After eight long and grueling hours, we began our rapid descent from the heavens. I never really got the: “did it hurt when you fell from heaven” pickup line until we hit the tarmac. The force of the impact nearly knocked my head into the seat in front of me, so fuck yeah, it hurt when I fell from heaven. I’d imagine even Lucifer himself had a softer landing than we did. He also didn’t have to endure the stomach churning and nauseating food that was served on the plane, but I digress, at least we had finally reached our destination. A land not so far away that only varied in appearance, but the truth was this mystical and magical land, deep down, was no different from the place I grew up or attend college. As I waited in purgatory, the security line, I began wondering if I was dreaming. Was I really in London or even a different country for that matter? The line, which seemed so much longer than the European and the U.K., line was filled with fellow Americans. Perhaps they are still acrimonious about us beating them in the Revolutionary War, so they decided that this was ample punishment for our victory. Whatever the case, we finally made it through security, then collected our bags. I saw my relatively new bag with the bowtie on the handle and was relieved that it had not been lost or left in the United States. We met our tour guide, Emma, who at first glance seemed to be very different. She had an unusual hair cut that was much shorter than ones most woman her age would have, but I soon learned that her appearance, much like London’s, would not be any indication of what lies beyond. When we finally escaped from limbo, the airport, we were put on a coach bus, and taken to our hotel. I was exhausted and in need of a shower, but all I could do was drop my luggage off, then swiftly return to the lobby. As we stood outside in the crisp, refreshing air, we were handed our subway passes, or as they say, “tube passes.” We followed our guide, Emma, on a short walk to the underground. When our group finally descended the stairs and made our way to the map, a map Virgil couldn’t even navigate, we began our journey that involved the same punishment as those afforded to people in the eighth level of hell. We walked endlessly, 10.6 miles, and viewed the most popular tourist attractions London had to offer. I was surrounded by beautiful statues, fantastic architecture, and attractive people whose dialect could captivate almost anyone. At first, like everyone else, I was completely and utterly captivated by it all, because it was a completely different world. Our group finished the day with a mile and a half walk to the Globe Theatre, where we saw Shakespeare’s play, Comedy of Errors. My fellow students and I stood, as our professors sat comfortably watching the play. During the production, all I could think about was my numb legs and my aching feet. I tried drowning the pain with a few glasses of overly priced and nasty wines, but my attempt was to no avail. For once in my life, I knew what it was like to experience actual physical agony, not just the tedious and never-ending emotional kind. It wasn’t the lake of fire or some frozen wasteland, but that shit was still excruciating. After the play, we struggled to find a new passageway to the hot and crowded underworld, the tube, but luckily, I had service on my phone, so we found it. We finally made it back to the hotel around eleven in the evening. After a long day of flying and an excess of walking, I had never been as excited as I was to climb into a bed that was, quite frankly, too small for my six-foot-five physique. To anyone reading this, don’t worry, I’m not planning on giving a day to day synopsis of what I saw while I was abroad, because the sights aren’t what truly matter. I mean, I could just rant about Buckingham Palace and its beauty, Windsor Castle and its enormous layout, the Tower of London and its history, the Natural History Museum and its priceless artifacts, Stratford upon Avon and Shakespeare’s life, Oxford and it’s impressive library, Cornwall and its tranquil beaches, the Minack Theatre and its sublimity, or the Ashmolean Museum and its Jeff Koons exhibition, but that shit has no genuine meaning to it. I’m not going to waste your time by writing about some tourist sites that you could see in almost any travel magazine about the U.K., so if that’s what you are looking for stop reading. I suggest you pick up a travel magazine and read it until you are content, but if you want to read something real, then I suggest you continue. The reality is, the things I’ll take from this trip are the inebriated conversations I had with others. I not only gave these people advice about their lives; I learned something new about my own. I, ***** *******, am the Barstool Prophet, who descended from the heavens prepared to spout wisdom and retardation. Before I divulge the serious and deep conversations I experienced abroad, I want to let you know that the other person and I were under the influence of alcohol. I know what you are thinking, but alcohol has been a part of human culture since 7,000 B.C.; to put that into perspective, man invented alcohol before the wheel. From what I've seen in my lifetime some people drink to forget, some drink to remember, some drink to punish themselves, and some drink to converse with others. I fall into the latter category, but while I was in the U.K., I encountered people whose purpose for drinking was similar to mine as well as people that would fall in the other categories. I never really got the saying, "It's better to be a glass half full person, than a glass half empty person." I get the whole positivity aspect of the saying; however, I'd trust a "glass half empty person" far more, because they'd just order another drink. I am in no way trying to promote alcoholism; in reality, I am just trying to explain how alcohol can fuel an in-depth conversation. The Latin proverb "In Vino Veritas" states that "In Wine there is Truth"; wiser words have never been spoken. Alcohol allows people to speak their hidden thoughts and desires, especially to a stranger like me. 

As I stated earlier, Emma was our tour guide, who sported a relatively short and somewhat masculine haircut. Luckily, I had consumed enough alcohol at the time of her arrival to ask her why she chose that specific style. After giving me a vague: “because I like it” response, she clutched her glass of wine and forced it down. We talked about her occupation and how lonely traveling could get, but she seemed like she was familiar with the feeling of loneliness. She asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up, and I said, “I want to be a lawyer.” Emma slammed her glass down and began to laugh hysterically; she said, “Seriously?” I found her response quite peculiar until she revealed that her ex-husband was a lawyer. He was devoted to his job and always worked long hours, which did not bother her, at first. I surmise that his lack of interest in her is what led to their separation. After a long moment of silence, I gulped my drink down and gained the courage to ask: “do you think the relationship you had with him prepared you for this job?” She paused and began to think intently. She took a sip of her wine, laughed, and said, “I guess so, that’s one positive thing I got out of the relationship.” The chat continued with talk of food, politics, weather, and other small-talk topics, but then we somehow made it back to her haircut. Emma told me that she was bi-sexual, which, despite the tell-tell signs in her appearance, isn’t something she shares with most people. I told her that homophobia and racism is a major part of the culture that I grew up in, which surprised her. She couldn’t comprehend how someone with that upbringing could be so openminded. I responded with one word and one word only, “Self-Awareness.” I came to the realization that in life people are consciously and unconsciously molded by those around them, but at the end of the day, it is their choice to decide who they are and what they believe. Emma’s marriage may not have been picture perfect, but she was still able to take something positive from it. As much as we don’t want to admit it, even the worst of our relationships impact us in a positive way. 

Before I get into this incredibly intense and somewhat depressing story, I’d like to describe its setting. I was sitting on a red velvet couch, drinking Jack Daniels Honey in a tall glass with one ice cube. I know what you are thinking, but I was not in a strip club. Our hotel’s game room/ bar area looked like an American strip club, not that I’ve ever been in one. Like seriously, if a few poles and dancers were added, I’d feel like I was at the Red Carpet, which is a strip club near where I live, but again, I may or may not have been there. I had finished half my bottle when Phil walked in, and I could immediately tell that he was hurting on the inside. Excluding dumbass frat guys, not very many people drink vodka straight out of the bottle with the intention of finishing it. He sat next to us, so I reached my hand out and said, “Hey man, what’s your name?” He said, “Hello, I am Phillip Goldsmith.” I responded as anyone would and said, “That’s a badass name!” We talked about life, love, and women as most guys do. We were both close to finishing our bottles when I noticed a tattoo on his arm that said, “Harry.” Who was this Harry? He certainly didn’t strike me as a Royalist, so I knew he didn’t just get the prince’s name on his arm for shits and giggles. I gulped down a few more sips of my drink and slowly placed it back down. I looked him in the eyes and said, “who is Harry?” His response shook every bone in my body to their core. After holding his tears back and ingesting some more of his vodka, Phil looked at me and said that “Harry was his son.” Was? He continued speaking, and I learned that Harry died three days after he was born. That tragic loss would result in a few other loses in his life, his wife, and his faith. Phil told me that he used to go to his grave on his birthday and Christmas, but he couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t see a point in it any longer. Surprisingly I felt the urge to tell him that “God loved him and that he would see his son again.” I am in no way a prolific believer; I’d probably put myself in the wayward son category. However, something came over me, and I felt like I needed to tell him that. We had both finished our drinks, and as we were saying our goodbyes, he thanked me. I don’t know why, but he did. My encounter with Phil taught me that when you meet someone, you don’t know what they are going through, but through love and compassion, you can have a positive impact on them. 

Lexie is a beautiful and intelligent young lady from Kansas City, Missouri. We met and chatted throughout the week because she was a part of our EF group. One night, after Lexie and I had more than our share of wine, we began to talk about our plans for the future. Before I tell this story, you must know, I have the unfortunate handicap of flirtation when I drink, but she was able to move past my impulsive outburst. I think my accidental comments about her beautiful eyes, stunning smile, and cute laugh allowed her to open up to me. Despite what you are thinking, I like to flirt because I enjoy making women smile, I don’t always do it for self-serving reasons. Anyways, as I said, we started discussing our plans for the future, but one can’t divulge their future in an inebriated state without discussing their past. I gave my whole spiel about wanting to be a prosecutor who would later become a congressman, then a Supreme Court or D.C. Circuit Court justice. She said, “Wow! That’s quite the plan. I want to go into Law as well.” I hastily responded by saying, “That’s sexy. I could see it.” We both laughed, but then she said, “I don’t know though, Law School is hard.” She didn’t strike me as a person who couldn’t handle a challenge, so I asked, “Why do you think you wouldn’t excel? You present yourself as someone who does.” She tried not to blush, then sipped her extremely sweet white wine. I know it was sweet because I made the unfortunate decision of trying it; it was so sweet that even a rock would get a hangover from it. Anyways, she started talking about high school and how people thought she was unintelligent. I laughed and thought about how I experienced that very same thing. I said, “Fuck that, screw them. God, high school girls are mean. Do you actually believe that crap?” She giggled and said, “Of course not, but it’s still in the back of my head.” I grabbed another beer from Raj, the bartender at the hotel. Yes, we were on a first name basis; did you expect anything less from the barstool profit? I sat back down and leaned in, intent on getting this point across to Lexie. I sipped my beer, ever so casually, and said, “Listen, we all remember the immature negatives of our high school existence, but this is now. At some point, we have to grow up into the people we want to be, not who everyone tells us to be.” She then asked, “Why are you so wise?” (You are probably thinking “sure she did,” but I swear that is what she said; I’m not a narcissist using creative license to praise myself.) I accredited it to my amazing parents as well as the shitty ex-girlfriends, situations, and friends I had experienced. We continued talking about a lot of random things like abortion, racism in America, and other pseudo-political topics. It was 3 am. when we finally decided it was time to go to bed. I hugged her and told her to use those negative voices as motivation. Again, I was thanked for the conversation, which, at this point, seems to be a normal thing for strangers to do. My conversation with Lexie made me realize that, when we travel, the baggage we carry isn’t only the physical kind. That tedious and deep emotional baggage also comes along for the journey. Most people, who travel somewhere, will lose a physical part of their baggage, like a sock, shirt, or something of that nature. Lexie did something most could not and do not, she left a piece of her emotional baggage, the night I spoke to her in the bar. 

Szymon was in the bar area when I got to the hotel. He had a very interesting accent, which was far different from the ones I had heard that week, so I asked, “Where are you from?” He said, in a relatively drunken manner, “I am from Poland. You’re from America, aren’t you.” I responded with a firm: “Yes.” The conversation proceeded with small talk, but as I had a few more beers, the topics shifted to more serious topics. I was recently in a Holocaust history class, so of course, the first serious thing I asked was if he had been to Warsaw to see the Concentration Camps. He paused in silence, so I said, “Talk about hell on Earth, the holocaust was some fucked up shit.” After saying that he seemed to gain the courage to tell me that he was Jewish. He told me about the things his parents endured as children and how his grandfather had died in a concentration camp. He told me how he had rejected his faith after hearing these horrible stories. He said to me, “What could faith do for someone. The Jews have been persecuted countless times for it.” I understood where he was coming from, but at the same time, I didn’t. He had real reasons for his existential doubt, and I truly could not say the same. I got a shot of vodka from Raj; threw it back, and said, “Our faith shapes our decisions in life, even if we tell ourselves it doesn’t.” He sat pondering my words, but he seemed bored of the discussions about faith. I quickly changed the subject and asked him, “Why are you in London?” I learned that he travels all over continental Europe cleaning asbestos out of old buildings. I responded as any young person would and said, “that’s cool. I’d love to travel all over Europe.” He said, “it might be for a young single guy, but I hardly see my kids. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if my wife cheated on me.” I couldn’t believe he would say something that personal, but then again, that’s what alcohol does. I suggested that he quit the job and find one closer to home. He laughed and said, “Ugh… you sound like my wife right now.” I bought him another beer and said, “maybe you should listen to her.” He looked at me and said, “maybe you are right ha-ha.” My conversation with Szymon taught me that it doesn’t matter how much money you make or how many places you get to travel on the company’s dime. What matters in life is family and the ones you love. By the time we stopped talking, I could hardly understand him, but he shook my hand and said, “have fun in London.” I laughed and said, “I will, call your wife tonight and tell her you love her.” He smiled and nodded, assuring me he would. It was time to leave, so I packed my things and got ready to go to the airport. I finally boarded my fiery chariot that would bring me back to the heavens. I forced down a few shots of Jack Daniels, closed my eyes, and wondered if the Barstool Prophet would have a second coming. Would I ever return to this amazing city and spout words of wisdom and retardation? Would I ever drink two whole liters of cider and wake up with a black eye? Well, that one is a definite no, but so many questions are left unanswered. Did I actually impact those that I talked to? Did they even remember the conversation? As much as I want to believe I did, I’ll never know. We don’t know what this life holds or what our encounters with strangers will yield; all we can do is give it our best shot and live like we are dying… (Que inspiring music). 

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"Some men," Clarissa replied, louder and looking up at them now, "need to own everything."
...
"When I was a little girl, I remember my father deciding to buy up a majority share in the largest rice producer on Ganymede. Rice is a necessity crop, not a cash crop. You'll always sell everything you can grow, but the prices aren't high, because it's easier to grow than a lot of other things. And at that time, his companies had an annual revenue in excess of one trillion dollars. I remember an advisor telling my father that the profits from owning rice domes on Ganymede would add a one-with-five-zeroes-in-front-of-it percent to that."
...
"But the largest food producers were the rice growers. They had the biggest domes and farms. The most real estate. By owning a controlling share in their company, my father was in a position to dictate policy to the Ganymede Agriculture Union. It meant, in terms of Ganymede food production, he couldn't be ignored by the local government."
"What did he use that for?" Bobbie asked.
"Nothing," Clarissa said with a delicate wave of one hand. "But he had it. He owned an important piece of Ganymede, a thing he hadn't controlled before. And some men just need to own everything. Anything they lay their eyes on that they don't possess, it's like a sliver in their finger."
...
"My father would be the kindest, most generous and loving man. Right up until he wanted something and you wouldn't give it to him. I don't know why I think this, but Duarte feels the same. And these are men who will mercilessly punish anyone who won't comply, but with tears in their eyes and begging you to tell them why you made them do it."

"A third of the stars of heaven," Clarissa said, as if she were agreeing.
...
"A third of what now, honey?" Bobbie said.
"From the Bible. Revelation. When the devil fell from grace, he took a third of the angels with him. It's described as the great dragon pulling a third of the stars of heaven down with its tail."
...
"Whatever story Duarte was selling was compelling enough to get a big chunk of the Martian military to buy in. The devil's story was freedom from the oppression of God's rules, and it was good enough to win a lot of angels to his side. Whatever Duarte's pitch was, it's a good one. Don't be so sure you wouldn't have bought it."