Being on steroids makes you manic. Being in bed too long makes me horny. And I’ve been in bed on steroids for 10 days. So I am bloody nuclear! And here is what I figured out to do to save ourselves… and America: Maybe I ought to run for President — like just about everybody else. So pray for me…

Back a few too many decades ago when I was about four, I lay dying in a hospital bed in a small mill town.

For weeks.

The docs had absolutely no idea what was wrong. Nevertheless, they did what they did. And also what they didn’t need to. That is, remove a perfectly good set of tonsils. And other stuff. While also impatiently plying me with all sorts of unsophisticated drugs which they weren’t quite sure of their purpose. You know, like maybe I really did have virus AND pneumonia.

Who knows?

But in spite of them and myself I slowly got better. Mostly on my own, as I was told. In other words I somehow managed to save myself – mostly — from what the docs were doing. And obviously I have lived to get sick and not die on many future days and times.

However, at the same time, that hospital, that steel town and most of the people from that time have long-since died. The future became their past. But it didn’t have to go that way. The town, with its water and electricity flowing mostly to nowhere, had a diminishing pulse that kept growing weaker and fading. You know, like many of America’s blue collar towns and industries these days.

Just think Detroit

The wry irony was that my doktors, and everybody else surviving off the hand of that mill-town’s dying, sole employer, knew exactly what was wrong. But apparently they were all waiting ‘patiently-impatiently’ for somebody else to fix it, and save them – mostly from themselves.

But they didn’t have a prayer… even though praying was just about all of what they were reduced to. As well as the delusion of hoping that a winning football team would somehow manage to change the way matters were.

And are…

Hmm… And that’s a big problem with the business of American capitalism. It is the greatest enterprise ever invented. No doubt. But its celebrated success made us fat, stupid and lazy. And we kept growing more obese between our ears until we’ve ended up with our pulses diminishing, our bills over-inflating and our hopes drifting away at sea. And it‘s possible we could die from this — sooner rather than later. Because all that we seem capable of doing anymore is praying.

And the problem with that is that most of us don’t really know how to pray – we beg.

But of course!

As a result when we unbow our heads, we behold: There’s no hell like getting what we beg for.

Why?

Because we seem to have gotten as confused, as the man who is so far out of sea he doesn’t know which way to swim back to shore. We’ve lost our way. We got fooled into taking our eyes off the ball. We were led astray by the ‘shell’ game. We were duped into believing that what is good for corporations like General Motors, was supposed to be good for America.

And why not? After all, the business of America was supposed to be business.

Sooo… we left it up to Big Business. Left our daily bread and other matters in ‘their’ hands… Just like we have handed our lives over to ‘big’ government. And Big Pharma. And big markets. And big money. And big laws. And big guns. And…

And now, however, big business took its big ball and went overseas. And we’re left with the disillusioned reality that bigger isn’t better… or cheaper.

And we don’t know what to do… boo-hoo! Because we’ve acquiesced, submitted and surrendered to being spectators instead of actively participating up close and personal.

Hell, we barely even vote.

You following me here? Because we’ve all got to get into the program – of recovery.

And ‘recovering’ is a bitch. Like old age, it ain’t for sissies. You can’t leave it up to somebody else, like the docs handcuffed by punishing insurance companies. Nor the government over-regulating us. Nor the self-serving football players who beat their wives while beating us into believing that their winning or losing really matters to anybody but the big NFL’s bottom line.

It doesn’t matter. It always comes down to you. And me… and some guy tinkering to invent something in his garage.

That’s what matters. That’s how we get saved. By saving ourselves. And mostly on our own.

Hey, any of you drunken Doubting Thomases just have to soberly recall that FDR’s only WPA government project that got us out of the death-grip of our Great Depression was World War II. And that’s when we had to save not only ourselves, but the world.

And you know, I think I may be absolutely right about that.

Or mostly.

And it’s not because I am any smarter than you. Or that you may just be dumber than me – being another possible Presidential candidate like just about anybody else in America (because ‘anybody’ is already running.) It just comes from the wisdom reaped from experience.

Because in the ensuing years from my young hospital stay I have been both literally and figuratively shot, stabbed, had teeth knocked out, head knocked in, heart ripped apart, balls busted… and I’m not even going to recount the mortal wounds from all those divorces and alimonies that left me reeling — both into and out of courtroom malfeasance.

Hmm… with all that, how smart could I really be? After all I was merely a journalist.

But, admittedly, I’ve led more than the whirlwind of ordinary life (And that’s even without ‘embellishing’ it like another Presidential aspirant, Dr. Ben Carson.)

Yet again and again, in the end, what usually saved me – besides, admittedly, my heart surgeon, but just that one massive coronary time – was simply me. And that’s as in me not being a ‘sissy.’

Like for the last 10 days… I thought I had a blood clot humping behind the right knee and calf. Then I awoke in the middle of a bloody Chinese fire drill clanging down from my butt to the tip of my big toe, where, for once I didn’t have an ingrown toenail. And I started flapping and quacking like a wounded duck… before I found myself barking worse than those damn wimpy female-canines below my bedroom window. Especially when their over-plump master doesn’t let them back in her house for endless hours!

“Welcome to Sciatica,” my doc and old college chum informed me over the phone, because I couldn’t even get outta bed to come to his center city office.

Hmm…

And you know what happens to me if I loll-about in bed pass 8 in the morning? I get horny. And now here I was afflicted by two of the most powerful human emotions known to man – horniness AND a nervous (sciatica) breakdown.

And, while horniness can be damn big, the sciatic nerve is even bigger – at least for us over-circumcised Jewish guys. The sciatica happens to be, I understand, our biggest nerve. And it cracks a leather whip, so I am told, like a dominatrix disciplining just about everything below your belt.

And would you listen to me espouse this lesson in anatomy? As if I really understand parts of the human body that I can’t get a grip on. Before the other day I didn’t even know how to spell Sci-a-tic-a. I thought it was something mental. And began with a ‘psy’.  As in psychotic-a. And I figured that, like gout, it afflicted only fat, lazy, pigs stuffing bon-bons in their pie-holes all night in front of TV.

And I don’t even own a TV. Threw mine out a third story window years back while bellowing the SOB was trying to kill me.

I mean how could such a half-ass (just my right buttock) malady be afflicting me?
Moi?! The guy who exercises at the ‘Y’ most every early morning. Bikes everywhere. And is able to leap out of tall – or at least the second-story – windows… when a husband surprises ‘us’ in his bedroom.

Hmm…

My lazy-ass, retired cousin, Mike, who spends his days planning his next meal, between naps, deserved to have this pain in the butt. And he did. Took the same bunch of prednisone steroid pills my doc had sent over to me. He bleated they “really didn’t work” for him. And a few days later I informed Mike, the former TV teleprompter ‘journalist,’ that the medication must belong to the same union he does… because they don’t work at all!

What did finally work was something that, as usual, I had to do for myself – drink heavily.

The ‘medicine’ was provided by my a young lawyer friend, who has been spending most of his non-billable hours these days tracking down most any Jewish broad destined to become his future-ex-wife. And live in his tony, renovated bachelor-pad that he — because he is too inexperienced with the world of pre-marital lies — doesn’t believe is just too damn small. What he’s got may be big enough for love… but not her Imelda shoe fetish… AND matching handbags.

But of course!

But at least his criteria for a mate is minimal. That is, she only needs to have two eyes, one nose and breasts – preferably no more than two.

Anyway Adam showed up during my darkest hours with cigars and two bottles of my favorite bourbons. And that worked – I mean they REALLY worked — perhaps because they were produced by non-union hands – even though the only unions I really abhor are those that hand themselves over to marriage.

Hmm… no wonder my ex-wives all had the same name – plaintiff!

And meanwhile, my lugubrious older brother, duh-heart-doc, who is always plaintive about my drinking and cigar smoking, was now also admonishing me about the steroid pills that didn’t work except to make me gorge all the food in my apartment. Just like the mad-hungries. And that even included gulping down the inedible stuff buried among all the old can-foods… stuff that most normal people save only for emergencies.

Like nuclear holocausts.

Nevertheless, although I had only two days of prednisone pills remaining, Brian-duh-Princeton-Harvard-Stanford-over-edikated-heartless-doc chided that they could cause me to become even more manic than I already am.

Really?

Hell, as I boldly informed Big Brother, what else is there to do when you’ve been unable to move from your bed the past 10 days? Except piss in a bottle… while you moan and kvetch. And, I didn’t even bother to exalt about my massive attack of horniness. After all, what does my brother understand about such an affliction? He’s been married to his same wife-duh-lawyer for 40 years.

Hmm… talk about being over-circumcised! Then again he has two children. So he must have had sex twice.

Sooo… why am I sharing all this enlightenment? And with you?

I am telling you all this… well… mainly because I’ve got nobody else to talk to in my bed. And… I’m horny. On steroids. And manic. And… oh, yes… the point… there is a point… And it seems to be that while American capitalism may be our greatest enterprise its unbridled swath is now killing us.

And it’s not pretty.

We may not fully recognize all the implications… yet. But then again, they are just beginning to recognize those football injuries that have been leaving us in a sad mental state. And not just for the concussed players. But I figure anyone who watches three games on a Sunday afternoon has to be considered dead. And more than merely mentally flat-lining.

So let me say again what I’ve said before: We’ve got to get back to what saved us in the first place – and that is taking care of the business ourselves. Call it some sort of rugged individualism — which probably never really existed. But it sounds good. It fits our virtual reality.

We have to get back to saving ourselves. Defending ourselves. Nourishing ourselves. Taking control of ourselves… before we forget ourselves and get totally lost.

Right about now we’re pretty much on life support. And barely possess the strength to decide if we want political correctness for all, or all of us back working for a country that gave us all we have. That is, when it could. But now it can’t. Unless, you and me, the LBGTQ, a-e-i-o-u, and sometimes even the ‘w’ and ‘y’ -oh-why-oh-y get back to taking control of our lives. And saving ourselves from what we’ve allowed ourselves to become — fat, stupid, lazy and expecting somebody else to do for us what can only be done ourselves.

I mean, look at me as a possible Presidential candidate. I’m the only one who almost died in bed… alone. And that made me horny. Before I realized that ain’t such a bad thing. Because if you want a job done right, you gotta do it to yourself.

Hmm…. Sounds about right. But dats about all I’m a-gonna say about that.

And dats yDrewIS on dis penal colony…

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