Archive for the 'Doobage' Category

Officer P. Keer

You know what never ceases to amaze me?

The kind of gigantically dumb questions cops ask.

Like the one time I got pulled over by a Vermont State Trooper because my truck was too loud after the muffler fell off. He had me in the front seat of his cruiser. I wasn’t under arrest. But it’s State Police policy to be forced to search you for weapons & contraband for their own protection before they seat you next to them while they radio in to see if your papers are in order.

It takes a few minutes of course. Which gives them plenty of time to think of some gigantically dumb question to ask.

The cop glared at me as if to say:
Alright kid.

Then he asked “When was the last time you smoked any pot?”

Yeah…Like 3 to 5 minutes ago, officer – thanks for asking!

Rolled me up big old honker joint. I did. A fatty. Man, that joint was fatter than Jerry Garcia’s coffin. Fatter than the ugly little pecker that grows straight out of a certain someone’s forehead.

Mr. Vermont State Police man, sir.

Fatter than yo’ momma! That’s right. And yo’mommaz so fat her ass fell off.

Fatty Fatty. Yeah. The mother of all joints! I sparked her up. Got so stoned I fell flat on my ass.
So it seemed.

Turns out I just thought I got so baked that I fell on my ass. In actuality I got so cooked that I fell flat on my elbow. A honest mistake; my brain was all fucked up from the doobage. That, plus my fastastic & chronic lifelong disdain for reality.

Ass? Elbow? For all I knew I’d just rocketed wildly around the cosmos with the convertable top dropped down in a stolen & souped up flying pinball machine. Open container of XXXmake-believe in one hand; the mother of all fat joints in my other. Both corners of my lips jolted toward heaven & rolled around my perpetually lit American Spirit menthol cigarrette & curled into an unlawfully wild grin. I steered with one knee.

Vroomage!

Like a streaming red-scarf Snoopy flying on his dog house. Homer Simpson on peyote. Hunter E Vonnegut, Jrr. gone mad on make believe.

I ground my right heel into the pinball machine’s speed pedal & skillfully piloted my new ride toward a fancy hotel swimming pool in what appeared to be Atlantic City.

A parking ticket flapped beneath the driver-side windshield wiper but I was too cool for it. It bored me. Why bother with tickets when we can take the ride for free?

It’s amazing how much easier it is taking private planes. Just avoiding the bullshit of the airport and all that. Airports are such an amazing burnout for some reason: really just the effort it takes to be around Straight People. You know I swear to God, man – the amount of effort you have to have just to keep yourself Controlled…
>>Jerry Garcia, 1981

How long ‘till we’re cleared for landing? The Captain has turned off the No Money light. You are now free to win the Kentucky Derby.

Yeah. So FICA – whoever you are: you can kiss my motherfucking ass!

As long as I stay unemployed you can’t have my money.

You BASTARDS!!

*shakes fist at sky*

I have no idea what I just said dudes – but Right On.

A roll of spring mudwater splashed in through a cracked-open side window and skipped & tickled across my cheek. My eyes sprung open. I felt freshly awakened from one niftily concocted torpedo of a dream. Though I deemed it equally likely that I’d just now fallen to sleep.

Either way the surety that my red Nissan pickup truck was in actuality a rocket-propelled pinball machine remained intact.

Sweet.

Still I couldn’t help but wonder: Was I going around in circles? Ah. Yes. Naturally.

In a busy-sky holding pattern above Atlantic City.

That explains my sense that I’d gone around the exact same circle – circumferentially & by appearance quite like a traffic circle – for an indeterminate length of time. A nice long spin around a make-believe cul de sac from which all exits lead to reality.

Can anyone tell me how to get to the dark side of Titan?

I need directions! Maybe…ah? Nope. Of course not.

There’s never a cop around when you need one.

Just then I heard I siren. Pulled over. The cop walked to my window. I rolled the window the rest of the way down. The cop looked like he wanted to ask me something.

“Dude!” I exclaimed before he got a chance. “Are you from Titan? That is so excellent.”

“Step out of the vehicle.” He answered – I thought a touch indirectly. “And empty your pockets. Do you have any guns, knives or contraband?”

I got his meaning. Not from Titan?

Bogus!”

While we walked to his cruiser the state cop informed that he pulled me over because my muffler was too loud. We sat in his car. He radioed my identity in for verification.

“So.” The cop asked in a smugly rhetorical tone while we waited. “Why did I just watch you drive around that traffic circle eleven times?”

“Dunno.” I conjectured. “Maybe because my truck looked groovy with your blue lights on while you followed me?”

The ugly little pecker that grew from the State Cop’s forehead wiggled. It was for me a moment of gargantuan unpleasantry. My skin crawled & blood screeched like rusty wheels on a second-hand rollercoaster with Fear.

The cop eyed me rudely; the pecker on his forehead was getting a boner because it thought he would take me to jail.

My muscles tensed.

He asked when was the last time I smoked any pot.

I wondered what that had to do with my loud muffler. Got confused. Until I realied that’s just what happens when you try to answer some of the gigantically dumb questions cops ask.

That’s how they try to get you; ask really dumb question and hope you trip over one.

Well. One dumb question deserves another. Why not?

“When was the last time you smoked any pot??” I incredulously asked right back.

“Don’t get smart with me.” He snarled. “Now. I’m going to search your vehicle. So why don’t you just tell me where to look for your pot?”

“I wish I knew!” I forlornly confessed. “It was stashed in my muffler – and I plumb can’t remember where it fell off. ”

The cop laughed.

The veins in his forehead riled blood-full with anger. But the pecker flopped down & bounced between VT State Trooper P. Keer’s eyes.

“Get out of my face.” He ordered limply.

Ordered me? Don’t know.

I was too guilty to bother to ask.

*poof+

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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!!

superstar love revisited

Dear Batya,

Remember how we thought we could sell a short book of our emails? My old & fiesty friend: we were On To It! Which is why I no longer fuck with email much even; just slap this letter here, my first to you in 5 years, straight on open container speedWay!

Where everything is for sale.

+$!

They were on the counter. Flowers. No one had — or has since thank goodness — ever fired me up a bouquet from afar. Dudes: bouquets suck! In Lieu of Flowers just replenish my online gambling account. From now on. Thanks!

But one thing about these flowers was so good it changed me.

Probably I cruised up to the Godz Club — the old place to be — to smoke pot in the walk in cooler. Hits from a carved parsnip bong. Cauldrons of Alien Turd Tea. Stirred with giant chocolate speed-dipped sporks. Yep. First they got the sporks banned. Then outlawed hallucinations altogether. What next? The dreaded ‘nuclear option;’ the US Supreme Court upholds a Texas verdict outlawing possession, manufacture or distribution of make-believe. Whoa!

Did they really?

For sure they banned smoking pot in the walk in cooler. Ask anyone — the place has gone sharp down hill since. Plus they changed their name: they’re the Organo Plug Butt-crunch Restaurant & Pimphouse now.

This! After all the hard work you & me put into that hell hole?

All a friend can say is ain’t it a Shame!!

+$!

Last time I seen her Batya wore a tank-top with 2 words — Oui on her right & WIN! on her left — emblazoned with a green Sharpie across her boob-flesh. The upper & meatier parts of each. Exposed brilliantly when flashed from her tank top; a creme colored affair with miniature lace whips, dangled like hells bells, where her spine curved crater-like into the small of her back. Two words were embroidered in scorpion-apple red across the back pockets of her vintage cut-off Sergio Valenti jeans.

Bitchen Dinero.

I always thought she meant her stack of cash was bitchin’ — Super cool.

But before I got the chance to ask off she go — amid a wild chorus of woohoOz! — with whoever says they’re sober to drive, on a daybreak airport run.

Absynthies says: “That’s the coolest thing about being Batya — must be! She comes. She whoops everyone’s asses, parties harder & harder every second until she leaves — then wooshOO! Gone. Like a hundred dollar bill on a drug run.

Fuckin rock star that Batya!!”

Hero. She does the stuff of heroes.

One time Batya emailed me a few hours after her latest stunning daybreak departure. Said she jumped a straight-shot taxi ride to her workplace’s front curb. About 10AM Chicago time. To cook food for the health conscious People. Except she inadvertently switched the blender flip on while she dislodged a root of ginger with her fingers from the industrial strength high speed blade.

It was just me & her on email back then. She fired off a detailed ‘still drunk’ missive of the incident moments later from the computer at her work. I replied: “Batya: I’m proud of you!!” Then jumped on the phone to tell all our friends! Gossip? No — this is news.

“Yep.” I said. “Last thing said was she planned to commandeer OJ & Champagne for Emergency Room Mimosas. And trade lesbian sex for loose doses of opiate pain yummiez!”

Who does that? Seriously. 2 cool!

I remember another time.

“A’right you guys I just bought every Beastie Boys cd ever made.” She commanded. “So look out.”

It was awesome after that.

Awesome but like all the good things in this world — not for long. I don’t remember when Batya left town exactly. I just remember, protestation aside, I admitted I couldn’t blame her.

Batya lives in New York City and I like the way New York City moves me.

I hit the top stair and swung to my right & into the once epic hangout now known as the Plug Butt-Crunch.

“Whose got me birthday doobages?!” I blurted.

“Right here,” Absynthies proffered the boquet Batya sent me. “Smoke up Johnny!!” “Shit yes,” another concurred. “Smoke ’em way the fuck up!!”

“Give it to Mike E: He’ll smoke anything!” Absynthies said of the daffidol or whatever the shit was. She picked on me, of course, but with deliberate kindness — it was after all my birthday.

“You should smoke the card Batya wrote you dude!” Absynthies assured. “For real. That will get you high. Like Mike E likes it!!”

That good? I thought. Someone else In The Know said, “Read it.”

It read:

Superstar Love!

GollygulpWe’eheeez!!!

It was — & very much is — among the coolest well wishes offered me by anyone ever.

I read it again. Thought about it ever since.

Back at yooz like a boOmSlang 180. Batya: I’m proud to be your friend!!

From one superstar to another: Dang. We superstars gotz to stick together these days!!

Oh..an entire medium-size Vermont town wishes you happy birthday Batya!

The crowd goes wild.

Superstar Love (spiked with XXX make-believe),
Mike E

VT Criminal Statute § 4230.

Marijuana (a) Possession and cultivation.

(1) A person knowingly and unlawfully possessing marijuana [or cultivating 1 to 3 plants] shall be imprisoned not more than six months or fined not more than $500.00, or both. A person convicted of a second or subsequent offense under this subdivision shall be imprisoned not more than two years or fined not more than $2,000.00, or both.

(2) A person knowingly and unlawfully cultivating more than three plants of marijuana shall be imprisoned not more than three years or fined not more than $10,000.00, or both.

+$!

It is estimated that 52,000 Vermonters use marijuana each month. Suppose each of these spends $100 of their monthly income on pot imported from Canada. That’s $60 million per year– about 3% of our $21 billion Gross State Product — siphoned forever from our personal & local economies.

Now triple the figures to reflect the real cost of an honest marijuana predilection. $180 million yearly. 10% of Vermont’s gross annual revenue. $300 a month — garnished unforgivably from the hard earned pay of our Peoples!

Whether $60 or $180 mil per annual — it’s likely somewhere between — we’re loading dough out by the truck-full; a billion dollars in a decade. So we can smoke some Canuck Baloney!

Why exactly? Oh right. We do it for the Children.

But marijuana is more readily had by high schoolers than alcohol or tobacco.

Case in point: I bought a 20 sack from an 18-year old friend recently. He asked me to buy him beer. I told him to stop talking Crazy. I’m too old for that shit! He pleaded. I didn’t budge — even when he offered me the 20-bag for $15.

And don’t you reckon the children may rightfully prefer to have a billion extra dollars in the state when they come of age?

+$!

We need signatures from 400 registered voters — by mid-January — to score a spot for this question on Brattleboro’s Town Meeting ballot. Like, no problem dudes! It’s a total toke-O-rama around here. And no one gives a Hoot.

I got $50 sayin we get a Yes from 85% of Brattleboro voters on March 6, 2007.

Heads Up: Vermonters!

With signatures from 5% of the vote-roll this question can be put to a vote in your town too.

+$!

Petition of Legal Voters of Brattleboro to the Selectboard

 

The undersigned registered voters of the Town of Brattleboro hereby petition the Selectboard to add the following advisory article to the Town Meeting Warning:

 

Shall the Town of Brattleboro vote to advise our legislative contingent to amend VT criminal statute § 4230 by adjusting its’ penalty structure to the following?

 

Knowingly & unlawfully cultivating no more than 10 female marijuana plants — or possessing their harvested equivalent — shall constitute a civil infraction. Persons found in violation may be subject to the following maximum penalties:

 

First offense: A slap on the wrist.

 

Subsequent offeneses: A pat on the back!

 

Signature ++ Please print name

 

1. ________________________ ++ _________________________

 

2. ________________________ ++ _________________________

 

3. ________________________ ++ _________________________

 

4. ________________________ ++ _________________________

 

5. ________________________ ++ _________________________

Night On the Hustle

I quit selling partyWhatevers some years ago; shortly after I learned I had PTSD. I realized that there was Just No Way. The stress would kill me. Or else I’d be caught & screwed for it in imaginable ways.

Quitting that racket has been a noble if thus far tragically nonviable undertaking. While far from stable, the shroom business provided me with the occasional 2 to $3000 stack. And they help out considerable.

Since then I’ve been so broke that I wonder if it’s Wrong to sell a kidney. I can see one circumstance where it could work…maybe. But I won’t spell it out because that’d make it sound like we had unlawfulness on Open Container speedWay.

Less complicated is the question of whether it’s moral to sell marijuana to a grown adult.

Can I get a Hell YES from the People!!

It is not only Moral but judicious. Especially if someone wants to buy it. If no one does then it’s inadvisable — since you’ll likely get stuck trying to pawn it off while you don’t smoke it (yeah right) for half the next week.

I can’t sell pot anymore either. Because that shit happens incessant.

Consider the scenario: You get ‘cuffed (loaned) an ounce of pot by a friend who made no bones about their certainty that they would regret it. It’s not that you’d ever rip them off coldly — an incontestable truth which ultimately sways your friend over his, and your own, better judgement — but still.

For ten thousand reasons the last thousand fronted ounce deals have rarely concluded happily.

This time it was almost different. You owe $300 for zip. To repay you need sell six of the ounce’s eight eighths for $50 each. That leaves you ideally with one to smoke and one to sell. But you haven’t eaten for two days. You need a pack of American Spirit menthol to smoke & a few pills to stay awake. Plus you owed someone $20 from party Whatevers last week…the same Someone who happens to score the first satchel.

So a fiddy spot poofs before you’ve started. You still need to sell six eighths for $50 to break even and gain just one bag for profit.

Since you sell your next bag to a Friend you can only get $45. Because it is unconscionably difficult to charge a friend $50. Then you remember: I never sell pot to strangers!

At this rate you’ll be $15 ahead if you sell every sack at $45. And that of course presumes you dispatch the entire ounce in one night. Makes you a touch nervous, that bitchy $15 thing. Jumpy. Better go pack a bowl & smoke it to calm down.

Plan to sell that bag for $45 firm — tell ’em it was a fiddy minus five for the very small bowl you packed (a couple tokie-tokes down the line it manages to fetch a half-respectable $30).

The margin is tight but the night goes well. Even managed to swing off a couple for full price to students from LandMine college…You go to sleep in the morning — finally — with $249 cash and one eighth left to sell. Get $50 for it and you’ll be just one dollar short!

All told, an exemplary night on the Hustle.

Except when you wake up in the morning and reach into your pocket to count your dough you discover, with violent dismay, that you slept on & miserably squished the last of the stash.

Now. You can — and will — traverse great lengths to convince potential flat-sack Custies that the buds are provably none worse for the wear.

‘Provably?’ One asks opportunistically. ‘Then smoke some with me right now. To prove it.’

Of course you have no choice — what good is a man’s Word if he don’t back it up? Plus the dude promises to pay full price for the sack — should he deem it ‘untarnished’ — even though the two of you just smoked from it.

A gamble for sure — but if it pays off you sell the sack and get stoned.

Desperate gambles rarely pay off.

The best you can recoup from the eighth of Flatties is $25 plus a loose speed pill or two. You pop these and do a little hypovent-O-freak out, quietly, by yourself, on a bench at the train station. You chose the train station partly because you like trains. And sitting there when everything sucks makes you feel like you’re off for something better.

It is also one place your debtor is sure to not inadvertently find you.

The train station in Brattleboro is a few hundred feet away from the bridge across the Connecticut River. Just past that is the local Wal Mart — built when Vermont wouldn’t allow them. The river forms the border with New Hampshire.

3-odd miles or so past the Wal Mart is the Hinsdale Off Track Betting & Poker Parlor. You may want to try there if you’re short on cash after a typical night on the hustle. In fact you may just want to skip the Hustle altogether and make straight for the OTB. I occasionally have won respectable sums from paltry investments. In other words I have triumphed mathematically at the races. It happens.

Not so with one single damn ounce of weed on the Cuff. Can’t recall breaking even — and for certain I’ve never done better.

Well then. Thanks for reading…I got to go now & scoop up a few bucks I’m owed for washing dishes (hired & fired in a day. Sad story) last weekend.

Then I’m off: to the Races.

Sugar Bombs TNT & Scooby Snacks

wile-e.jpg

Think I’ll wrap this lil’ Office of National Drug Control lambaste we’ve had here up by takin ya’ll Back.

How far back?

Way the fuck back.

I’m talking cartoons on Saturday morning. Wonder Twin powers. Sugar Bomb cereal & make-believe Scooby Snacks.

Back to the early 80’s Gateway Drug dayz.

Sugar is the Gateway Drug. In my case the Gateway to Ritalin. Next thing you knew I got a mailbox on my bumper & a stolen front tire. Traded those heapin bowls of imitation processed Sugar Bomb breakfast food-style substitute in for a for a real nice psychiatrist who prescribes me my Adderall.

So there I was one Saturday with a head full of sugar & animated TNT and suddenly the TV-add wanker squawks off about the evils of fried eggs.

DUDE!! But that’s like…I mean actual breakfast!

*Mike E says Say WHAT!?*

I could go on and on but think I’ll just let the TV-add douche eater squack for himself.

So here it is ~~~ Hang on to your Open Containers there kiddoz ~~~ The first shot fired in the War on Drugs. The cracked egg heard ’round the World! Let’s make some NOIZE people for your BRAIN-ON ->drugz!!!

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WHEW! Gives me a hankerin for a cold can of Mountain Dew.

Know what: I say bring back the Drug War!

Know why?

Cause it was hallucinated oodles more fun than the War On Terror and we were winning.

Wow. If I could convert blog-posts like this into their smokable form I could bag it up & sell ’em. This is the best fun I’ve ever had writing.

Thanks in no freaking small part to you folks down there on Planet Earth who hang around this crappy joint with me. Who incidentally are, by my good estimate, a handful of the best & most exciting up&coming writers in the Cosmos.

You kids are a genuine spectacle. And so good to me!

I just remembered something: why I ever stayed awake for so long to begin with. Wasn’t because I had nowhere to sleep. Nope — I plain didn’t fuckin Wanna! What if I missed something shazammin?

Dig: I like the Feeling!!

So I’m off with it. groove:On. Do me a favor ya’ll: drive fast Stay Strange & swing yourselfs loose with a chuckle.

ps To the Googler who wanted to know: do they check for shrooms in drug screen…  Nope. Hot damn! They sure don’t.

See ya on Pluto fellow traveller dude!

move your feet lose your seat Buster!

The Office of National Drug Control Policy [ONDCP] has kindly issued the following PSA [Public Service Announcment]:

A Spot just opened up on Pete’s Couch.

Dude. Dat couch be shaZam-o! Too cool.

Now all’s I need is an 86-year supply of Doobage!

[click for 30-second video]