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Wednesday, 26 September 2012

The question I am asked most often is: What makes you think the way you think? That question is usually followed by this question: Were you dropped on your head as a child, maybe repeatedly?

The answer to both questions is: I do not know.

Many of my friends who have known me since I was a boy believe that my thinking was somehow screwed up during the Summer of Love in 1968. They believe that my skewed point of view is the result of the 9375 acid trips I took between April 1968 and September 1968.

Personally, I remember very little about 1968 and so, I discount that particular theory.

I believe the reason I am so screwed up is because, in 1968, I do remember I worked as a volunteer on the campaign for the election of Richard Nixon. I spent thousands of hours working in a dingy, smoke-filled basement room, stuffing envelopes, making phone calls, and from where I spent hours driving voters to the primary elections and the general election--not because I believed so much in Richard M. Nixon, but because there were absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous, teenaged girls in that basement, whose rich fathers told their spoiled daughters, "I was one of them." And while I did get lucky with one of them, there were consequences.

Note to guys: It is not a good idea to knock up the daughter of a very rich man if your daddy only works in a glass factory.

But that is not the real reason I worked so hard in the elections of 1968. Neither is it the reason I dropped acid. I worked so hard in that campaign because one of the Republican candidates for Governor of West Virginia was Peter D. Beter (pronounced Beater). Peter Beter was my hero. I truly believed that if a Peter Beter had the nads to run for state office, there was a place in the sun for me.

I was wrong.

If you think I am making up Peter D. Beter, just Google him; you'll see I speak the truth.

Unfortunately, Peter D. Beter lost the Republican nomination for Governor of West Virginia to Cecil Underwood, who lost in the general election to the Democrat William Wallace Baron.

William Wallace Baron had a daughter in my high school class who was so beautiful she stopped men's hearts. I saw her often. I delivered the newspaper to her home early every morning. I'm certain she never knew I knew where she slept and what she wore to bed… Well, it matters not now because I certain the Statute of Limitations has expired on that particular activity of my ill-spent youth. Had I only switched political parties, she may have actually said hello to me at school…

What the hell was I talking about anyway…?

Oh yeah, the reason I think the way I think and write the shit I write… This is why: if a guy whose name is Peter Beter can't get elected to high office, what chance does any peter beater have? Answer: No chance at all. That screwed up my world view. That is why I am bat shit crazy.

The acid? The acid only made things easier, at least till Nixon got elected and, for that, I am truly sorry.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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