With the ever-increasing prices of cigarettes becoming a painful thorn in the side of addiction-prone morons nationwide, many have turned to alternative products to quench their undying impulse to cram their orifices with pseudo-edible objects. A new trend has been gradually gaining speed, much to the chagrin of model citizens such as myself. Seemingly harmless with complacent marketing schemes, the widespread sale of this malicious product has sparked utter pandemonium and general stickiness.

Gum is becoming the new terrible addiction in modern society. Nary a day shall pass where the words "Does anyone have some gum," "Can I have a piece of that gum too," "Give me some gum, asshole," or "Sweet Jesus, I need some fucking gum right now" aren't spoken. In fact, I hear people begging for these chewy treats many times during the day: people from all backgrounds and genders. It's quite frightening, and I can't understand all of the commotion over a small, pale, rubbery substance whose unimaginative original flavor is replaced within moments by a disgusting, stale, plastic taste.

Despite the rank foulness of the product, people have become utterly dependent on gum. One anonymous interviewee, who I will refer to here as "Wrigley" to protect her identity, recounts her tragic addiction to gum: "I was just a casual chewer before I got into Orbit [gum]. Now I'm up to a pack a day." Wrigley's excessive gum chewing is also taking the toll on her relationship with friends and family. As Wrigley's sister explains, "It's getting to the point where her addiction is becoming embarrassing. She can just talk to people, and by the scent on her breath they think to themselves, 'That girl chews'." It certainly reflects negatively upon those close to her.

Where does gum originate? Well, back in the good old times, Neanderthals found solace in chewing on chunks of pure tar. I can admit that gum has come a long way in terms of flavor since then. It's not like I've tasted tar, though. But excuse me for digressing. The point is, Neanderthals started the trend of chewing. Is that who you want your kids looking up to, parents? Neanderthals? If that's the case, then society is surely going to collapse, and we're all going to de-evolve within decades. So much for 4.4 million years of progress. You might as well sell off your Gucci apparel for stockpiles of loincloths right now. Don't worry about property values, either. Be prepared to sell off your homes for a couple sticks, ten shells, and half of a bird's nest, and get your belongings ready to drag into your new home: a cave. Do you really want to live in a cave? Yeah? You want to be eaten by a bear? Keep chewing gum.

People like Wrigley are also obviously those responsible for sticking gum under chairs and desks, and to the floors of movie theaters. Gum-chewers are foul vermin, leaving their waste in every possible place. It's entirely gross and self-serving. It is this mentality that is chewing away at the key structural points of our society. If there is no immediate intervention, we may see our modern culture collapse to its shaky and bruised knees, much attuned to the legend of Ye Olde Castle of Fermented Grits. "If I had no access to gum," Wrigley postulates, "I would most-likely literally combust." Great, look what you've done now, gum. All I needed was a smoldering corpse stinking up my afternoon.

But then, there is the possibility that this reporter may feel left out of the gum craze. Maybe all this reporter needs is a delicious piece of gum from a caring friend. So next time you toss your gum on the table, maybe take the extra step and say "Hey, Ed, want some gum?" That's all it may take to make the world a happier place.

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I fancy those late night walks where cars are nothing but a pair of luminous eyes creeping over a hill, where the sandy edges of roads tell more profound and personal tales than a highway could dare, and where the dark satin silhouette in lead blends with the warm and moist obscure pitch of the night air. In such a circumstance, we found ourselves beating a wayward path toward a certain destination.

Isolated on the road were we, and the notion of being watched from the brush crept up like a nun. Heavy footfalls we heard from the dark screen of shadow, nearing as we passed. We booked it; booked a rendézvous with a soft yellow glow under a streetlamp on down the road. We recognized and understood two conditions of our location: If the entity was following us, it would certainly not step forth into the light and reveal itself; and if the entity held its step, it would surely have no problem sniping off our illuminated persons with a gas-powered rifle.

Before our assassin could get his round off, the barking began. The lone faint sound of a small breed soon became coupled with his bulkier companion, and not long after, it turned into a page out of a circus program. The bastards wouldn't quit yapping, and more from both sides of our route joined the choir canine. Now that the neighborhood had been alerted to our post-curfew existence, my traveling-partner concluded that it was about time to take a piss on a nearby fence, under the brilliant moon and in plain view of many a lampened window. With bladder sapped, we went on, unaware that a beast was lurking uncaged. A faint barking turned loud, and louder again, doubling in volume and doubling our nerves. Yet it was only a golden lab, and a hardy fellow from the primary doorway to his quarters sent out this call for its return. Through his hollow gardens and the brush-lined edge of the yard, he inquired about our destination. It was Wawa. My companion felt compelled to apologize about stirring the dog, and shouted "Hey fella! Fella!" before doing so.

Many pairs of headlights passed us that night, and so we decided to put them to some use. Holding up our hitchhiker's thumbs with both zealous anticipation and indignant defeat time and time again, we decided to depend on the road as wanderers of the great path. To live and walk on the veins that circulate the blood of our land from place to place, knowing that all is connected, from shore to lake, plain to city, valley to mountain, fills one with a pride that can only be summed up in that understood oath. Never stop walking; stay to the right of the white line; always smile; keep thumbs erect, or in case of dearth of vehicles, prepared.

Times have changed, and it's obvious people are more concerned about their well-being and saftey of road-faring family. And with good reason. There are some fucking psychos out there, especially late on a Saturday night in a backwards boondock town. There's a killer on the road. His brain is squirming like a toad. Take a long holiday, let your children play. If you give this man a ride, sweet family will die; killer on the road.

We learned the hard way that nothing ticks a hitchhiker off more than when a car slows down to take a gander, but then picks up speed after assessing the situation. You don't walk up to a bum with a shiny quarter, slip on your latex gloves, proceed with the oral examination, and then decide to bugger off. It's easy to hide behind a pair of blinding beams and shatter-proof glass with a pedal under your toe. And again, there is no more awkward situation for a prospective hitchhiker than a stop sign. They have to stop next to you, and they probably don't like it. I heard the subtle click of the electric door locks; I know what you fellows are thinking. With our thumbs down like tail between our legs, we scurried past the intersection and avoided all eye contact. One such car passed us by, stopped at the light, and a condescending voice from within shouted "Need a ride?! Walking sucks!" and peeled out. It looked like a white Volkswagen, but perhaps I am still distraught from a certain prior incident.

On down the road we walked, beginning on the second, longer leg of the journey past the blinking light. The moon was cool and jaded, and a high mist straddled and softened the ambient rays that tumbled to our burdened shoulders. A barrage of headlights flew past us with that same caustic stare. Finally, one pair slowed and pulled over. The guy kept rolling for about twenty feet, and I started to think that he was just fooling us as we chased like obedient greyhounds. We went up to his window to confirm our destination, but it didn't matter. He said to go around the other side and get in.

He was nearly our age (well, my age), but I'd mark him up as about twenty or twenty-four. I called shotgun, and Mikey got in the back seat of the pickup. We told him where we were headed, but had a little trouble explaining why. "Going to Wawa with no ride back? You guys had better be careful hitchiking with the type of weirdos driving around this kind of town." Presuming the hitchhikers are beings with intrinsic good will, the man had a point; the only two types of people that will pick someone up are, first, the wacko/rapist/killer type with buggy eyes, a prospector beard, and a deer carcass in the trunk, and second, the good-willed kind of person who will pick you up just so that the first type won't have the chance. I had trouble reading this fellow. He gunned it down the road, then politely dropped us off. We exchanged goodbyes, and that's when it hit us. We were no longer hitchhiking virgins. Our "Men of the Road" status had instantly become much higher than most people alive in the world today. And that felt good. Buying an orange Gatorade and a pack of honey-roasted cashews never felt so thrilling or enthralling. In fact, we got a sort of high from it. We sauntered on again, hoping to hitch another ride down the road eternal.

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I decided to write a prologue to an old story of mine: The Brothers of Ipsen.

Jorge Before Reincarnation

Twice upon two times, there was an emu who rode the Seven Sands of Buhoyaqeen. However, he was a miniature emu, and thus jumped on each of the seven grains of sand one by one. When he reached the fifth, he slipped and fell five thousand nanometers. And after that, he also fell into a crevace: The Fissure of the Seasons.

In this fissure awaited a barbershop trio. They called themselves the Brothers of Ipsen. Peter, Hardy, and Bobby sang many a lascivious tune, which fell on the emu's deaf ears. You see, he lost them in the War of the River Skanks. A bullet had penetrated his aura and filled his appendix with seventeen ambiguous Post-It notes. To numb the pain, Jorge the Emu became addicted to PCP, which, as even Seymobugi knows, causes an emu to lose all of his/her pores. Without the ability to sweat, Jorge had to get all of the water sucked out of him. Everyone, even Seymobugi's daughter-in-law knows that emus are 97.5 The Hawk percent water, hence Jorge's lilliputian stature.

Suddenly, the Brothers of Ipsen sung their rendition of "O, My Mother is a Goudy One." Jorge was shoved off into the depths of Hades, where he fell into the chilly River Styx. He sucked up the water and forsaken souls like a sponge, oh boy! So good Cassius squeezed him out, then gayly hopped back into the mouth of Satan. Jorge did not give up yet, though, oh no. You see, he had an ability that no other emu had: A double-jointed cranium. He used this secret weapon to his advantage, and killed himself.

The End.

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