Living The Life On A Drug Called Norman Fell

Never being a trendy sort, I've eschewed the allure of the drug d'jour, the Drug Called Charlie Sheen, in search of more subtle pharmacological wonders. I've found it, thanks to a tip from my therapist and a guy named Bobo who frequents a dim bus stop a few blocks away. This new drug, this new wonder in my life, is called Norman Fell. I may not be a media magnet; I may not wake up days from now in a trashed hotel with hookers; I may not have foggy memories of Denise Richards in fishnets; but what I do have, thanks to my twice daily ingestion of the little brown pill that is Norman Fell, is a profoundly resigned contentment with a world gone mad, the forbearance to laugh with the rest of the world at my existential plight, an ability to snap off a tired wisecrack at my own expense every once in a while, and an enigmatic, world-weary smile that Leonardo da Vinci is dying to come back to life just to sketch. Yes, the Drug Called Norman Fell is all of that--a Calgon bath peppered with Prozac (if not Viagra) pellets. Four dollars for a gallon of gas? A dangerously unstable Middle East? No football? No problem--I'm Felled in the best possible way. Nothing bothers me because everything is meant to bother me and now I'm at peace with that fact. I don't even feel the need to break a sweat shrugging my shoulders anymore. Bliss, baby, bliss. Thank you, Norman Fell.