I have a friend, who I'm not going to name because I think he knows that he's being a jackass, who tells me that he is an old soul. If you already know what that means, chances are I'm about to violently offend some or all of your belief system. Allow me to apologize in advance. I'm sorry. Now, quit being such a baby and stay with me, all right? So anyway, this friend says that whenever he runs across people who are "psychic" they tell him that he's an old soul, meaning that he has been re-incarnated many times. I'd like to point out that I never run across people who are psychic - I don't know where it is that he's hanging out. So at this point I stop him and threaten to throw empty bottles at his head if he tries to tell me that in any of his past lives he was A) a soldier; B) an emperor/king/Caesar; C) Cleopatra.
After he's done being offended, he explains that this is supposed to mean that he is wise beyond his years, due to his wealth of past life experience. This forces me, immediately, to the incontrovertible conclusion that reincarnation does not exist. Why? Because I routinely exhibit the kind of teeth-gritting, knuckle-whitening, bad judgement that only a complete absence of wisdom and experience can produce. Routinely. Most people I know would not doubt this conclusion for a second. For those few remaining people who might have unfounded doubts, I present the following examples as proof of my relative newness to the corporeal universe. Think of it as my thesis on why reincarnation is for people who call 1-900 psychic help lines. Incriminating Evidence, Exhibit A - The unholy bender (not to be mistaken for an isolated incident) A young Shaggy D is going out for an evening of good-natured frivolity and inebriation with his friends. In order to be adequately prepared, because preparation is key, Shaggy brings a bottle of booze with him. For a change of pace he selects a 26-ounce bottle of lemon gin. Upon arriving at a house party, Shaggy discovers that none of his friends will come anywhere near lemon gin, thus leaving the burden of consuming it squarely upon his young shoulders. "We should drink in the sauna, I've heard it gets you drunk quicker." Half way into the bottle of gin, I've had an epiphany. "You must be pretty drunk already - look how much of that awful crap you've drank." Willet points with some alarm at the gin bottle that I'm using to wildly gesture at the newly discovered sauna with. He shakes a bottle of bud for emphasis, causing it to fountain over his arm. He doesn't seem to notice. "Don't be such a baby, I'm cold sober, we've got to get this bender moving or we'll be sober all night." I'm far from sober, but the fact that I can still identify close companions tells my finely tuned drinking senses that I'm not yet drunk enough to really be having a good time. We head to the sauna and I down the remaining gin. It tastes awful, but I really don't mind. "Shaggy man, load up, we're going to head to another party, this place is dead." Willet is racing around with a beer in each fist. He seems agitated. "Are there going to be girls there?" I ask because I care, but really I'm already too drunk to be anything but repulsive. "God I hope so, get in the car." Willet is loading himself into the passenger's seat while a blurry looking individual fires the engine up. I climb onto the roof, grab hold of the trim around the edge of the windshield, and cry out for speed. |
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