Freedom costs. It’s kind of a hypocritical philosophy, really. We fight for the right to be free. We fight for the right to have a free-market system so you can buy anything you want, whenever you want, from whoever you want. We fight for the freedom of religious belief, though mostly we just fight amongst ourselves about that. Sometimes we even travel to the other side of the world to make sure that those less fortunate than ourselves can enjoy our special brand of freedom: video games, Coke, Pepsi, Jesus, and Taco Time. You have the right to eat tacos we’ll say, and they’ll smile and scream “FINALLY!� Some people even have the right to bear arms. Sometimes their kids get in on that right. Sometimes people die for freedom and don’t even know it. Funny how freedom works.

In the most perfect dream I will be sitting in a chair on a high plateau, watching the demise of Western Civilization. I’d buy a super powerful pair of binoculars, so as not to miss anything. I’d have a big cooler full of drinks and sexy chicks lounging around, rubbing my feet and shoulders. And I’d get new glasses, ‘cause the ones I’ve got now are all scratched up. Better than a super summer blockbuster. No giant lizards, no aliens, no natural disasters. Just us, swirling towards the bottom of the bowl. I’ll have some tacos and put on a t-shirt that says “finally.�

I’ll probably need some really good sunglasses and some super high-powered sunblock. It’ll get hot, I’m sure. Maybe I’d have one of those kiddie pools to sit in instead of a lawn chair. That way I could beat the heat. The chemical wind will blow through my hair as I monitor the major news networks for further details and endless updates. The field correspondents broadcasting from within the flaming debris, conditioned to remain impervious to the dangers and drama unfolding around them. The earth bursting into flame. Little ships slipping picturesquely beneath the foaming waves. Hell hath no fury like a man sitting in a kiddie pool watching the end of the world who’s run out of tacos. I’ll have to remind myself to bring extra. The girls don’t eat, you see, they’re too worried about their weight.

And then come the missiles. Having spent the majority of my life living in a time of nuclear devices, I say launch them. I’m curious to see what all the fuss is about. Perhaps we can fire them all at India, France, and Pakistan. I’m open to suggestions. I’ll play Pac-Man and Frogger while ICBMs plummet all around me like so many seagulls fed Wonder Bread mixed with Draino. I’ll do the Safety Dance, the Electric Slide, the Macarena, maybe me and the girls will even line-dance. I’ll put on a little Nina Simone and pour some bourbon. There’ll be umbrellas in all the drinks, fireworks without warning labels, hundreds of rare T-bones, a million cigarettes, and plenty of pornography. ‘Cause if you’re gonna go, go big. Like Stew used to say: “Big time, or no time at all.�

That’s freedom. Not some word in a dictionary. Not some corrupted thing bent to suit commercial purposes. Limitless freedom. Endless slow poison. No “tomorrow I’ll go to the gym after work.� Just sought after cancerous treats and spy-like glow-in-the-dark party favours. Naked riders, outrageous costumes, dangerous words blasted through megaphones, outlawed tunes played on outlawed guitars. A silence after a great noise. A thunder that’s like so many crashing violins and cellos - and then the ringing tones of a last, great chord.