Zippy Speedwiz Decks Another Couch Cushion

We were somewhere around the last exit before Earth at the edge of the 2nd or 3rd sun up when the drugs began to wear off. I remember saying something like “I’m feeling a bit dark headed — I wish a jar of speed would land on my lap free like pigeon doo out of the sky.”

If the jar was on the other side of the room we’d be done for. Too far. And no question: ours was a K-Hole-deep need for the speed to be free.

A jar of blue 10 Mg Addaboyz bounced into my lap.

“Did we take acid?” Zippie Speedwiz asked. “Must’ve — I hallucinate.”

Then Z. Speedwiz reached for the pills in my lap.

“Hey hey!’ I hollered & leapt out of his arm’s way. “Those aren’t pillows!!“

“So they’re drugs for real?”

“Oh frikkity yes!”

“Shit,” Zippy Speedwiz said. Jumped up & clutched a couch cushion. Threw it on the floor and stomped it flat with both his feet. Still not satisfied he lunged to the bathroom & let out one word in a borderline make-believe shriek:

“Toilet!!” He meant to give the evil lint-bag a Swirlie. He gasped excitedly. His own cruelty made him giddy.

But the bathroom was locked. Zip stopped like a hyena in a leg-trap then lunged once more — this time toward the outside door. The July sun blared mercilessly through the slow-dripped morning dew steam.

A dollop of humidity fell from a nearby leaf; a harbinger of the sticky waves of green house heat which inevitably would follow.

Sweat poured from Z. Speedwiz’s ears he was so fucking hot. Couldn’t move. Got the Fear of the abused couch cushion vengefully whooping his ass across the lawn like a badminton birdie. Then it’ll be forever like:

Yo remember the time Zippy Speedwiz was so cracked out & retardo that he god his rump stomped by a pillow?!

Heh heh. He’s so…stupid.

Yeah — well not today. Z whipped out his cord, so to speak, and pissed the pillow into submission. Came back & sat on the couch.

“Dude!” I said. “You pissed on a pillow!! Super cool.”

“Yeah ya know why?” He asked. Popped 40 AddaBoy mg’z from the jar that just fell in my lap from the sky.

“Cause people use that bitch pillow to help them sleep?” I proffered.

I heard a laugh & looked up. A head hung over the stairway rail directly above the couch. The face had a mouth that grinned hugely. Obviously pleased as spiked punch with her own coolness. Plumb giddy that she’d contributed to the delinquency of the already hopelessly delinquent. Right when — without those pills — we might have got tired in the next 12 or 18 hours & maybe had to sleep.

Zippy Speedwiz dropped three sets of cheap sunglasses over his eyes & waved like an astronaut or a race car driver.

“Where we’re going,” He assured everyone. “We don’t need PILLOWS!!”

Healthy Competition

A couple of my blog-peeps have written quality shit about sin this holiday season. One, Galloway, confessed his to God. The other — Gonzo compadre FatSavage — cavorted with the devil to measure his own capacity for wrongdoing.

In the midst of a human species bent on self-extermination — with all that’s cruelly fucked in the world today — ain’t it sweet when you get a good bit of news?

All FatSavage sin systems: Go!

The man is spectacularly derelict enough to fit right in with the rest of you speedWay hoodlums. Dig:

Pride is excessive belief in one’s own abilities. It has been called the sin from which all others arise. Pride is also known as Vanity. Hell I got that knocked. You can’t even want to be a gonzo writer without pride.

Gluttony is an inordinate desire to consume more than that which one requires. I did not get to be the Fat Savage by missing this sin.

Lust is an inordinate craving for the pleasures of the body. Anyone who read my first blog knows I am a world class sex maniac who learned to fuck from every conceivable positions so I could keep on fucking up to a BMI (Body Mass Index) of 40. When I got To Too Fat To Fuck, I invented the Fat Savage Diet so I could get back in shape to fuck some more.

May I suggest Dextroamphetamine?

Frikkin-a yes: mix some drugs in your sin blender!

If I’ve said it once I swear I said it a thousand times: If you can’t be a self sacrificing aesthetic saint, you may as well be a perfect sinner. If you’re gonna burn in hell for eternity for one sin, you may as well burn for repeated occurrences of all of them.

Galloway quit drugs a while back. Now he does other things for fun.

Dig:

“Forgive me Father,’ He begs, ‘For I have sinned.

I have cheated those to whom I owe tax and over-taxed those who owe tax to me;

I have pan-handled and swindled and hustled and wasted the fruits of my endeavours;

I have been unfaithful to my wife and blinded my eyes to her infidelities;

I have entertained wicked thoughts regarding my animals and have occasionally kicked the cat (affectionately);

I have no visible means of support and yet remain solvent in an arrogantly upright and wickedly handsome manner;

I disrespect my natural talents and stubbornly refuse to exploit them and…

last night I viewed an illegal copy of Borat ,that I didn’t even pay for, and fell asleep.”

By morning Galloway was bored with Him. So he told God to blow it out his ass & ducked off for the pub. Spipped a large breakfast Irish. Got bored again. Blew half the barkeep’s face off with a Kill-o-Zap blaster when the barkeep incorrectly assumed Galloway was in the mood to pay for his beers.

Then left the Kill-o-Zap blaster on the bar & disappeared behind a twist in the wallpaper.

Well then. Smoke a fat hit of crack & diddle the virgin mary — those are some pretty good sins! Classy & rude & proud for it; you both set a fine example for Youth.

Begs a Question: one that needs help from my readers — foremost experts on the matter — to answer.

Whose sins are better?

The Collector’s Item: a rare piece of work

It wasn’t the worst Christmas ever for me. But it was lousy. But then my life is pretty lousy – so the only unusual thing about today is that it’s Christmas.

Guess I can’t blame it on Christmas specifically. But I do.

So in that regard it being Christmas today almost made it better, gave me an unusual Excuse.

But if it being Christmas made it somehow better that’s a fuck awful statement on my already no good life. Because Christmas blows donkey balls. And if that fact alone helps make my life better – what kind of rotten shit does that say about me??

Like I say it pretty much sucked ass but wasn’t the worst Christmas ever.

But enough about me! How ’bout we have us a rude chuckle at someone else’s misfortune?

My old & good friend Xela…it sounds like her’s was the worst Christmas for real. And Xela hates Christmas as much as me at least. So that says something:

Xela’s Christmas blew the balls straight out of a donkey’s ass.

Hope it’s got better for her by the time she reads this. They let her out of the drunk tank I hear. So that helps. Now all she needs to do is remember particularly which complete stranger’s house she left her money, her plane ticket & her stash at.

Then she’ll be all set.

If not. Well, Xela – if it makes you feel any better to remember:

Dude. You are also the first person I’ve ever known to get busted for Public Intoxication in Brattleboro. Those who live here understand that is no small feat.

And on Christmas Eve no less.

Give it up people: a proud round of applause – a standing ovation even – for Xela!!

That is so cool.

You were also the first person ever to read open container speedWay. You know what that means?

When I get Famous you’ll be worth a fortune on eBay!!

So don’t fret.

 

The Advent Rip-Off

Every year when I was a kid, a few weeks before Christmas, my sister & I would get an Advent Calendar. It was most exciting. Why?

Because we were dumb maybe.

Advent Calendars, most know, are those things with little paper doors to be opened one per day from the first of December until Christmas Eve. Nowadays there is a Reason for kids to excitedly open those doors — a chocolate is tucked behind each.

But I grew up in the Stone Age. No chocolates behind the Advent Calendar doors back then — just a Christmas-related picture. A candle on December first. A wrapped gift on the 15th. A yule log thrown in there somewhere…

Though I can’t remember specifically, I feel certain that occasionally fists-thrown brawls erupted between my sister & I over who would open the Advent door that day.

Like I said we were dumb maybe. I’ve smartened up some since then. Today, I would not fight to open a door and look at a picture.

Chocolate, though — that’s worth fighting for. Kids are lucky these days.

Anyway, this all led up to something — the one with two paper doors that we got to open on Christmas eve.

Good golly — I wonder what’s behind it???

Can I get a drum roll please? No problem. The Little Drummer Boy showed up religously around the 22nd or 23rd every single year….

….And behind the Christmas Eve Double Doors:

Holy crap — It’s baby JESUS in the manger!!

Can you fucking believe it?

Yeah. But no chocolates. What a rip-off!

I need a therapist.

Why Loathe? I Have My Reasons.

I remember when I first realized that Christmas sucked. That I hated it and wanted it to die a horrible, painful death. Because it was so awful…

All of the presents were opened, and I was crying. Because I didn’t get a calender. Not that I needed one so terribly — and in fact I recall my grandmother attempted to assuage my grief by promising to buy me a calender the instant stores opened the next day. No matter. Nothing could ease my pain.

Why? There were reasons. Namely, I was young & confused. I always got a calender on Christmas. Never particularly gave a damn about it, I’m certain. My calender wasn’t super cool like a new Star Wars toy or anything. But when I didn’t get one, that year, I think it upset my sense of continuity. Made me feel like something was Wrong.

And there was something wrong. My mother was in the kitchen crying.

Why? Ostensibly because, after all she had done — and the effort she put in each Christmas was frighteningly monumental — her son was now throwing a temper tantrum around the Christmas tree because he didn’t get a stinking calender.

I’m not sure how old I was. But I guess I was just old, or wise, enough to realize that my mother was having a Christmas-induced nervous breakdown that everyone blamed on me. And I thought to myself:

This is BULLSHIT!!

And that was that. I’ve loathed Christmas ever since.

HST & the Gay Hooker Connection

Came across this fairly well done mini-documentary (19 minutes) about Hunter S. Thompson’s alleged suicide. Of particular interest, to me, is the revelation that the good Doctor was working on a piece about ‘Jeff Gannon’ & the Gay Hooker Connection…

Click for video

Happy Winter Solstice.

Keep The Tires Off The Line, Dude!

Former Phish frontman Trey Anastasio was arrested in December 2006 by upstate New York cops for driving while intoxicated and illegal possession of a variety of medications (Xanax, Percocet, and Hydrocodone) prescribed in someone else’s name. Anastasio, 42, whose real first name is Ernest, was nabbed by Whitehall police just miles from the Vermont border following a traffic stop. He was charged with criminal possession of a controlled substance, DWI-drugs, and driving without a license.

This comes as no surprise to long-time Phish fans like myself, who watched with embarassment as front-man Anastasio blubbered in tears at the band’s last concert in northern Vermont in August 2004. It amounted to an onstage mid-life crisis in front of 100,000 faithful fans — many of whom hiked dozens of miles into the concert site after a nearly impassable mud-slick prevented their entry into the concert’s parking/camping area.

Besides all that, Phish ‘performed’ the absolute worst sets of music, that weekend, of what otherwise was a remarkable rock & roll career.

Forgive me if I snicker…

Also, I feel compelled to point out that I’ve driven through Whithall NY myself, countless times, in all manner of unlawful conditions & with all kinds of illegal shit in the car. No problem — maybe on account of all the miles I clocked following Phish to weird places like Ft. Worth Texas & Oxford Mississippi. One learns to follow the bands own advice & Keep The Tires Off The Line…

…But I guess not when they travel with a hired driver in the tour bus.

Thanks to Xela for the Heads Up.

I did it for Jesus.

Noise – a high-pitch & spastically tuneless hum – escapes semi-inadvertently from my vocal apparatus.

Like serial killers in the movies. Except they seemingly prefer to whistle. Ever notice that about the serial killers in the movies? The way they always whistle random, agitated & tunelessly disgruntled notes while they stalk their next victim.

Then whistle off a razor-whip sizzler rendition of Love Me Do & stroll slap-happily along when the deed is done.

Like I said I prefer to hum. Leave the whisteling to Santa Claus; you know…that PacMan got munched by a ghost sound he makes while deflating late at night on someone’s front lawn.

Ahh yes!

After I knife jolly old plastic air-filled Saint Nick in the gut. Just to watch him die.

 

The Ideoloogical/Crusading Aspect

Excerpts from a gem I turned up on the US Department of Justice website circa 2000.* Props where they’re Due: for once in their history the DEA actually almost got the Facts Straight!

*The DEA has since ‘updated’ their LSD ‘information’ and replaced what follows with a predictable honkey-load of Bull. My pal MG Tank had the forsight to print this up at the time…

Paper [has] emerged as the most popular means of distributing LSD. The paper squares are easy to conceal and transport. Unique designs can be applied to the paper to make the drug more appealing to young users and to serve as brand identification. Unlike the administration of other drugs, particularly the injection of heroin, the method of LSD ingestion (oral) is unobtrusive. Moreover, the non-commercial social philosophy of the environment surrounding LSD use & sales makes it difficult for young people to view LSD as a dangerous drug.

In contrast to the trafficking of other drugs, in which profit is the sole motivating factor, LSD trafficking has assumed an ideological or crusading aspect. The influence of — and probable distribution by — certain psychedelic generation gurus has created a secretiveness and marketing mystique to LSD, particularly at the higher echelons of traffic. Their belief in the beneficent properties of LSD has been, over the years, as strong a motivating factor in the production and distribution of the drug as the profits to be made from its sale.

Large amounts of LSD have been seized by drug enforcement authorities during the last several years, and numerous distributors have been arrested and convicted. Those at the upper echelon, however, continue to evade the law. These individuals appear to run an efficient and profitable operation that is difficult to penetrate.

Current Trafficking and Distribution

Traditionally, retail-level LSD distribution networks in the united states have been comprised of individuals who have known each other through long association or common interests. This has facilitated not only hand-to-hand sales of the drug, but a proliferation of mail order sales. DEA reporting indicates that LSD is available in at least retail quantities in virtually every state…and that availability is increasing in a number of states. Northern California appears to be the source of supply for most of the LSD available in the United States.

LSD is usually transported in two ways from the San Francisco Bay Area. First, overnight delivery services, including express mail, Federal Express, and DHL, are used extensively to transport large amounts of LSD throughout the United States. Second, LSD is shipped to major distributors in cities that host concerts of the ‘Grateful Dead’ band. The concerts are used as a forum for large-scale LSD distribution, as well as low-level or retail sales. In addition, intelligence reveals that major transactions are consummated at these events. Local police agencies have consistently reported that LSD use rises significantly prior to the concert and persists for a period after the band leaves town.

And that was a splendorous Fact.

But the fact @ street level today (as it was when this appeared on the DEA site in ’00) is: save the rarest exception there is not a decent Dose to be had in the United States of America. Hasn’t been since shortly after Jerry died. Certainly there is no way to trust the quality of whatever may be marketed as LSD. My advice to the Youth: do yourself a favor and steer clear.

And that’s sad to say.

+$!

the Most Roman

“Holy Shit,” I exclaimed. Shook my head & blinked & plumb befuddle stumbled as two armed goons shook me loose from their one on-each-elbow grip.

“It’s daytime!!’

I blinked again.

A freshly disembarked bus-load of Japanese tourists milled excitedly on the sidewalk in front of Circus Circus.

Very drunk. Can’t even blink straight.,.

I glanced sidelong at my two partners in crime. A sunbeam reflected like a jewel-flash from Seacrow’s freshly shaved head. Julius grinned wildly & rolled his tongue from his mouth as if to not just kiss but salaciously make out with the morning sky.

“I fucking LOVE this town!” I howled – which town? I had no clue — as six casino security personnel pressed us roughly from the premises for reasons I temporarily couldn’t recall.

That’s when it’s awesome.

It was awesome & splendidly then some; quite literally The Time of our young lives. I wanted badly to celebrate it and, in retrospect, my want was perfectly right.

“We’ll have three Wild Turkeys in to-go glasses.” I informed the closest goon, “With ice & Pronto.”

“Duh-no we WON’T!!” Seacrow laughed & slurred & shook his finger like one would to correct a child’s silliness. “Turkey flew coop & go by-bye!!”

I laughed uncontrollably. By why? I strained to remember… Quarters, dimes & a cool couple $1’s – seven cash dollars total – scraped up, the night before, from our laundry bags & car floor. Right. We cashed these into nickels. Dispatched a cocktail girl for our first round of Wild Turkey on ice & parked at the nickel slots — many, many hours & multiple bottles of liquor ago.

We won & lost some but on balance our luck held amazingly. When the nickels ran low we were ready: we had a Plan. Instead of pumping coins in one after another we fed the machines with the deliberate patience of ‘gamblers’ who won’t be denied their divine Right to complimentary whiskey.

When they ran critically short we scooped our remaining nickels out of the slot-machine loot bins and – with much celebratory high-5 fanfare & exaggerated cling-clang – threw the coins back in by hand.

Like: “Sweet be-jeezus we won AGAIN! Can ya believe it? More whiskey for the Low Rollers – W’Hee!!”

And when the Circus Circus ran out of Wild Turkey we just smiled & waved to the ubiquitous security cameras & downgraded to Jim Beam without complaining.

The cameras glared back menacingly. But it was too late. The House was already beat.

“Hey — are you guys actually gambling,” A cocktail girl – our second, on account of the A.M. shift change – asked finally, “Or are you just here to drink free?”

“We’re gambling for free drinks,” Julius winked at her matter-of-factly, “And winning! May we have three more please?”

“Yes! Please!!” Seacrow pleaded politely. “Shit – we’ll tip you our next Jackpot if you bring us 2 drinks apiece!”

She glanced nervously over both shoulders. “They’re not gonna like this…”

Nevertheless the girl was back in a flash. We slurped this round speedily, though, astutely sensing through the booze-fog that Trouble would soon follow.

And in fact it did. There were the six aformentioned security goons.

And their Trouble was Julius.

Grateful Dead bassist Phil Lesh described his band’s seismic early 90’s popularity surge as the ‘Mega Dead Era;’ a time when their once-secret travelling circus was colonized by new fans in thousands-fold droves.

“If you don’t know what to do,” the band famously advised their young legions, “Ask an older DeadHead!”

Julius was the Kid those older DeadHeads warned you about.

He put Mega in the Mega Dead Era; the Life, as it were, of the Biggest Party ever to hit Planet Earth — right when that party went Huge.

Like a Corvette convertible found parked on a country road after midnight, keys in the ignition, Julius begs from his friends the Question: Why buy the Ticket – why bother – when we can takes the Ride For Free?

“Add a six-pack of Reno’s best Hookers to that whiskey order!” Julius chimed, with Hell’s Bells certainty, into the early morning goon-ruckus on the Circus Circus front sidewalk. “Two each for my friends. YES. No. Make it seven – I get 3 cause I’m the Most Roman! Plus a round of low rent blow-jobs for the Goon Squad…my treat!”

Julius turned and tapped a Japanese tourist on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he begged with supreme dignity, ‘Can you spare a thousand dollar?”

“Whole thousand dollar?” The tourist asked, stunned but bested by curiosity. ‘Why you need thousand dollar??”

“The ladies the ladies!!”

“Ooh, for whole thousand?” The tourist gulped, “That sound like goood Yankey My Wankey!”

+$!