Archive for the 'crack cocaine' Category

ADD + CIA: the Connection

When I see one I know it — and this is a Very Good Bet:

America will soon experience an absolute hissy-fit explosion in crystal meth use.

I know, I know. I know what you’re saying: “Soon? But Mike E — I heard crystal meth is already the Scourge Of The Nation!”

So they say. But if crystal meth is the Scourge Of The Nation I ask: How come I’m not on it right now?

Why indeed? After all I just bought four 30-milligram extended release Adderalls for $5 a pop from some jerk off the street. I call him a jerk because he opened two of the capsules and scooped a third of the speed out from each. When I confronted him a few minutes later he basically said “Tough Shit.” And only a jerk would say that to the dude — a friend — who just payed a premium price for the pills to begin with.

But I didn’t call him a jerk to his face. Why? Arithmetics. The law of Supply & Demand.

I didn’t want to piss the dude off because Demand is high. Supply is low. Brattleboro is in the midst of an Adult ADD epidemic of historic proportions and we plain old don’t got enough medicine. It took me two days to hunt the jerk down as it was; piss him off and I’ll be shit out of luck the next time around. It’s a Seller’s Market for Adderall in this town — and in Seller’s Markets the Jerks call the shots.

Especially when the Buyer is more addicted than Jane.

Sad fact is — from the addicted standpoint — I’m real close to shit out of luck already. I will be completely, not long from now, when those few paltry pills wear off. So I ask again: If crystal meth is the Scourge Of The Nation why didn’t I instead spend my $20 on that?

Why indeed? A twenty sack of meth packs roughly a billion-proof stronger punch than even a smashingly good $20 deal on Adderall. Twenty dollars worth of good meth will keep you up for 3 days; whereas 120 milligrams of Adderall practically puts me to sleep.

I need 150 milligrams to actually fall asleep.

So why not go for the meth? One could propose Good Reasons. Mostly having to do with the overall evil-ness of crystal meth. You know, like the shit kills you & all. Even I may be inclined to agree that — from a general health standpoint — I’m better off with the type of speed doctors prescribe. And you, dear reader, may be inclined to pat me on the back for choosing so wisely.

Fuck you.

I want some meth.

Why? Arithmetic reasons. Meth is cheaper plus it lasts longer.

Total no brainer dudes!

But the fact is you can’t get crystal meth in Brattleboro.

Why?

Part of me thinks it’s because — for reasons of good conscience — people who could bring meth to town don’t want to. And the fact is that people who intermittently may wish it were — people like me — do not in actuality want it around. For obvious reasons.

I took my first Adderall in 1999. I thought it was awesome dudes. I took to pharmaceutical amphetamines with literally uncommon zeal. I like them little buggers so much that if I had had steady access to crystal meth — for any prolonged time-stretch since — I bet money I would be something quite like dead.

In the late 1990’s America experienced a near hissy-fit explosion in OxyCotin use. So-called the “Hillbilly Heroin,” these legally prescribed painkillers introduced widespread swaths of rural America — where heroin is scarce — to the opioid in its’ crush & snortable (or injectable) form.

Recently, on the heels of a multi-million dollar class-action settlement, the makers of OxiContin admitted they had deliberately encouraged doctor’s to over-prescribe the drug — to reap profit windfalls from the illegal resale of the surplus.

Whoa.

Surplus of OxiContin? Way.

Excellent!!

OcyContin has two major advantages over heroin. It’s better. And it’s better.

But when the Feds crack down on doctor’s who over prescribe Oxies — bogus! — and all of the sudden you can’t get one to save your life, heroin — typically available in the nearest medium-sized city — is the next best thing.

A huge difference between O-C’s & heroin is the ability to measure your dosage. OxyContin comes in pills containing a precise number of milligrams. The largest, 80 milligrams, will very likely not kill even a first-time user. Two 80 milligram pills pose a mortal danger to even seasoned junkies.

So now you know.

But you don’t know how much heroin is in the bag they sell you. So when your town gets strung on the Dirty there’s a very good chance that soon a friend will die.

Hasn’t happened around here recently. Mainly because — most of the time — the bags are small & the dope is cut. That’s why people do so much of it all at once. And that’s why people die.

Another major difference between OxyContin & heroin is that the CIA sells heroin. Etc. So when the Feds crack down on the doctors for getting millions of new heroin customers addicted to opiates — and your friends die because you suddenly can’t get an OxiContin to save your life — the CIA laughs all the way to the bank.

Almost like they planned it that way.

Same way as They plan to get the population of Brattleboro, VT hooked like a guppies on meth.

Look: This blog is twitchy & lengthily jabbered proof that doctors over prescribe Adderall. Not that they prescribe enough exactly. Not for me. But my own habits are a different story. This one is about how soon the Feds will crack down on the doctors for over prescribing speed.

Then the CIA will dump a whole wazoo load of the bomb meth in Brattleboro.

Heh heh.

That’ll way rule!

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Biochemistry of a Make-Believe TNT Fiend

Want PBR.

Got ATP.

Good 2 GO!!

When I want beer and my hand successfully grasps the Pabst Blue Ribbon can from the bar in front of me, the accomplishment is propelled by chemical energy stored in a molecule of adenosine triphosphate (ATP).

atp.GIFPut more precisely: The “PBR accomplishment” is propelled by the release of chemical energy when a phosphate bond (one of the 2 red lines between the 3 P’s in the above diagram) is strategically cleaved from ATP.

The result: Free Energy, available to do work. Or, that’s what they say in the textbooks. It may be more accurate to describe such Free Energy as available to do anything.

Want. Pill.

POP

Another magnificent ATP-propelled accomplishment!!

ATP similarly propels every energy-requiring act by any organism on Earth – be they whale, plankton, salmon or human; from giraffes to the leaf on a tree. Albeit at some expense; an ATP minus one phosphate (adenosine diphosphate or ADP) is like a cooler filled with beer on a hot day – but no ice.

Must..be...remedied!!

When a salmon swims the act is fueled by chemical energy stored in an ATP molecule. ATP makes it so salmons get to swim upstream & have babies. So they need to eat stuff on the way. To make more ATP. To swim up more streams & propagate their species.

But sometimes salmons get caught in a net & grilled on hibachis. The salmon had other plans. But it is dinner now. Flush with energy it no longer requires, on account of being dead.

ATP waiting to happen.

And what will the human do with his freshly-synthesized Free Energy available to do anything?

People use their ATP to run around like chickens with their heads chopped off mostly.

So they can buy more salmon. To get more ATP. So they can crawl imbecilic across the carpet & pick gruelingly for those fabled crumbs of leftover crack cocaine.

So goes the mass of humanity.

Other creatures keep a better handle their ATP habit. Like vultures; supremely patient hunters, who pick nutrient-rich flesh from the bones of the inadvertently deceased. Whitewinged vampire bats drink blood from the toes of sleeping birds. The birds not only survive the predation — they don’t feel a thing.

The described creatures — salmon, vulture, human — are known as chemotrophs (chemo = of or pertaining to chemicals + trophe = nutrition). Chemotrophs extract their energy from biochemicals (bio = Life); from the carbohydrate, protein & fat molecules in food.

In other words: chemotrophs eat for their ATP.

But there are other ways.

Like so:

Ever wonder: Since the Road Runner always somehow evades him — what does Wile E Coyote eat?

TNT.

wile-e.jpg

Actually he doesn’t eat TNT. But when it explodes inadvertantly in his face, squirts brain from his ears and blasts the top half of his skull through a hole in the sky – that TNT nourishes him. Sure as the rest of us are nourished by a bowl of home-made chicken soup.

TNT, coincidentally, is chemical energy.

Which means Wile E Coyote is a chemotroph. Just like me & you. Except, instead of eating salmon, the coyote synthesizes his ATP with energy derived from ACME brand TNT.

Never underestimate coyotes. Delighted, remarkably adaptable — the daredevil species.

His nemesis, the Road Runner, is just some dumb cartoon bird Wile E Coyote chases for giggles & cash. The chase is perpetually doomed. But what the hell? Doom is Money – at least in the Freelance Daredevil business. And a gig is a gig. Trick to it is get a wild kick out of doom.

Like a gambler who knows how to make a fast buck when he loses.

Eat the Road Runner? But…then there would be no Road Runner cartoon. And with no cartoon that coyote is just another doomed jerk on the street.

So he pulls out all the stops to let the road runner get away.

Play to lose. And when you mistakenly win keep a good excuse handy. Plus a dozen-odd hits of strong acid in case you need to hallucinate hugely:

I know what you’re thinking: But Mike E – does Wile E Coyote really synthesize his own ATP?

Great question!

I don’t know. But I can tell you that the TNT-fed cartoon coyote uses ATP to chase the Road Runner sure as a salmon uses ATP to swim upstream.

When something moves on Planet Earth it does so aided by the energy released when a phosphate bond is cleaved strategically from a molecule of ATP. Movement – deliberate movement by a living thing – requires ATP. Just does. Always.

I ask: can Wile E Coyote move across your TV screen without ATP?

Here is an unassailable illustration of the rhetorical nature of my question:

Can I borrow a few thousand bucks? I’ll pay you back when I get a job…

Preposterous!

Dig?

Nothing moves without ATP.

Not even the trickster.

Wile E Coyote is ATP-dependent. Suppose he lacks the cellular mechanism to produce his own. How will he move?

So easy a crackhead could do it.

to be continued…

Dear Drugs: THANK YOU!! for a real good time..

Fact:

Without illegal drugs, my life, up till & including tonight, would have sucked toast. Way bogus. I mean bad; a total waste of time.

It would have all been so stupid!!

Shit yes. I have problems. My life has been hard. But when I’ve needed them drugs have been there for me. When I had nowhere else to turn it was drugs that saved the day.

Even when my life sucks directly because of drugs it still beats the sad crap out of how bad life would suck with no drugs at all. I will go so far as to say I feel certain I would’ve killed myself long ago if the drugs weren’t on my side.

Why? Because drugs gave me something to live for. A reason to stay awake for another day & night when the sun comes up each morning. Yeah & you know what?

Drugs give me Hope!

Mostly they’ve helped me celebrate life with people I love. I am going to die one day. When I do I’ll look back over this 1 & 3/4 decades-long drug binge and congratulate myself for a job smashingly well done. Yeppers kiddoz! My first hit of weed was the smartest choice I ever made. Until I finally got to check out some of that L$D!!

And when you go without food — due to smoldering abject poverty — for a day or few you will thank Adolph Hitler, Sweet Mother Earth and maybe even Jesus — that evil cocksucker — for all the amphetamines.

So thanks again drugs. Just sorry you had to wear off so soon. Ya’ll come back now y’hear!

Ok. Off to sleep.

NOT!!

the Warning Shot

“You guys,” I asked. “What’s going to happen to all the people who live there when God flicks the entire state of New Hampshire off the face of the Earth like a booger?”

“Who gives a fuck??” Mommacake demanded. Mind you: this is the same Mommacake who gathered 50 friends into a circle at her 30th birthday party and sang us “You Are My Sunshine.” Solo. Just so we all knew she cared.

Mommacake does genuinely give a fuck. Just not about people from New Hampshire.

Can you blame her?

I leaned back into the cool early morning dirt and downed a fat swig of alien turd tea. Offered it around to the half-dozen friends who were still up with swerves still on from the previous night’s party. No takers: so I downed another. And popped a Dexadrine for good measure.

We sat on the bank of the river — the Connecticut — which forms the border between Vermont & New Hampshire.

vtnhmap1.jpg

That’s Vermont on the left, New Hampshire on the right. Brattleboro, where I live, is in the south-east corner of Vermont — so close to New Hampshire that we’re forced to look at that dumb lump of lousy bull every single day.

There’s a joke told in these parts:

Q. What’s the best thing about New Hampshire?

A. The view of Vermont.

I gazed across the river. But quickly covered my eyes & turned away; so blindingly did the mere sight offend me.

“I know, I know. I hate them to!” I assured Mommacake. “But…is it really their fault that they’re so stupid? I mean — we know that the southern part of their state is a polar ice cap flood plane. Why don’t they?”

“Because we’re smarter than they are!” Said Mommacake.

“And faster!” Someone said.

“Better looking!” Said someone else.

“YEAH — and we have more fun then they do!!”

Suddenly everyone eyed me with suspicion, there on the banks of the Connecticut River.

The whole New Hampshire thing is a running joke sort of deal we have around here. Like this one other morning. We were at a party on the 4th floor of a warehouse. When the sun came up we noticed that you could see New Hampshire; so Mommacake drew a middle finger sticking up at it with a sharpie marker on the window.

That kind of thing.

Why?

Besides the mentioned reasons — we’re smarter & better looking etc. — I’d say it’s because we’re bored. Maybe we’re trying to cheer ourselves up about the fact that it ain’t so great in Vermont, either. And it would be a gigantic improvment for us personally if New Hampshire was covered by seawater. That way the Connecticut River would be part of the Atlantic Ocean. And the riverbank we lounged on, all looped out of our skulls on drugs that summer morning, would be the Beach.

A very popular idea on our side of the river.

And god wants Vermont to have New Hampshire’s beach because we’re incontestably superior.

Not everyone agrees. Like right wing jerkoff Bill Oreilly from the Fox pretendaNews channel. He loathes us passionately. Hell we pissed him off — yet again — just this week.

It’s awesome when we do that dudes!!

“I feel sorry for Vermonters.” He said, after my hometown newspaper proposed in an editorial that George W. Bush was the worst president in American history. “They’re being held hostage by a bunch of extremists who put ideology over the safety of children and the good of their nation.”

Bill Oreilly is on New Hampshire’s side. He thinks the state “Gets it.” Says the people who live there are the “Stars of New England.”

Plus he kidnaps children and sells them to al-Queada for money to buy crack rocks. Yep — I know for a fact.

I’m Bill Oreilly’s crack dealer.

So obviously God made us Vermonters better than the New Hampshireites. But is that their fault? I’m just wondering…

“HEY!!” Mommacake shouted & roughed me up with her glare. “Whose side are you on, anyway?!”

She wore cut-off fatigue shorts with a wrap around belt. Doc Martin boots. And a tank-top that said Ass Grass or Gas in money-green glitter across the chest.

“Yo I’m on God’s side!” I swore. “But…I dunno. Maybe there’s some people over there worth saving?”

‘Dude.” She corrected me. “Those people are so dumb they teach their kids that babies come from Wal-Mart!”

It’s true. I was shoplifting at the Wal Mart just across the bridge in Hinsdale yesterday — and saw a New Hampshire youngster try to exchange himself for a PlayStation.

But he was a human being of sorts and I am a humanitarian.

“I think we should fire them a warning shot.” I insisted. “Yeah. It’s the right thing to do. They can take it or leave it — stay or go, don’t give a hoot — but they have a right to know.”

Mommacake’s eyes threw a spark.

“YEAH!” She exclaimed. Whistled & simmered with controlled combustion like a fresh-lit pyrotechnic fuse. I mean — should we??”

I looked in her eyes and saw she was laughing — silently, at the joke only she knows.

The rest of our early morning riverside party crew laughed helplessly out loud though we weren’t yet certain why.

Mommacake stood, hands on her hips, directly between the river & me. Stomped her foot twice and turned her back to the crowd. Her tattooed angel wings unfurled from beneath the tank top, spread over the width of her shoulders. The back of her shirt was emblazoned with the words: nobody rides for free!!

Then in one unreal motion she unloosed the wrap-around belt from her cut-off shorts. Shrugged her shoulders. Laughed wildly. Dropped her shorts half down to her knees. Bent over, swung out, wheeled round & wagged her freshly bared ass in a seismic Fuck Off to New Hampshire – and all the dumb shit it stands for.

Kaboom.

Guts rupture.

Bodies hit dirt.

“Oh we hate them that fucking much!!” I gasped.

Then our early morning party crew choked gleefully near to death on hairball spasms of laughter.

Some time passed before we could breathe. When we could, finally, Mommacake rolled to her feet, shook her fist eastward & said:

“There’s your Warning Shot ASSHOLES!!!”

a little something..

…To say thank you!! To all ya’ll who hang around here on open container speedWay.

I want you to have my Crack Dealer’s pager number:

213.1132

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?

dexyc.jpg

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?

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.