Liquid courage is an evil that needs to be combated. It is an epidemic of pandemic proportions, and it is slowly eating away at the fiber of our society. After a few beers, people do things they normally don't do. Spouses cheat, people fight, or they do what I did, and decide that having a cigarette isn't a bad idea.

After four months of feeling great about myself, smelling good, and saving money, it all came crashing down. I emotionally invested in liquid courage and I am now a stinky shareholder in it, as well as Phillip Morris. The side effects of this courage are taking it's toll, in the form of shortness of breath and apathy. It's been about four days since I started dancing with good old Mr. Brown lung, and I already remember why I dropped him as a friend in the first place.

He's the guy at the party that doesn't go away, he's the monkey on your back that comes in the form of marketed and packaged tobacco, and he is here to stay. Sympathizers of the epidemic combat it with awareness, patches and pills, yet Mr. Brown lung prevails atop his mighty horse on page two of your favorite sports magazines. Ruggedly handsome and seemingly confident, it's almost homoerotic to consider him as a reason to smoke. But he's not. He's the wheezy spokesperson, a Ronald McDonald for stressed out adults. If there were no spokesperson, people would still eat Big Macs and smoke. We have needs too, and a toy in a happy meal or camel cash will do nothing to validate our purchase. My bone of contention is not with any marketing department; I need to go to the source above that department, the source of all things rotten, and that is the department of liquid courage.

Why do you do this to good people, Mr. or Mrs. Courage? What did we ever do to you? And can I get your physical address so I can locate you and do what every other good American would do and sue your ass? My life has been altered in a negative light because of the thoughts that you put into my head. You need to pay for my own personal failures. Of course it wasn't my fault. I was just looking to have a few beers and I walked out a smoker again. If I don't have you licked in a couple of days, I'm calling a lawyer (I'll be too tired to walk there) and the litigation will begin.

I'll beat this. I have to. There is no glory in being a walking smokestack, and the vice is a vice on me that I'm poised to loosen. I just need to rid myself of the liquid courage, but that would require one simple step; refrain from alcohol. How am I supposed to do that? That's another column in itself!

I don't drink very much or very often, it's when I do that the liquid courage gives me the courage to dance. And I'm not talking about the jitterbug here folks; I'm talking about good ol' Mr. Brown lung. The next time it happens, I'll be sure to pull him in close and tell him a little secret about how I feel about him. You're a fucking asshole, and I'll beat you. Somehow.

May I have this dance?