DREGULATOR, 2006 VOL. V #7

So many revelations this week, fiends.
Who knew Ambien was such a party in a bottle? Sleepdriving, sleepeating….you could take the car through the BK drive-thru and do both simultaneously…
This opens up so many possibilities. I have big plans for sleep-drinking, then sleep-dialing ex-boyfriends and hollering at them incoherently, sleeplifting top-dollar items from Prada, and finally sleep-killing-that-dog-across-the-street-who-never-stops-barking. And then I shall sleep-sue Big Pharma for the emotional distress my Ambien-related behavior has caused me.
But I am pitching a hot new Ambien-inspired video game: GRAND THEFT AUTO: SONAMBULANCE DRIVER.
Who knew that “Butcher of the Balkans” Slobodan Milosovic was the sweetest, most romantic guy ever?
Despite his predilection for offing hundreds of thousands of Bosnians, Croats and Serbs, Slobo apparently nursed a lifelong passion for his little wife, Mira. Before Milosovic’s trial in the Hague, they had apparently never been apart for more than a few hours since they first fell in love, in high-school.
“Alone and unloved,” quoth the WEEK of the lovers, who were both orphans, “they created their own world, a world that had little to do with reality – a pathological world.”
Milosovic apparently missed his wife so much that he became uninterested in his own defense at his trial, and took drugs to worsen his heart condition — in the hopes that he would be sent back to Russia and reunited with the only woman on earth who ever really saw things his way.
That’s just adorable. Kind of Bonnie-and-Clyde meets Hitler-and-Eva, adapted from a Nicholas Sparks novel.
I smell a Lifetime Television docudrama. Slobo could stands outside of her onion-domed turret window and serenade her by holding a gun to the head of a blindfolded, balaclava-strumming Bosnian, sort of like Johnny Cusack in “Say Anything” but way more deserving of a supersize, Soviet-heyday-style bronze victory statue.
Poor Slobo. He was depressed.
And speaking of depression, Isaac Hayes must be kinda bummed out that the Scientologists decided he wanted to quit his South Park job, and allegedly did it for him while he was incapacitated from a stroke. Maybe Chef actually quit himself, but maybe it doesn’t count, because he was sleepquitting and accidentally sleepotaged his career.
And speaking of the South Park Super Adventure Club, Mr. and Mrs. Tom Cruise apparently are already married, according to the Enquirer, but they won’t tell the rest of the world because it’s a secret. Because they’re in the Extra Special Holy Person club and you’re not. You’re too polluted with body thetans to understand, so don’t even try.
They did it on a yacht, with nobody in attendance save for obese Jenny Craig spokesperson Kirsty Alley, pilot-drag-loving John Travolta, and Katie Holmes’ omnipresent Scientology “handler”-barnacle, Jessica Rodriguez, who, I guess, needed to observe with unsmiling super-scrutiny that Katie made no disruptive sounds during the wedding-night ritual. Sayeth the Enquirer, re: the Cruise-cruise:
“They exchanged rings which had engraved triangles inside them. Scientologists call it the ARC triangle, for Affinity, Reality and Communication.” These spiritual super-pioneers have eliminated the need for Love and Honor — and bully for them, I say. As for Reality, it’s good that they’re finally trying to work towards it.
Still, it’s not as romantic as Slobo and Mira.
They created their own world, a world that had little to do with reality – a pathological world…
There is hope for those of us who can’t afford to be Scientologists: According to the Enquirer, there is “new hope for 10 million Americans who suffer from chronic depression and do not respond to medication” or other therapies. The new “Vagal Nerve Stimulator” implant, inserted in the chest like a pacemaker, delivers “mild electrical pulses” to the vagus nerve, which connects to the mood-part of the brain and could soon make people happy all the time….
…Though perhaps not so happy as the “vomiting religion,” otherwise known as the Amazonian shamanic ritual drinking of ayahuasca. According to an essay in the WEEK by Kira Salak, ayahuasca, which is made from a carefully concocted array of plants and contains a mind-smearing amount of DMT, was studied by a professor of psychiatry from UCLA and discovered to give users “a greater sensitivity to serotonin…by increasing the number of serotonin receptors on nerve cells.” Ayahuasca, the article goes on to say, creates a state of altered consciousness profound enough to lead to “temporary ego disintegration,” which led the writer to experience an “exorcism”: “On and on it goes. The screaming, the wailing. My body shakes wildly; I see a great serpent emerging from my body….after what seems like an infinite battle of wills, the creature leaves me. I grab the vomit bucket and puke for several minutes.”
Afterwards, Ms. Salak goes on to say, “I woke to discover that the severe depression that had ruled my life since childhood had miraculously vanished.”
And she didn’t even need to hang out with Jessica Rodriguez!
At the moment, I can’t take any responsibility for this column, because I am sleepwriting.
Night-night, Fiends.