Through the Light of the Bottle
Prologue…in a demented sense.
I always thought, when I looked back on my career, my downfall would be a much more monumental one.
Grant it, the press coverage was enormous. Vanity fucking Fair did a twelve page piece on the unraveling of my entire life because of him. The New York Times had a field day. Jon Stewart was cracking jokes, Barbara Walters was trying to be serious, trying to hide her joy as she covered me falling apart.
No, I’m talking about the actually person that brought me down, not the recognition it received. I was expecting some enraged mother, whose son had died of alcohol poisoning after initiation night at the fraternity, to come knocking on my door with the butt of her husband’s shot gun.
Or maybe a politician who had decided to eventually take the moral high ground for once in a situation, defaming my practice and passing bills and referendums, one after the other, until the fucking Amazon forest was cut down.
Who cares if we can’t breath, it’s all in the name of getting rid of those damn drunks and brain washed kids that I create.
I deal with the woman who lost their unborn children because of my product that they consume. I deal with policemen who have seen too many car crashes with drivers with too high BAC to give a damn whether people have the right to drink or not.
To me, it’s like the game of frogger. If you stare too long at the gigantic semi that’s could hit you, it will.
Or you can let it be a blur and dart across into the next lane of traffic, to the next problem.
And if you go by that theory, you get the other side of the sidewalk and top score.
But every once in a while, the shitty little sports car comes out of nowhere and blind sides you before your webbed feet can touch pavement.
He was my flashy red sports car.
Seemed too ridiculous to take seriously; and yet, too intriguing to hurry the fuck up and get out of the way.
Who knew that a punk from New Jersey would be the downfall of my life?
Who knew that I wouldn’t care?
Grant it, the press coverage was enormous. Vanity fucking Fair did a twelve page piece on the unraveling of my entire life because of him. The New York Times had a field day. Jon Stewart was cracking jokes, Barbara Walters was trying to be serious, trying to hide her joy as she covered me falling apart.
No, I’m talking about the actually person that brought me down, not the recognition it received. I was expecting some enraged mother, whose son had died of alcohol poisoning after initiation night at the fraternity, to come knocking on my door with the butt of her husband’s shot gun.
Or maybe a politician who had decided to eventually take the moral high ground for once in a situation, defaming my practice and passing bills and referendums, one after the other, until the fucking Amazon forest was cut down.
Who cares if we can’t breath, it’s all in the name of getting rid of those damn drunks and brain washed kids that I create.
I deal with the woman who lost their unborn children because of my product that they consume. I deal with policemen who have seen too many car crashes with drivers with too high BAC to give a damn whether people have the right to drink or not.
To me, it’s like the game of frogger. If you stare too long at the gigantic semi that’s could hit you, it will.
Or you can let it be a blur and dart across into the next lane of traffic, to the next problem.
And if you go by that theory, you get the other side of the sidewalk and top score.
But every once in a while, the shitty little sports car comes out of nowhere and blind sides you before your webbed feet can touch pavement.
He was my flashy red sports car.
Seemed too ridiculous to take seriously; and yet, too intriguing to hurry the fuck up and get out of the way.
Who knew that a punk from New Jersey would be the downfall of my life?
Who knew that I wouldn’t care?