance. I sipped my vomit flavored coffee while reading the front page, the steel factory had just closed down, and all non-management personnel were to be fired immediately. Since I was out of a job, I decided to celebrate my unemployment by opening up my liquor cooler that I usually saved for weekends or sick days. The beer was warm and flat, just the way I hated it. I quickly poured the rest of the can into my puke coffee, hoping the two equally disgusting tastes would somehow cancel each other out. They didn't, in fact, the drink got a lot worse. I poured it out into the sink after the green liquid began to eat a small hole in my mouth, and watched with alert interest as the rusted iron of the sink sizzled and dissolved upon contact with my former breakfast. I immediately succumbed to a heart attack and collapsed on the floor.
Several days later I was seeing the doctor for the 435th time, and he was bitching me out about eating too many fatty foods and spare spark plugs. I told him to go to hell, and he told me I needed an attitude adjustment.
"Just what the hell do I need a goddamn attitude adjustment for, you monkey loving, bleach coated, college boy?" I nearly shouted as he wrote the prescription.
"It's Fluoxetine Hydrochloride, more commonly know as happy pills. It should end your pain ... er ... depression." He smiled warmly and left the office to smoke a joint. A few hours past and I popped a handful of the stuff the kid at the pharmacy gave me, wondering if I should have cut back on the cheap vodka before I did so. The results were absolutely astounding.
There I was, sitting on that nice, moist Sunday morning, reading a pleasingly pulpy newspaper and drinking something that tasted like it was hand picked by the ancient Mayans on the misty slopes of Columbia. The rain had just stopped, and the air around my front porch smelled of wonderfully dead worms, an odor which I absolutely cannot live without, and which my nine year old son was eating by the fistful, throwing me the occasional worried glance. I sipped my gourmet flavored coffee, which only cost me $1.03 for a pack of two hundred, while reading the front page. The pencil warehouse had just closed down, and all non-management personnel were to be cheerily fired immediately. Since I was out of a job, I decided to celebrate my sunny unemployment by opening up my Fluoxetine Hydrochloride stash that I usually saved for every other meal. The pills were pleasingly round and flat, just the way I loved them. I quickly dropped the rest of the pills into my high quality coffee, hoping the two equally delightful tastes would somehow enhance each other in a way that would make my joy at the loveliness and sheer beauty of everything increase 100 fold. They did, in fact, and the drink got a lot better. I slowly began to notice, between cries of orgasmic, unadulterated bliss, that between the caffeine pills, the Fluoxetine Hydrochloride and the 10th cup of black coffee I was just sipping, my heart rate was merrily jackhammering somewhere in the 200 beats per minute vicinity. I could not help to feel a sense of fulfillment and gratification at the thought of another trip to the hospital. Again, I immediately succumbed to a massive heart attack and jubilantly collapsed on the floor.