Check this off the list: 1 Old fashioned glass, 5 parts vodka, 2 parts coffee liqueur (usually Kahlúa), and 3 parts fresh cream (but milk is better). Throw it on the rocks and now you are ready.

Reading Kurt Vonnegut is like a White Russian cocktail. It’s sweet and intriguing but the vodka will kick you in the face when you’re not looking. Then when you’re done a much different often dizzying and lighthearted perspective of our culture and society ensues.

In A Man Without A Country I found not only a delightful smattering of personal essays but also a man with whom I could relate. Kurt Vonnegut is completely and utterly astounding. Nearly every word he commits to the page will make you laugh, think or scratch your head. The book is primarily extraordinary rants on topics personal, social and political. His illustrations that precede every “chapter,” are analogous to the form of A Man Without A Country. They represent his flair the peculiar in a tempered fashion and they provide consistency within the rambling fashion of this collection of personal essay and memoir.

A prominent part of Kurt Vonnegut’s character is that he is a socialist and a humanist. This struck me, as slightly odd, seeing as how few people I know today would champion these specific ideologies so fervently. I suppose that being influenced by thoughts intertwined with communism during a time such as the Red Scare would give reason to be argumentative. So Vonnegut simply defines the socialist as a citizen who is concerned with economic fairness and a humanist as someone who cares about people.

Vonnegut grounds both socialism and humanism in doctrine of Christianity, writing: “Christianity and socialism alike, in fact, prescribe a society dedicated to the proposition that all men, women, and children are created equal and shall not starve.” I believe he does this because the American sensibility is entrenched in what is believes to be “Christian,” values while maintaining a white-knuckled grip on consumer driven capitalism. He then declares that Jesus’ is a humanist based on his teachings in the “Sermon On The Mount.” Vonnegut believes that these lessons are the only reason being human is worthwhile. It is arguments like this that make me wish that Vonnegut were my grandfather. I would have become completely confused about the way this world works so much earlier.

Part of my new perspective within Kurt Vonnegut’s prose came when he dissected that famous passage of Karl Marx’s: “religion is the opium of the people.” Thrown about flippantly by the fringy, often-greasy Goth and heavy metal kids in my high school this quote was used to both ruffle the feathers of conservative types and prove that they were intelligent (despite their apathy). Therefore, I generally associated its meaning with a heavy-handed tone of condemnation on the idiocy of organized religion. Vonnegut in an ever-challenging manner contests that at the time opium was a highly effective painkiller and to say religion is equally effective for dulling the pain of the masses is a truth of the day not a malicious dictum. He also makes an offhanded remark about Marx’s statement and whether it would’ve bothered God as much as the actions of the U.S.A. who at the time, were heavily involved in slavery. Genius.

Vonnegut’s wit is something that I envy in the most sinful way. He speaks of his plans to sue the Brown & Williamson Tobacco Company for billions in false advertising. He claims that for years he has chain-smoked unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes and they have failed to kill him. “A fire at one end and a fool at the other” is how he describes his habit.

Incidentally I also smoke Pall Malls. I was filled with such joy to learn that this man and I shared more than just a sense of humor. I can finally feel a romantic affiliation with sticking to this brand, at last I am complete because it is hard to get romantic about such a filthy habit, it really is. Not only is it filthy, but there is also a strong chance it will kill or at the very least maim my body. So I have been thinking about it, the rhythm of the act, the click of the lighter, and those first couple of drags. It’s a rhythm of death that is just fantastic.

Besides the undeniable addictive nature of nicotine I have been further contemplating why I choose to smoke. I think that, like Vonnegut I have a latent desire to end my life but I am too chicken to actually do anything about it. So I try to commit suicide in a socially acceptable way, a method that requires a fair amount of self-loathing because it takes its toll financially and aesthetically. Yet at the same time there are benefits, I believe the quality of conversation that has been facilitated by smoking with another has been some of the best of my life. I have explored new and intriguing facets of reality all the while exploiting my respiratory system. I am being melodramatic, and that is what makes this joke so hilarious.

The difference in my view on cigarettes and Vonnegut’s and the inherent value of one’s own life is that he has actually lived a life. The book being written after his eighty-two years of living versus my twenty-one, his participation in World War Two and experiencing first-hand the firebombing of Dresden, which he recounts slightly in A Man Without A Country. His small POW camp was one of the only groups to survive what he describes as a “sudden massacre,” which killed about 135,000 people in one night. All that in one night! I’ve only had a broken heart. Vonnegut describes the unspeakable nature of war and I hope no one will ever call me fat again. This fatalistic philosophy I am championing doesn’t really coalesce with my life. Vonnegut has his reasons based on experiences and all I have are flimsy bourgeois lamentations.

After a brief discourse on other drugs, Vonnegut concludes that the most destructive and addictive substances that our society abuses are fossil fuels! Oil, natural gas, coal, all the usual suspects are in the lineup. Since the Western world has completely structured itself around their voracious consumption it is almost impossible to feel a moving sense of guilt. After all everyone needs to get somewhere, the stoner down the block needs his Cheetos and that new corolla needs a forty-dollar fill up.

This reminds me of a statement that a coworker made to me this summer, “I think it’s kind of odd that you ride your bike and also smoke,” after a blank stare coupled with a slight pause I agreed with him. Clearly having no concern for my own physical well being I still think it is important that collectively we get our act together and recognize our addiction to nonrenewable resources as a highly destructive practice. Thereby trying to limit their use through alternative transportation methods. To make statements like and to put them into action is a perpetual satire I believe Vonnegut would commend.

Perhaps what culminates the book as well as the main body of Vonnegut’s writing is his stunning insight into the complete absurdity of humanity. He begins the eleventh chapter heralding the good news that Martians have landed and they urinate gasoline and eat the homeless. Yet they cannot understand American culture, a Martian queries: “What is it, what can it possibly be about blow jobs and golf?” Revealing that this is material for a book he will never write Vonnegut epitomizes his wry cultural perspective.

This characteristic black humor of the authors’ is so insightful and at the same time he seems to believe that there is nothing we can do to save ourselves. Vonnegut is not trying to instill a riot; he was in his early eighties when writing this book. It is the musing of a man who has had a full life and wants a nod, a chuckle, and an exasperated sigh from his readers. He says that,” All I really wanted to do was give people the relief of laughing.” I figure that makes more sense than most of this world and I would rather be laughing with Vonnegut than crying, because either way we’re all screwed.