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October 12, 2003 rush to judgment Say what you will about Rush Limbaugh--that he's an arrogant gasbag, that his repugnant bloviations inflame unevolved morons, that he can't keep his help in line--but I was moved by his honest, straightforward revelation of his addiction to prescription painkillers.  If you missed that radio address, I've reprinted it below:   You know I have always tried to be honest with you and open about my life.  And when I say tried, I mean it the same way a husband means it when speaking to his wife; that is, I've tried to be honest, but my efforts have always, without exception, failed.  So I need to tell you--on the advice of my public relations manager--that part of what you have heard and read is correct.  And when I say part, of course, I mean all.  Yes, friends, I am addicted to prescription pain medication. I first started taking prescription painkillers some years ago when my doctor prescribed them to treat post-surgical pain following spinal surgery.  It seems my addiction to Twinkies--which had been prescribed by my mother to treat post-natal separation anxiety--had caused morbid obesity which, in turn, blew out several lumbar discs.  Unfortunately, the surgery was successful and my surgeon quit prescribing my happy pills.  Fortunately, my family physician, Dr. Mengele, hooked me up with all the Vicodin, Oxycontin, and White-Out my pudgy heart desired.  This medication turned out to be highly addictive.  And when I say turned out, I mean as everybody, including myself, knows.  I continued taking the dope for much the same reason a dog licks his crotch:  he can, and it feels good. Over the past several years, I have tried to break my dependence on pain pills and I tried that with the same conviction I've always used when trying to be open and honest with you, my salivating lapdog listeners.  Like the two times I was committed to rehab.  I really, really tried to tell you about that, but I was too busy worrying whether Bill Clinton was having his crotch licked.  Or maybe I was preoccupied with my rantings advocating tougher penalties for drug addicts.  No matter.  The point is, I tried. Immediately following this broadcast, I am checking myself into a treatment center for thirty days, not only to avoid prosecution, but to reenact scenes from my favorite movie, "28 Days," with Sandra Bullock.  I am staying two days more than Ms. Bullock because I can do more hard time than any Hollywood liberal can do.  I intend to, once and for all, break the hold this highly addictive medication has on me.  And when I say once and for all, I mean until this thing blows over.  And when I say break this hold, I am sending a subliminal message to my conservative Christian base that this is not at all my fault but is, instead, the work of Satan. I am not making excuses.  I refuse to let anyone think I am doing something great here.  And when I say refuse to let anyone, I mean encourage everyone.  No, there are no role models here.  Just rolls of fat.  I take full responsibility for my problem.  And when I say full, I mean zero. At the present time, the authorities are conducting an investigation and they've started with the medicine cabinets in each of my bathrooms.  Thus far, the authorities have turned up nothing, nothing at all, unless you count the economy-sized tube of Anal-Eze.  So I will only say that the stories you have read and heard contain inaccuracies and distortions.  And when I say inaccuracies and distortions, I mean no errors or exaggerations whatsoever. I deeply appreciate all your support over the last tumultuous week.  I never cease to be amazed at your gullibility.  It has sustained me.  I ask now for your prayers.  And when I say prayers, I mean Twinkies and hillbilly heroin.

©  2003 by the beastmaster