NOTE: This particular rant was written in reaction to a miserable weekend I had where I was the only one sober. But the rhetoric here is indicitive of my true convictions on America's alcohol problem.
I went to a bar one night (to the shock of many of my detractors) and expected to see
everyone else having a great time. My preconcieved notion involved a James
Belushi wannabe with a lampshade driving a motorcycle on the dance floor,
all the while dodging falling lingerie from the ceiling, and people dancing frantically
non-stop all night. (Or maybe that was a campy 80's college movie I saw.)
Anyway, I got there and the first thing that happened was I got branded. That's right,
a big, permanent ink "X" was drawn on my hand! I felt like cattle.
But I understand-- nobody wants 14 year-olds hanging out at bars and getting drunk.
So there has to be some kind of check at the door.
But once I was in, the place was so dark I could barely see. The music, although
one of my favorite songs was playing, was so loud
I couldn't say anything worth saying and be understood.
People were dancing, like my 80s college stereotype had predicted, but nobody
appeared to be having fun.
It was so crowded and so boring I couldn't stand it. It seemed as if the people there
were not there to meet others, but to wiggle around in their
new clothes and conform to their peers. I could think of better things to do with my
evening.
The drinks were carelessly dispensed to long droves of hopeless teens
longing for the ultimate buzz-- the mythical Holy Grail of the club scene.
I grew up near a ranch, and I know herds when I see them.
What I saw at that bar haunted me of what happened when I would help take the
cows to the butcher.
Allow me to explain.
The cattle were first branded. Then they were put in a barn to have their 'spirits'
broken.
Then they were fed intoxicating chemicals in long lines to sedate them. And they
were put in
tight, dark quarters until they were loaded-up in a truck headed for the butcher shop.
And all of this to fulfill my overwhelming desire for a burger. (Mmmm... burger!)
I'm going to sound like a corn-ball country preacher for a second, so bear with me:
Satan doesn't want a burger. He wants your soul.
His tactics are remarkably similar to what we used on the ranch. He will first brand
you,
and check for I.D. If you're willing to come in, he'll accept you, but you had better be
above
the age of accountabillity.
Secondly, you will arive in a very dark place called a bar (which is one letter away
from barN, ironically).
This is where the flesh is glorified and the spirit-- well-- broken. It will
be so crowded and chaotic that you will have no individuallity of your own to
fight the flow of other 'cattle' (the sinful masses) coming though the door.
Thirdly, you will be force-fed. A healthy diet regimen of sex, drugs, and alcohol
(not necessarilly in that order) will be carelessly fed to you on a religious
basis each weekend or perhaps more often.
Next, you're standing in line waiting for more, and more, and more until
Satan is ready for you. And soon enough, you will die.
And when you're loaded-up in your casket, you're off to hell, that grim lake of fire
promised to the
Devil and his fallen angels. Yes, there are many, many others coming with you.
But, unlike a bar where you can leave, there's no going back. Once closing time
comes along, you're stuck.
I for one refuse to be 'cattle'. I'm going to be a sheep in God's flock!
I yearn to be an individual. I'm going to praise God, flee sin and the wrath to come,
and I never want a Marks-a-Lot "X" on my hand again.
To me, such is the mark of shame, and of the great slaughter to come.