I ask you: Is it right to make fun of people who are caught in the hell of an obviously irreversable addiction? Is it really funny that thousands of human beings in this country are irrevocably bound to a vicious and ultimately fatal drug? That they have had everything in their lives stolen or prostituted? Is it morally justifiable to enjoy the terminal throes of people? Of human beings, man?!?!

You're goddamned right it is.

Tweakers are scum. They are the lowest of our number. They're walking petty crime generators. If it's not bolted down, a tweaker will steal it. If it is bolted down, they'll be coming back with a socket set. I hate these miserable cocksuckers like cancer. Cancer with legs. I hate them like Republican senators hate glory hole sting operations. This is my eleventh year of working EMS in a 911 response area. I've come to know tweakers like Ahab knew Moby Dick. I can find the rotten-smelling bastards by scent. I can drive past a house and with a glance tell you if one of the inhabitants is a tweaker. I can watch one walk acros a parking lot 100 yards away and tell you that he's high as a fucking Georgia pine. I hate a fucking tweaker more than any other member of this country's drug-ingesting population. Wake-and-Bake stoners are just good-natured dumbasses. They won't hurt you unless you happen to be wearing a vest made from twinkies. Junkies? Nah, junkies aren't generally going to fuck with you. The really terminal ones usually just beg. Crackheads and PCP enthusiasts can be a pain, but you can usually just call in police backup and sit back smokng a cigarette while the Five-Oh get their taze on. And drunks are basically just barely-walking bayonete dummies. But tweakers have a special place in my grease-dripping heart. I hate them more than any other subset of the population. It's not that they're any more dangerous. Yeah, sure. A few firefighters a year get baked in meth lab fires. But those are firefighters. Have you met any of those assholes? Trust me when I tell you that they're really only alive in a theoretical sense. No, there's something more primal driving my hatred of the Great American Tweaker. And I have no clue what it is. All I know is that I despise them.

So you can imagine my joy at finding a new meth documentary in the video store. Actually, 'joy' doesn't cover it. I got hard. The simple joy of watching intimate footage of tweakers chafing themselves bloody in the entertainingly horrific shackles of their miserable existence is enough to take my mind off the shambles that my own life has become. 'Schedenfreude' doesn't even begin to cover this. This isn't a casual enjoyment of another person's pain. This is a spectator sport for me. I'm like a Mexican kickball fan with this shit. I want to strip the the waist, paint myself blue, hang around the local jail and scream "GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLL!!!!" every time the cops haul in a sore-covered tweaker. I want to watch these people die. No, that's not accurate. I want to watch these people suffer. Then, I want to watch them make their families suffer. THEN, I want to watch them die. And baby, when I saw this box on the shelf at Blockbuster, I grabbed it faster than Warren Jeffs going after a fifth-grader. This was going to be great. The Bush Regime Bribe Payment had come in, I had a fridge full of booze, a bag full of wet naps and a handful of human misery. It was game on.

Negative, Ghost Rider. The pattern is full.

Was I stupid enough to think that Val Kilmer was going to actually appear in this thing? Yeah, sure. I can see Chris Knight swilling $5-a-bottle spring water in the Tulsa Municipal Jail and chatting it up with Bobby Joe Dumbfuck. I don't think Kilmer has left his house in ten years. He didn't even narrate for more than ten seconds. But hell, I was expecting something in the neighborhood of a serious documentary. Something. Anything! Where were the sore-riddled Lot Lizards selling their fissured asses for $40 a go? Where were the impotently screaming leather-covered skeletons handcuffed in the backs of police cruisers? Where were the rag-covered human meat byproducts taking dentition-shattering headers into curbs with tazer wires streaming behind them? Where was the human misery? Where was the pain? Give it to me!

Well, it wasn't there. None of it. Instead, we get videocam footage of a couple of dozen mostly clueless public officials complaining that they just couldn't wrap their commitee-directed little brains around the methamphatamine problem. Kids look at your 'shocking' PSAs and they laugh? Really? They can see worse than that after thirty seconds with a search engine. Oh, lawd! Tweakers are cooking meth with household cleaners, battery parts and OTC medications? These FUCKING IDITOS! would snort the contents of a chemical toilet left over from the cleanup of the Chernobyl reactor if they thought it would get them high. People are willing to prostitute everything in their lives for meth and you can't figure out why? No shit? Dude, it's 9,000 times more addictive than anything you've ever experienced in your life. Sure, the hedonistic pinnacle of your entire existence involved that time your old lady got wasted on Bartles and Jaymes Pina Colada Coolers and let you stick the head of your cock in her ass before she screamed like a scalded cat and ran away faster than Jesse Owens with the Klan on his ass. But these people are experiencing shit your mind will never be able to grasp. When the closest you've ever been to illicit narcotics is organizing a prayer group for a teenaged girl who got caught with a pinner joint behind the band hall, you have no fucking business even thinking about combating something as corrosive as methamphatamine addiction. You should just hang it the fuck up and accept that some people are destined to be total human clusterfucks.

And that's what this whole meth thing is about anyway, right? About halfway through the film, we see what is supposed to be a typical American Tweaker Couple. of course, the crew finds them as the local cops are trying to figure out whether or not they should take the couple's four young children from a household that is rife with drug abuse and absent running water. They don't, by the way. Way to go, Officer Dumbfuck. No running water? Check. Drug-addled parents? Check. Roaches so brazen that when you turn on the light, they shoot it out? Check. Sure. Sounds like a grand place for a child to form his or her world view in. After the Donut Brigade rambles down the road to set fire to the tree a random kitten is stranded in, we get to talk to these two dipshits in confidence. And it really is one of the few really bright spots in this entire sad shitfest of a wannabe documentary. First, we get to see the Kids. The first thing we see is a toddler, buck naked and filthy and playing with her own crotch. Hello, Middle America. James and Holly might seem like true pieces of work, but they're actually pretty typical tweakers. James yearns for a Christian Life. Well, right after he 'wins the lottery' and 'pulls a transmission' for 'a guy'. And he knows that Holly's cervical cancer can 'get bad'. Really? No shit. Cancer can 'get bad', you fucking genius? Say it ain't so! And it's not that I blame James for this shit. Let's just face the fact that James won't face for himself: Holly wouldn't have cervical cancer if it weren't for the steady stream of HPV-infected cocks she was taking down at the truck stop to pay for her sweet, sweet candy. The funniest part is that a $50-a-week meth habit financially broke these fucking people. I work on an ambulance and I'm flat fucking broke and even I can afford that. At this point, you simply have to face the reality that we as a society need a drug like methamphetamines to weed out the unworthy from our gene pool. These people are scum. They are not even human fucking beings. Meth doesn't find people. People find meth. And only a certain kind of person stays with it. That person is human waste. That person really should suffer. They shouldn't be allowed a decent existence. Their pain and the pain of all those they associate with should be savored by us as a civilization. I'm glad that they're going to die. I'm glad that their children are going to wind up in prison. Good. Keep the monstrous little genetic defectives the fuck away from me.

We as a species have nullified evolution. Back in the Good Old Days, we could count on nature to skim the slower-moving parts of the gene pool with some regularity. One hundred thousand years ago, James and Holly would have met with the business end of something large and hungry long before they were able to leave their genetic grafitti on the genome. But in a day and age when any Corkyfied windowlicking short bus seatwarmer can not only survive to adulthood but mate, well folks, we need some new sabertooths. Our current best bet is meth. We need[i/] meth. It's not as fast or effective as the old combination of fangs and an empty stomach, but it'll do just fine for now. I understand that there are those of you who feel that we should somehow help these poor bastards. I also understand that some of you are total FUCKING IDITOS!. You can not help a person who willingly pursues a course of action that they know will end in their absolute destruction. Do you think these people are blind? Contrary to what the PSAs tell you, your average tweaker [i]knows way deep down that they will never get away from meth. And they don't fucking care. You can't help a person like that. Nor should you even try. Any attempt to step between an addict and his or her drug is a mistake. Especially when that drug is meth. Just let them go.

They deserve it. And we're all better off in the long run.