Free The Voice of Reason: A V.I.P. Pass to Enlightenment by Chael Sonnen

T-shirts. I know, I know, you bought it at a street fair full of “fair trade” and “organic” merchandise, so it’s gotta be real. After all, there are no hucksters in the world of green living, right? You’ve got a vaguely identifiable, hysterical need and no oversight, and that combo never breeds dishonesty or corruption, does it?
    But wait a second. Didn’t that fellow who sold you that “fair trade,” “organic,” hideous pseudo-serape look suspiciously like the guy manning the sausage ‘n’ peppers stand at last week’s Italian-American street fair? You know, the booth you pointed at in righteous disgust before you turned up your snooty little vegan nose. They look awfully similar, that’s all I’m sayin’.
    Now I want you to remove those filthy Jesus sandals. God, if Jesus only knew that his name would become irretrievably linked with people like you , wearing shoes named after him , I think he would have fast-forwarded himself to modern times for a brief shopping interlude. Before heading back to the dust and distrust of the New Testament, he would have snagged his holy self a pair of Bally driving moccasins to gallivant around in.
    Great, so glad you’re out of them filthy, phony duds. Dang, you’re a scrawny one, arentcha? Unka ChaCha is going to call up a meatball-parm air strike from my favorite pizza place while we getcha all scrubbed up. That’s right, little guy, crawl under that translucent, shimmering column. It’s what we call a “shower.” Yes, that stuff coming down is heated, flowing water. It helps carry away dirt and grime. I’m hoping it can also carry away self-righteousness and stupidity, but that’s probably expecting too much. There ya go! How’s that water feel? You know, water has a friend, kind of a sidekick or lil’ helper. He’s like water’s Tonto. We normal human beings call him soap. He’s right here—I told him all about you, and he’s dyin’ to meetcha.
    Now get under that hot water, grab that soap, and start scubbin’. While you’re doing that, getting all warm and clean for the very first time, I’ll go outside, chop down an endangered tree, and use its life—its very essence—to make a fire so I can burn your clothes, your shoes, your grubby accessories, your grimy hacky sack, that dime bag of skunk weed I found in your pants, and your well-thumbed copy of Silent Spring .
    Finished? Good. You no longer smell like a plague-ridden rat. You still look like the lead singer from the Spin Doctors if he had been swept up by a tornado, spun around for three weeks, and then deposited in a cistern somewhere, but for you it’s an improvement. Your cell phone? Oh, I burned that, too. Too many chemicals and minerals and slave-labor-manufactured parts. It hadda go. If you want to communicate with your girlfriend and let her know where y’are and what y’are doin’, just bang out a coded rhythm on that hollow log like all those indigenous tribes you admire so much would do. Oh, she’s in jail? Disturbing the peace again, you say? Well, I’m sure she did it for the “right” reasons. Throwing that brick through the plate-glass window of a Starbuck’s during last week’s rally against corporate America really sent a message to … well … somebody, I guess. Hope she’s enjoying that orange jump suit and grape Kool-Aid in the slammer.
    But let’s focus on you, my newfound, newly clean(ish) friend. Here’s a Team Quest T-shirt. Wait—gimme that back. Here’s an Anderson “the Spider” Silva T-shirt for your emaciated lil’ midriff. It’ll give me something to aim for once we start our verbal sparring; you know, I hit him about 697 times when we fought. Plus, I’ve got lots of these T-shirts. Since he’s got no fans, I scoop them up on eBay for two bucks a pop. I use them to wash my truck, which I do five times a week using as much clean, fresh water as possible. I like to make sure every inch of my “highway star” is gleaming, just in case I