Radio Radio...

“……TUMTEE TUMTEE TUMTEE TUM, PUDDLEY PUDDLEY PUM…..”

(Announcer’s voice): “That was 'The Archers'. And now on Radio 4, Jim Mischievous presents “The Toady Programme”…

Jim Mischievous: “Thanks, Sue. Today on the “Toady” hotline, I’ll be speaking to outgoing CEO of Phoni Pharmaceutical's European operation, Jean-Paul Loonier. Jean, welcome to the programme…”

Loonier: ‘allo, Jim. I am pleased to be on ze show. ‘Owever, Jim, my name is Jean-Jacques, not Jean-Paul...’

JM: ‘I apologise, Jean-Jacques…’

Loonier: ‘Zat is fine, but sadly typical of ze lies and distortions propagated by ze anti-pharmaceutical industry media zeese days. ‘Owever, your mistake is understandable as my name is often confused wiz zat of ze former Pope, no doubt due to ze many charitable initiatives and compassion for ze poor zat I am zo famous for…”

JM: “You mention your company’s charitable initiatives. Can you give our listeners an example?”

Loonier: “Why do you journalists from ze media always concentrate on ze negative side of ze industry? Why do you never talk about ze huge amounts of money my company and its executives make, zus allowing zis money to trickle down and fertilise ze national economies of ze major industrialised countries of ze world?”

JM: “Erm, I thought charitable work would be seen as a positive…”

Loonier: “Zis eez typical of ze unscientific debate in ze media zeese days. Last year, for example, my company supplied 200 tonnes of date-expired anti-HIV medicines to third world countries at cost price. Cost price! And yet Phoni was condemned by ze media as using ze third world as a dumping ground for dangerous or unwanted medicines! No matter what we do, we are still criticised!!”

JM: “…er, well, tell us about your compassion for the poor that you mentioned...”

Loonier: “Lies! Distortion! Slander!”

JM: “…er, you mentioned it just now…”

Loonier: “I work unceasingly for ze poor, and yet you attack me for it. Take my wife, for example. She ‘as never worked for Phoni and zo is very poor. ‘Owever, zanks to my work, she will now receive a company pension of $3 million a year when I retire zis month. Is zat not remarkable?”

JM: “It certainly is, Jean Jacques…”

Loonier: “See? You are doing eet again! Why do you journalists and media liberals always berate and criticise us pharmaceutical CEOs? Is eet because I am French? You Engleesh, you are all ze same. You ‘ave never forgiven us for winning ze Battle of Waterloo…”

JM: “Um, the French didn’t win the Battle of Waterloo, Jean-Jacques…”

Loonier: “Zat is the sort of unscientific revisionalist distortion in ze media zat I am referring to. Next you will be saying zat Phoni deliberately covered up negative observations during its clinical trials of its antidepressant Saloadatat, where some patients turned into giant green psychopathic mutants and destroyed whole cities…”

JM: “Well, as you mention it…”

Loonier: “More media lies! More distortion!! Does eet never end? My company 'as always been totally transparent in its conduct!! Everyone knows zat we suppress adverse trials data and exaggerate favourable results to get licences for our products, and will attack, smear or threaten anyone who criticises us! You cannot be more transparent zan zat! I will not ‘ave ze safety of our highly profitable life-saving drugs called into question by ze liberal, industry-hating media!! Our drugs are perfectly safe! Why, I take zem myself, zuch is zere quality and safety!!

JM: “Er, yes indeed, Jean-Jacques. Moving on…”

Loonier: “People like you make me zo angry. ANGRY! IT MAKES ME WANT TO KILL!! KILL AND DESTROY!! DESTROY ZEM ALL!!! ARRRRGH!!! ZE TRANSFORMATION 'AS STARTED. ARRRRGH!!! ARRRRGH!!! (Sounds of clothing tearing.) I AM COMING FOR YOU, MONSIEUR LIBERAL PINKO RADIO JOURNALIST!! ZERE WILL BE NO MORE LIES OR SLANDER FROM YOU!!!! (Telephone line goes dead).

JM: “Er, Jean-Jacques? Jean-Jacques? Are you still there…?”

Screams and noise of collapsing buildings…

Loonier: ZERE IS NO HIDING FROM ZE CRAZED MUTANT WRATH OF LOONIER. EXTERMINATE !!!!! EXTERMINATE!!!!!!…….”

Sudden silence.

(Announcer’s voice): “Well, we seem to have lost Jim for a moment. We hope to go back shortly once we’ve rebuilt the studio, but in the meantime, this seems like an appropriate time to catch up with our Olympics correspondent in Beijing, Wai Lee Koioti. Wai, what’s been happening today…?”

Wai Lee Koioti: “Greetings from the People’s Republic of China, home of high quality and not at all dangerous modern architecture and pharmaceuticals. Well, it’s been a day of amazing athletics here in Beijing today. We’ve seen some record breaking performances in the Pharmaceutical CEO’s Triathlon this morning, where Glaxo’s JP Garnier has just set new distance records in the Spitting The Dummy, Throwing Toys Out Of the Cot and Hurling The Rattle Events. Our roving reporter, Bob Gandhi, spoke to Jean-Pierre after the medal ceremony…

BG: “Congratulations, Jean-Pierre. Can you tell our listeners if your performance was in any way enhanced by the products of major pharmaceutical companies…?

JPG: “People like you make me so angry. ANGRY! IT MAKES ME WANT TO KILL!! KILL AND DESTROY!! DESTROY ZEM ALL!!! ARRRRGH!!! ZE TRANSFORMATION 'AS STARTED. ARRRRGH!!! ARRRRGH!!! ….. (Telephone line goes dead...)


PharmaGossip brings us not entirely unrelated tales from the parallel universe of reality…

1984 And All That...

THE CHESTNUT TREE was almost empty. A ray of sunlight slanting through a window fell on dusty table-tops. It was the lonely hour of fifteen. Tinny music trickled from the telescreen.

Giles sat in his usual corner, gazing into an empty glass. Now and again he glanced up at a vast face which eyed him from the opposite wall. BIG PHARMA IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said. Unbidden, the barman came and filled his glass up with a beer that pretended to be Bass. It was saccharine and cloudy, but at least it had alcohol in it. It was the only pub in town these days. Big Pharma disapproved of drinking.

Giles was listening to the telescreen. At present only music was coming out of it, but there was a possibility that at any moment there might be a special bulletin from the Phoni CEO. The news from the financial front was disquieting in the extreme. On and off he had been worrying about it all day. Product sales were moving southward at terrifying speed. The mid-day bulletin had not mentioned any definite therapeutic area, but it was known already that exclusive patents on all of the company’s major products were due to expire at any moment. One did not have to look at the quarterly statements to see what it meant. It was not merely a question of losing one product: for the first time, the entire product portfolio itself was menaced.

A violent emotion, not fear exactly, but a sort of undifferentiated excitement, flared up in him, then faded again. Giles stopped thinking about pharmaceutical sales. In these days he could never fix his mind on any one subject for more than a few moments at a time. He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp. As always, the beer made him shudder and even retch slightly. The stuff was horrible. Nothing could not disguise the flat oily smell; and what was worst of all was that the smell of beer, which dwelt with him night and day, was inextricably mixed up in his mind with the smell of HR…

Giles never named them, even in his thoughts, and so far as it was possible he never visualized them. They were something that he was half-aware of, hovering close to his face, a smell that clung to his nostrils. As the beer rose in him he belched through purple lips. He had grown fatter since they released him, and had regained his old colour—indeed, more than regained it. His features had thickened, the skin on nose and cheekbones was coarsely red, even the bald scalp was too deep a pink. The barman, again unbidden, brought the current issue of the Times, with the page turned down at the financial section. Then, seeing that Giles’s glass was empty, he took it to the pump and filled it. There was no need to ask. He knew his habits. He never even bothered to count his drinks. At irregular intervals they presented him with a dirty slip of paper which they said was the bill, but he had the impression that they always undercharged him. It would have made no difference if it had been the other way about. He had always plenty of money nowadays. He even had a job, a sinecure, more highly-paid than his old job had been.

The music from the telescreen stopped and a voice took over. Giles raised his head to listen. No bulletins from the CEO, however. It was merely a brief announcement from Phoni’s HR department. In the preceding quarter, it appeared, the Tenth ThreeYear Plan’s quota for outsourcing had been overfulfilled by 98 per cent.

The voice from the telescreen paused and added in a different and much graver tone: ‘You are warned to stand by for an important announcement at fifteen-thirty. Fifteen- thirty! This is news of the highest importance. Take care not to miss it. Fifteen-thirty !’ The tinkling music struck up again.

Giles’s heart stirred. This was the bulletin from the CEO; instinct told him that it was bad news that was coming. All day, with little spurts of excitement, the thought of a crushing decline in profits had been in and out of his mind. He seemed actually to see the competition swarming across the Nether Wallop campus. Why had it not been possible to outflank them in some way? The outline of the R&D complex stood out vividly in his mind. It might mean anything: defeat, breakdown, the re-division of the research operation, the destruction of the company! He drew a deep breath. An extraordinary medley of feeling—but it was not a medley, exactly; rather it was successive layers of feeling, in which one could not say which layer was undermost—struggled inside him.

The spasm passed. His thoughts wandered again. Almost unconsciously he traced with his finger in the dust on the table:

2 + 2 = 5

‘They can’t get inside you,’ she had said. But they could get inside you. ‘What happens to you here is for ever,’ HR had said. That was a true word. There were things, your own acts, from which you could never recover. Something was killed in your breast: burnt out, cauterized out.

Then he saw her. His former HR contact. She came and sat beside him at the bar. He saw that she was about to speak. She moved her clumsy shoe a few centimetres and deliberately crushed an empty crisp packet on the floor. Her arse seemed to have grown broader, he noticed.

‘I betrayed you,’ she said baldly.

‘I know,’ Giles said.

She gave him a quick look of dislike.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘they threaten you with something, something you can’t stand up to, can’t even think about. And then you say, “Don’t do it to me, do it to somebody else, do it to So-and-so.” And perhaps you might pretend, afterwards, that it was only a trick and that you just said it to make them stop and didn’t really mean it. But that isn’t true. At the time when it happens you do mean it. You think there’s no other way of saving yourself, and you’re quite ready to save yourself that way. You want it to happen to the other person. You don’t give a damn what they suffer. All you care about is yourself.’

‘All you care about is yourself,’ he echoed.

‘And after that, you don’t feel the same towards the other person any longer.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘you don’t feel the same.’

There did not seem to be anything more to say.

‘Well, it’s been nice catching up with you. We must meet again,’ Giles said, with deliberately heavy irony.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we must.’

She left.

Giles took up his glass and sniffed at the beer. The stuff grew not less but more horrible with every mouthful he drank. But it had become the element he swam in. It was his life, his death, and his resurrection. It was beer that sank him into stupor every night, and beer that revived him every morning.

Occasionally, perhaps twice a week, he went to a dusty, forgotten-looking office in the Phoni PR department and did a little work, or what was called work. He had been appointed to a sub-committee of a sub-committee which had sprouted from one of the innumerable committees dealing with minor difficulties that arose in the compilation of the Eleventh Edition of the DrugWonks Dictionary. They were engaged in producing something called an Interim Report, but what it was that they were reporting on he had never definitely found out. It was something to do with the question of whether insults should be placed inside quotation marks, or outside. There were four others on the committee, all of them persons similar to himself. There were days when they assembled and then promptly dispersed again, frankly admitting to one another that there was not really anything to be done. But there were other days when they settled down to their work almost eagerly, making a tremendous show of entering up their minutes and drafting long memoranda which were never finished—when the argument as to what they were supposedly arguing about grew extraordinarily involved and abstruse, with subtle haggling over definitions, enormous digressions, quarrels threats, even, to appeal to higher authority. And then suddenly the life would go out of them and they would sit round the table looking at one another with extinct eyes, like ghosts fading at cock-crow.

The telescreen was silent for a moment. Giles raised his head again. The bulletin! A shrill trumpet-call had pierced the air. It was the bulletin! Victory! It always meant victory when a trumpet- call preceded the news. A sort of electric drill ran through the pub. Even the barman had started and pricked up his ears.

The trumpet-call had let loose an enormous volume of noise. Already an excited voice was gabbling from the telescreen, but even as it started it was almost drowned by a roar of cheering from outside. The news had run round the streets like magic. He could hear just enough of what was issuing from the telescreen to realize that it had all happened, as he had foreseen; the Phoni Legal team had secretly delivered a sudden blow to the generic companies who were poised to eat Phoni’s lunch. Fragments of triumphant phrases pushed themselves through the din: ‘Vast strategic manoeuvre—perfect co-ordination—utter rout—two billion in sales—complete demoralization of competitors sales force—control of the whole of the therapeutic area—bring sales within measurable distance of year end targets—greatest victory in pharmaceutical sales history—victory, victory, victory !’

Under the table Giles’s feet made convulsive movements. He had not stirred from his seat, but in his mind he was running, swiftly running, he was with the crowds outside, cheering himself deaf. He looked up again at the portrait of Big Brother. The colossus that bestrode the pharmaceutical industry! The rock against which the hordes of Asia dashed themselves in vain ! He thought how ten minutes ago -yes, only ten minutes- there had still been equivocation in his heart as he wondered whether the news from the financial front would be of victory or defeat. Ah, it was more than a competitor’s product that had perished! Much had changed in him since that first day in Phoni’s HR office, but the final, indispensable, healing change had never happened, until this moment.

The voice from the telescreen was still pouring forth its tales of profits and rising share prices, but the shouting outside had died down a little. The Phoni faithful were returning back to their work. The barman re-filled his glass. Giles, sitting in a blissful dream, paid no attention as his glass was filled up. He was not running or cheering any longer. He was back in the HR office, with everything forgiven, his soul white as snow. He was in the Security complex, confessing everything, implicating everybody. He was walking down the white-tiled corridor, with the feeling of walking in sunlight, and a security guard at his back. The long hoped-for bullet was entering his brain.

Giles gazed up at the enormous face. Twenty-five years it had taken him to learn what kind of smile was hidden beneath those waxy jowls. O cruel, needless misunderstanding! O stubborn, self-willed exile from the loving breast! Two beer-scented tears trickled down the sides of his nose. But it was all right, everything was all right, the struggle was finished. He had won the victory over himself

He loved Big Pharma.

An epitaph completely ripped from the Orwell classic, of course…

How Dare You...

About a year ago, I received a rather strange telephone call at home. Not having much else to write about (here, at least), I thought I'd share it with you.

It went something like this…

“Hello, is that Giles?”

“Who’s speaking?”

“This is Dave Himmler. Phoni Corporate Security. Remember me?”

“Not especially.”

“That is Giles, isn’t it…?”

“Yes Dave, it is. What do you want? Rang up to say “Happy Birthday” have you? Or is the pharmaceutical spook business just slow these days?”

“Giles, we’re a little concerned about your new blog. We don’t like its tone. Management here at Phoni think it’s insulting both them and the company, generating adverse publicity in the Internet community, and is also having a negative effect on our employees…”

“Dave, I really don’t know what you are talking about or why you are hassling a nobody like me. It’s not like I was a former VP of marketing or anything. And whilst I also know you corporate security guys aren’t the fastest on the uptake, I left Phoni ages ago. Check your records. So what I may or may not do as a private individual is no business of yours or of Phoni’s, short of me actually committing a criminal offence. If you or your corporate lawyer friends want to take action on anything you think I may be doing along those lines, then fine. Otherwise, piss off.”

“Trying to prevent adverse publicity for Phoni and its employees is my business, Giles. And there are some fairly large egos here that are a trifle affronted at what you are doing. You work for (redacted) now, don’t you?”

“Been doing your homework again, Dave?”

“We like to keep tabs on our ex-employees, Giles, especially those we think might have the ability to make mischief for us. We’ve seen some of your output and we know you correspond with (redacted)”

“You really must have been tapping the wires if you think you can support that sort of statement. Still, I guess Phoni are big enough not to have to care about little things like the law of the land. But like I said, what I might or might not do on my own private computer in my own home, who I write to and what I write about is nothing to do with you. Haven’t you got some animal rights terrorists to worry about rather than people like me? I was a nobody at Phoni, Dave. Why do you and your bosses still feel a need to keep an eye on me?”

“Oh, people like you can do more damage to the company than a few unwashed, sociopathic hippies or deranged grannies. You have some insider knowledge, after all. But I don’t think your current management would be too pleased if they knew that one of its employees was writing a blog that’s so critical of its major customers. The job market is pretty tight these days. And you wouldn't want to say goodbye to your 401K would you? We'll , what's left of it after we've paid off our executives out of the employee fund, anyway...”

“I didn’t have too much trouble finding employment after Phoni, Dave…”

“Yes, you surprised us. You obviously have a broader range of marketable skills than we thought.”

“That didn’t stop Phoni from hassling me to the edge of a nervous breakdown, did it?”

“No it didn’t, Giles. So back off of the web stuff if you don’t want us to hassle you out of a job again.”

“I just love a good threat. Do you mind if I write this one up in my blog?”

“Don’t make life unpleasant for yourself again, Giles. Just leave us alone and we’ll leave you alone.”

“What do you say to your children when they ask you what you do for a living, Dave? Do you lie to them?”

“I tell them I’m a policeman, Giles. Which in a way, I am.”

“Tut-tut. How can you lie to your own children, Dave? Still, if I were you, I’d be ashamed to admit to doing what you do for a living as well. I mean, proper spooks work for national governments, don’t they? You’re just a uniformed bouncer for a bunch of rather nasty pharma cowboys. Do you find that rewarding? What a come down from MI5 or whoever it was that you used to spook for! Proud of your new career, are you?”

“Bye bye Giles. And remember, lay off of the blog stuff if your want to keep working for a living. Unemployment could just be the start of your problems…”

“Working for a living? You should try it sometime...”

“Bye, Giles. Remember, I’m serious…”

All totally made up, of course…

Big Pharma has better things to do, after all...

"At Weekends My Name Is Mandy..."

Deep within the bowels of the underground security and executive management bunker at Phoni Pharm’s US headquarters in Dry Prong, Louisiana, Phoni CEO Johnny B. Sinister has called together Phoni’s senior executives to discuss the latest corporate image management crisis…

JBS: Thanks for coming along. I apologise for interrupting your weekend activities, but I felt we had to respond to the revelations in Friday’s Dry Prong Times regarding Melvyn Bender, our VP of Global Intellectual Property Management. Orville, can you update the team?

Orville J. Huckster (Phoni General Counsel): Sure, chief. Yesterday’s Dry Prong Times picked up on the fact the Melvyn has been surfing numerous seedy sex sites on the Internet, under the alias of Candy Hotstuff. Apparently, the police have been tracking the statewide activities of folk who have been grooming domestic appliances for sexual purposes, and traced a link back to Melvyn’s IP address.

JBS: Is that sort of appliance thing illegal, Orv?

OJS: Only in Louisiana, John. Anyway, the press are having a field day with it all, given Melvyn’s role in the MED patents and his personal stash of Priapic the police found when they raided his home. Not to mention Melvyn’s collection of vacuum cleaners…

JBS: Jesus. I guess I picked the wrong weekend to give up smoking. What kind of weirdoes do we employ here?

Siobhan Mann-Hayter (President Of Phoni HR): Well, our senior management employment policy has always been to recruit individuals with characteristics that are amenable to blackmail, should any of them ever threaten to go public about our business activities.

JBS: Ah, that explains it all. Say, I like the wet, skin-tight leather look, Siobhan, but can you be careful with that bullwhip?

SMH: Sorry, Johnny, I got a bit carried away. But it is the weekend and as you know, it's unofficial HR policy to insist that employee’s personal lives are conducted according to our company values, as well their professional ones…

JBS: Jesus. I guess I picked the wrong week to give up drinking absinthe (takes long pull from hip flask). Well, keep up the good work Siobhan. And Orv?

OJS: Yes, Johnny?

JBS: Why are you wearing your wife’s panties?

OJS: How did you know?

JBS: You’re wearing them on your head, Orv…

OJS: Er, boss?

JBS: What?

OJS: It’s the weekend. At weekends, my name is Mandy. It’s in my contract with Volkswagen. I’d prefer it if you could call me Mandy…

JBS: Jesus. I guess I picked the wrong week to give up taking amphetamines (swallows two small blue pills). OK, Mandy, so what are we doing to minimise the publicity surrounding the case?

Mandy: Well, we’ve got the IT department to audit all of the senior management’s computers and erase any possible links to illegal websites...

SMH: So they were the bastards who removed my links to my S&M web pages. They were important sources of HR policy information…

JBS: Sorry, Siobhan, but we can’t afford to have any more executives linked to Internet sleaze. Christ, what’s that smell?

Mike Dribble (President of R&D): Er, it’s probably me, boss. I like to wear diapers at the weekend. I find it relaxes me.

JBS: Jesus. I guess I picked the wrong week to give up smoking hashish. Pass me the substances, will you, Mandy? Thanks…

SMH: I think your diaper-wearing habit is very naughty, Mike…

MD: Yes, miss…

SMH: I think you need to be punished, don’t you?

MD: Yes, miss…

SMH: I think I need to tie you up to stop you struggling, don’t you?

MD: Oh, yes miss…

Rich Pillager (President of Global Marketing): Can we watch?

SMH: If you like…

JBS: Tee hee hee. Like, er, what about the Dry Prong Times? Hee hee hee...

SMH: (undoing various straps on her clothing and removing them). Well, rolled up tightly and smeared with a little…

RP: Why are you taking off your clothes, Siobhan?

SMH: I’m not ashamed of my body, Rich, and besides, I like an audience…

MD: Beat me…. Beat me…. Aaaah….

Mandy: Brrrm, brrrrm…

Suddenly, the boardroom door bursts open. President of Corporate Security, Ed Dubious, and his assistant, Dave Himmler, stride in, surrounded by half a dozen female security guards. All of them, including Ed and Dave, are wearing Nazi storm trooper’s uniforms, stockings and suspenders…

ED: Ja wohl, mein Herr. I am zorry zat ve are late. Neverzeless, I see zat ve are all ready for ze punishments. Let ze party begin…

The boardroom doors close on a haze of hashish smoke and the sounds of senior executives engaged in practising the necessary diversity awareness that is essential to the well-being of a multi-national pharmaceutical company…

Not all senior executives are creeps, as I wrote recently….

Not at all.

Those that aren't creeps have the out-and-out "weirdo" option, after all.

So never let it be said that I am narrow-minded when it comes to the behaviours of our new ruling class...

Just Say No, Kids...

Thanks to Christiane Truelove's Pharma Blogs: Week In Review, who drew my attention to the mudfest over at Pharmalot regarding the “Prozac Nation Revisited” broadcast. Reading around and about it all made me so depressed, I reached for the Prozac. Or whatever. Sure enough, my mind was transformed within minutes. I began to have strange and bizarre thoughts. No change there, of course…


“Hi, there, folks, and welcome to the DrugWonks blog. My name is Pete. I do the Wonking…”

“And my name’s Bob, man. Or, at least, I think it is. I do the Drugs. Seroquel, Zyprexa, Cymbalta, Paxil. You name them, man, I do them. I mean, drugs like atypicals and SSRIs are just so-ooo groovy, man. And no side-effects, despite what ignorant kooks say! (Begins sobbing uncontrollably). It’s so sad what people say about the pharmaceutical industry, these days, man. It’s so unfair. No-one loves us any more, man….”

“That’s right, Bob. Take Zyprexa, for instance…”

“I do, Pete. 200 milligrams, twice a day…”

“So do I. It’s simply a great product for people like us, who are actually paid by the pharmaceutical industry to have multiple personalities. I have at least 30 aliases that I use to write pro-pharma propaganda and to trash any industry critics in the comments sections of all of the various Pharma blogs and web-sites that are out there these days. Without Zyprexa, I’d never be able to remember who I really am. And it makes me ANGRY to hear people questioning the clinical need or safety of these products. ANGRY. SO ANGRY. THE RAGE CONSUMES ME. IT MAKES ME WANT TO KILL! KILL!! KILL THEM ALL!!!...”

“Whoa, man, whoa. That’s heavy, heavy talk, dude. Here, man, take some Lamictal…

“Thanks, Bob. Ah, much better. Thank God for the pharmaceutical industry, eh, Bob?”

“Tee hee hee…”

I mean, take that Shannon Brownlee. Is she a kook or what? Totally immature. No intellectual bandwidth at all. Still, a couple of hits of Zoloft soon got my brain in gear and my poison pen in hand. As soon as it kicked in, I was able to misrepresent everything she said, and then attack the misrepresentations, just like I always do. It sure made that ignorant bitch of a Scientologist look just like the crazy kook that she is, eh, Bob?

“Purple Zyban, Purple Zyban, Purple Zyban is in my brain…”

“That’s right, Bob. Shilling for big pharma is tough work these days, but someone has to do it.”

“Chantix, man, Chantix. I just love it. I take it three times a day, and I’ve never even smoked...”

“Shows what a great drug it is. And no suicidal thoughts, eh, Bob? Er, Bob…?”

“Yes, Pete?”

“You can’t slash your wrists a spoon, so why don’t you stop trying, eh? You know that’s why we hide the knives and only have plastic cutlery around here…”

“Sorry, Pete. It’s just that I get so depressed sometimes. I can’t think why. Down. Down. Deeper and Down. Time for another Paxil. (Swallows pill). Say, that’s better. Hey, who was that dude out of Star Wars with the body hair problem?”

“Princess Leia?”

“That’s the one. I can see that cat right in front of me now. Right there. And I see God as well. Wow, I AM GOD. Yeah, Vfend, man, Vfend…”

“Yes, Bob, a great drug from a great industry. We think everyone should take it, even little children. And to think that some people think that mind-altering drugs shouldn’t be given to our kids. Crazy talk, eh? I mean, I’ve taken SSRIs for years and they haven’t hurt me at all. STOP RINGING THOSE BELLS STOP RINGING THOSE BELLS. Sorry. The pharmaceutical industry has gone to all of the trouble to invent genuine and not at all made-up life-threatening conditions such as bipolar disorder, PGAD or restless leg syndrome, and yet there are goddam communist kooks out there who want to deny people the right the take the drugs the pharmaceutical companies are pushing for them!!!

“Wow, pass the Geodon, dude…”

“All kids should be put on SSRIs from birth. That’ll stop them misbehaving and turning into public health enemies like David Graham. People like him have forced great drugs like Vioxx off of the market, and have thereby caused the death of millions of people. Thanks to Scientologists like him, millions of people will never get the chance to hand over lots of money to pharmaceutical companies, who then hand some of it on to people like us. And that makes me SOOOO ANGRY! HATE!!! KILL!!! ARRRRRRRRRGH!!!!!

“Abilify, man. Abilify… (Sobs uncontrollably)”

So there you go, kids. Some people might think that doing DrugWonks is cool.

But it isn’t. Sure, it all seems like harmless fun at first. The insults and distortions are funny, after all. They make you feel good. But it’s dangerously addictive.

Soon, you wind up believing everything the pharmaceutical industry tells you.

DrugWonks is like that. It cuts you off from reality, and makes you lose an understanding of what’s right and what’s wrong. You become desensitised to human suffering, and think only about making money for big pharmaceutical companies. Ultimately its victims succumb to careers in pharmaceutical sales, HR or senior management.

Don’t let that happen to you.

Just say No to DrugWonks…

Excel and Ac-ciiiiiiid...

Pfizer values illustrated here.

Nice one, Aubrey...

Tilting at Windmills...

Quixote 1

Windmills 0

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