I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn't move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. I was panting and paranoid, sure that when the room-service waiter knocked and I didn't answer, he'd call the police and have me arrested for being unable to handle my candy.
I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.
Great news though: Dowd survived, and shall no doubt live on to write many columns that leave us all questioning her relationship to (sober) reality.
The column raises a question for regular op-ed page readers: what kind of drugs should the other stalwarts of the quasi-respectable pundit game be encouraged by the page's editors to ingest?
Charles Blow on blow (cocaine, for those of you with innocent eyes and ears) is an obvious candidate.
But what about David Brooks? Frank Bruni? Ross Douthat? Thomas Friedman?
Puns are not only allowed, they are encouraged. Please give some indication of your reasons for a match.
[Image by Jim Cooke.]