It’s been said the only time a man can think with true, unmitigated lucidity is the thirty seconds immediately following an orgasm. Conventional wisdom would have us believe that a man’s body, the walking sperm-gun that it is, allows the occupier (namely, the brain) a brief moment of reality before it reloads the cannon, so to speak. This is what alcoholics refer to as a “moment of clarity,” a point in time wherein all is seen as it truly is, all is known as it truly exists, and all truths are self-evident.

This is complete bullshit.

I know this to be complete bullshit because it was during that very time, huffing, puffing and experiencing, what I thought to be, a instant of unchecked vision, I made the decision to join this damned fool idealistic crusade (as my uncle would say) and hereby currently find myself locked in the trunk of a 1978 Camaro careening down Route 66 at nearly the speed of sound, pursued by at least a dozen obnoxiously loud law enforcement vehicles, several pick-ups full of well-armed civilians, and what I can only imagine is an FBI helicopter.

Both literally and figuratively, fuck.