Well if you’ve watched the news or read a paper you know that crystal meth is the “new epidemic.”
You see, every five years a group of hypocritical media demigods, corrupt midwestern police sargeants and power-hungry blazer-wearing politicians meet in a secret location and, while sex-torturing Polynesian boys and eating filets made from a broad sampling of the endangered species list, decide on an epidemic to create.
In the 60s it was PCP & acid, the 70s was cocaine, the 80s was crack, the 90s were ecstasy. By maintaining this wave of drug-fear they mutually ensure their own job security and, more importantly, an endless flow of government grants, hard hitting investigative reports and other miscellaneous endowments. It works well.
Amazingly, most of us still have nasal linings, crack didn’t transform the earth into a barren wasteland — I’m pretty sure Overtown didn’t look much more like Coral Gables in 1980 than it did in 1990 — and our sandy-haired blue eyed raving children did not end up with bloody faces in a psychiatric ward. Yet the beat goes on, as it must, and crystal meth won the drug lotto this decade.
I’m an optimist, as anyone who reads this site should know. Everyone else is all doom and gloom, boo-hoo, a soulless generation without decent parental supervision, toddlers having to make their own clothes and hunt and gather their food as if they were <shudder>Mexican or something. Blah blah blah, we’ve heard it all before.
You can tell the media isn’t even going to fact check the story this time around. I have yet to see one article in Martha Stewart Living praising how neat and tidy the nation’s meth labs are (tweakers often go on multi-day cleaning binges). No one has heralded the booming business of cosmetic dentistry in suburban Ohio, Kansas, and Arkansas, fashioning gleaming white incisors out of protoplasmic gray goop when the Tina lover’s teeth fall out. Where, in Walmart’s shareholder report, is the good news about booming psuedoepinephrine sales across the midwest? And the accompanying turpentine? Hello, America, wake up and smell the boiling pot of match heads and iodine tincture!
This is a brave new (twitching, paranoid) world, one in which we don’t have to worry about losing out to those damned Japanese commie robot bastard assembly lines because God fucking damnit, red white, and blue, even robots need to sleep — ok maybe not — but we don’t, not no more. This is our edge, people. Gas up the pickup, Cletus, there’s a bottle of acetone at the gas station with our names on it! *patriotic music playing in background; bald eagle with tear in eye turns frown upside down and flaps off to catch Happy Hour*