Archive for the 'gonzo' Category

the Hybrid Thief

Some static started
In the pool hall

Hit
A motherfucker’s FACE
Wit’ D Q
Ball!

Then I met this girl
she
Tried to gank me
Says I got to buy her lobster
Now
Since she took me Bu’ger King?!

So I smacked her in the booty with a plank bee

Then me & my
Crew
Were out breakin

Windows

Play the Daily Double
When I know who’s gonna win
Both.

Cause you know I love to win
Love to win
Love to Love

To Win Win

Whoa!

Possession
is half the law
I had my routines
Before all ya’ll!!

You’re whole life is coming
Apart
At the seams
You ain’t nothin but a Car Thief
Bitin Routines.

Yeah I’m a city slicker
I ain’t no Townie

As your next President I
Solemnly swear
To spike a spansule of Dexedrine
Into every Hash brownie!

Better Run
Dick & Dubuya
You Better Run
Fast.
Beatsie Boys gon’kick you’re motherfuckin
Asses!

Cause you took what isn’t yours
Like two-bit tyrant rats

Another Stop Loss
Soldier
Killed
By a road side blast.

Yeah & leave it to
Democrats,
right?
They made it worse!
Got our hopes up
& let us down
Now my feelings
are Hurt.

That’s why
I speak on behalf
of America’s youth
When I tell the Democratic party
to go eat a douche

Cause that’s how they roll
that’s how they like to snack
Now now it’s good to recycle
Plus there’s zero grams of fat!

See. I,
I personally
I wouldn’t even wanna Go Out Like that!

I’m a writer. A Poet.

A genuis.

*takes bow*

I don’t buy cheebah
I GROW it.

People always trying to
Get next to me.

I had a beautiful experience on Ecstacy!

Cooked up a breakfast
Batch
Of kitty cat tranquilizer
Turn the party
side wayz
Cause
We couldn’t go no Higher.

Now
my brain is drool
Roley Poley mush
Had to snort some crystal meth
Just
To stand up

Toot a straw load of
Ha Ha
On the Casey Jones mirror
Voice of Reason
Begged me not to
But
I pretended not hear it.

Now there’s Trouble Ahead
Oh Lady In Red
Cocaine wore off
Now
I wish
I was Dead!

That’s so annoying.

WaaaaaaaaA AAAAY!
BOY!!!
God man.
You know what I would really enjoy?
Now
I
Am waiting for the
Dwark with some opioids!

You can’t deny
me
you
Always wanna try me

Yo you just gonna get your girl dicked!!!

Pop quiz:

By who?

Hint:

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Who Shot Hunter S. Thompson?

I don’t know.

But I don’t buy the Aspen sheriff’s on-scene determination of No Foul Play.

There are, in the words of widow Anita, “Too many unanswered questions.”

Of course Anita is biased. As, unabashedly, am I.

The allegedly deceased is our Hero.

What I admire most about Dr. Thompson is his deliberately risky & good – deleriously good – message to the Youth:

Bet smartly on yourself. When you lose — bet again.

Bet until you Win.

Perhaps taking his own life was a smart bet on himself. A bullet in one’s own brain is an act of ultimate surety. And not wildly out of character for the dude who scribbled Kill the Head & the Body Will Die in his notebook, a quarter-century earlier, for reasons he couldn’t – or simply did not care to – recall.

Is winning just another word for nothing left to lose?

Suicide for Hunter may genuinely have been the act of a man who sought the Ultimate High. Or else – long years after his drug tolerance had outgrown every available buzz – he splatted his brains like electric Silly Putty across the rug just to get high at all. Why not? Cheap thrills!

The act of a daredevil?

Maybe.

On a different day maybe.

On a different day I may be proud of him for it. Cheap thrills? Why not!

But not that day. Not right that second.

Fuck nope.

Something about it ain’t right.

Many theorize that the Good Doctor was done in by the Government because he’d set out to prove that 911 was an inside job.

Not so.

911?

The government didn’t do it.

The slumlords did.

And Hunter S. Thompson learned decades ago that slumlords make lousy enemies.

Like my personal Lighthouse that I could see from anywhere in the world – no matter where I was, or how weird & crazy & dangerous it got, everything would be okay if I could just make it Home.

>>HST

Hunter Thompson — who once dedicated a novel To Richard Millhouse Nixon: who never let me down. — loved his enemies; loved how his enemies made him feel about himself. Hunter S. Thompson’s enemies made him feel right. The more wrong they were the more right he felt. But only up to a point.

Right up to the point where they evicted him from his home. That was too wrong; too wrong to go home & get paid to write about.

Landlords — especially the kind who blow up World Trade Centers for money — are unworthy enemies.

Look: Hunter S. Thompson said Richard Nixon fucks pigs. Did he have proof? No. He needed none; as per the central thrust of Gonzo Journalism, to wit:

You can’t always find 2 Reliable Sources to verify what you know is true.

Thus his claim – that Richard Nixon was a pig fucker – needn’t be backed up with the Facts.

Why reiterate the obvious?

It would serve only to insult his reader’s intelligence. Like if the New York Times ran a headline that read:

BUSH LIES!!

Well No Shit Sherlocks.

What – did ya all of the sudden hire some actual reporters to work there?

Fat chance.

This headline would be more like it:

NEWSPAPER GROWS BALLS: RUNS ‘BUSH LIES’ HEADLINE!

Now that is news.

The front-page story, were there one, would detail the mechanism – congressional subpoenas perhaps — by which the newspaper was forced to report facts long known true by the vast bulk of Earth’s inhabitants.

George W. Bush does not fuck pigs.

Richard Nixon was a crook & a cheap gin shot & I despised everything he stood for — but if he were running for president this year against the evil Bush-Cheney gang, I would happily vote for him; and he would Win.

>>HST November 2004

The truth is uglier.

Bush’s inner circle has a thing for homosexual prostitutes. Not a Sin, not in my book — but nevertheless an infamously caught red-handed Fact. Less known, but no less factual, is Hunter S. Thompson’s work — at the time of his death — on a piece which, if completed, would thread the Gay Hooker Connection to the Republican party in detail all the way back to the Nixon days.

Such an article would lead any respectable journalist inevitably to the blindingly too-obvious-to bother to prove conclusion, that — in accordance with his own much-touted Christian adherence — George W. Bush sucks a pig’s dick for jollies.

One is forced to admit his point: I don’t see anywhere in the bible that expressly forbids it.

The potentially resultant headlines seem likely cause enough to get a man “suicided” by his own Government — as Hunter S. Thompson famously predicted he would be.

This explains some things; sheds light on unanswered questions. Like: Why did the good Doctor choose to blow out his brains in the midst of an otherwise productive telephone conversation with his loving wife — while his son & daughter-in-law played with his beloved young grandson in the next room?

A classless & unconscionable amateur act; my hero would never do such a thing!

Unless he had a good reason.

Perhaps Thompson indeed fired the gun on himself. The proposition in no way rules out the Foul Play angle. Suppose he was forced by rouge players to forfeit his own life — or forfeit the lives of his family?

In that case his gruesome timing makes perfect sense — because it was so wrong — as a way to tip folks off to the inescapable fact that something about it weren’t right.

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!

Spun Short by 2 Lengths

My much touted new favorite racehorse is a bit of a speed demon.

I know I know: what a smashing coincidence!!

Did anyone take my advice and bet smartly on Hard Spun last weekend? I didn’t. Oh I bet on him alright. Just that I didn’t bet smartly.

Whole thing reminds me of 3 years ago when I somehow managed to convince what must have been a dozen or more friends to bet Lion Heart to win the Kentucky Derby. Because Lion Heart was the #3 horse. And it just so happens that my lucky number is three.

“Are you sure this horse is going to win?” They asked.

“Oh shit yes.” I insisted. “Ab So Fucking Lutely!”

Occasionally I will take the time to peer pressure you, good readers, into betting on a particular racehorse. Like Hard Spun. When I do just, you know — don’t be a fool.

Bet more than you can afford to lose!

I’m right every single time.

Can I get a Witness??

It’s true.

They all came out to the Bar to watch the Big Race. Lion Heart led 3-quarters of the way around the track. Everyone cheered gloriously & reeled. I gasped elatedly. I’ll never forget the feeling; that a bar-load of friends would win cold cash plus a beautiful buzz — thanks to me! I felt deeply & dizzily pleased.

Now Lion Heart throws the gauntlet down & opens his lead by three!

So said the Churchill Downs track announcer. With only a quarter-mile left to race! It was all over in my book; nothing left to do but grin wildly & lay back — with my mind on my money & my money on my mind.

Bitchin!

But Smarty Jones is a stalking second as they reach the Quarter Pole.

That’s what the track announcer said next. I wasn’t sure what he meant — was there another horse in the race?

Bogus!

Stalking — I learned a few seconds later — is when a racehorse hangs strategically a few lengths off the lead and waits for speed demons like Lion Heart to tire in the homestretch.

My lucky #3 horse got sacked in the race’s final strides. The once-exuberant Bar din fell to what sounded to my ear’s like a disgusted hush.

Ah, fuck.

We who were once so mighty!

All eyes were on me.

Probably the only people in that Bar who felt more dumb than I did, about our collective loss, were the people who put their money where my big mouth was. I told them I knew for sure which horse would win the Kentucky Derby & their dumb asses believed me!

Why not? Remember — I’m never wrong about these things. Also remember: never believe me when I say I know for sure which horse will win a Kentucky Derby. That’s the fantastically wishful thinker in me talking. I have no clue who will win actually.

But I’ll tell you for sure who wants to.

And any racehorse who wants to win stands a fine chance of finishing In The Money.

Hard Spun likewise commanded a powerful lead at the quarter pole in last Saturday’s Derby. I lifted my NY Mets cap off my head and whirled it excitedly. Hard Spun!! Get it? Like, spun on drugs dude!

Awesome.

Way.

But I knew he would get sacked in the end; all good speed demons meet the same fate on Kentucky Derby Day. But you know what?

It was way awesome anyway.

Here’s why — and this is the secret to a good day of gambling anywhere on planet Earth.

I figure I’ll lose. But I want to win. How to reconcile? Make bets I’ll pat myself on the back for even when I lose. Like last Saturday, when I bet $10 on Hard Spun to Win. It was a bet, at the race’s end, that I felt good about. In large part because my heart wanted Hard Spun to win. And to a lesser, though nowhere near insignificant, extent, because I placed that bet with a $10 spot generously donated to my Cause by Absynth Eve.

It also helped that Absynth Eve had Street Sense to Win. I positively whooped on her behalf when her horse took over at the eighth-pole. And Absynth Eve kindly refrained from teasing me over the her/me won/lost scenario all the way up ’till today.

Not lost on us was the fact that our horses came in 1-2; we had the Kentucky Derby exacta. Not that we bet it but we could have. Shit for $2 apiece we could’ve boxed the fucker — to spare ourselves a quibble over particularly in which order those top 2 horses would run.

Also adding to the fun was the total of 1 friend who bet and won on my solid — if not exemplary — recommendation: My buddy KC bet $5 on Hard Spun to Show. A show bet is when you cash in — albeit at shorter odds than the straight bet to Win — when your horse finishes anywhere in the top 3. KC none-too shabbily banked $17.50 on that piddly $5 investment.

The same $5 would’ve returned $25 had I bet my new favorite racehorse to Place (finish in the top 2). How obscenely dumb of me not to!

Like I said: I picked one fuck of a good horse for this year’s Derby. Shit my bitch ass picked the second place finisher in the greatest horserace on Earth! And failed to win money only because I did not bet smartly.

But what the hell? There’ll be more Kentucky Derbies — end of the world notwithstanding. I’ll win money next time; and if not it won’t be for lack of Practice. With that…I’m off to the OTB.

Enjoy the smashingly good race!

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+

Welcome To The Monkey On My Back.

For speedWay readers who wonder how they can bet on the next Spun Cookie Race; or for that matter aren’t yet clear on what a Spun Cookie is…Here’s a good rule of thumb: the cookie has nothing to do with it. In fact I think that cookie has out-lived its’ usefulness.

Fuck cookies.

From now on: It’s 24/7 Spun Kookie races on the world famous open container speedWay!

Spread the word.

The question then is what is Spun?

Spun is like a perma-tilted pinball machine. Though the Game Over light keeps flashing the Credit counter, clearly malfunctioned, registers enough credits to provide free pinball until the 2010 mid-term elections. After that it plans to run for President.

Ever hear of a pinball game called Strange Torpedo? Me neither. I called the manufacturer to inquire about the machine’s origins. They told me that it was the only one of its kind.

Weird thing is even when the machine is unplugged the lights keep on a-flashing. It claims to pick up the extra credits in dimensions parallel to and equally as ‘real’ as our own. Quantum physisits insist these mathematical necessities — called Elsewheres — exist in realms flung so far through time & space we will never encounter them.

Strange Torpedo disagrees. Says those Elsewheres — far from flung — are really so close to our own Reality Assumption that without the right kind of eyes we don’t see them.

Strange Torpedo never shuts off for a more obvious reason — the pinball machine somehow convinced some psychiatrist to prescribe him mix-salt amphetamines for a bogus case of A.D.D.

Strange Torpedo — the sleepless extraterrestrial multi-dimension leaning orphan pinball machine — is one good example of Spun.

“Yo those Spun Cookies on your blog are pretty stale.” A friend pointed out recently. “Can we smoke ’em?”

Pippi: can you smoke a Spun Cookie?

Heads Up: To The Youth! You can take Pippi at her word. She is not just an expert. Pippi is long gone Pro.

She writes a weekly column for the successful fiber-craft web rag Knitty; a column Pippi sneakily & bravely named Get Spun.

Wicked frikkin funny. No shit.

Not the column itself — though it’s no doubt speckled liberally with cult knitter inside jokes. The title though is all-time classic art by itself; it will live brilliantly on. The joke not only identifies Pippi’s allegiance — on our side — it also spews chuckles aplenty out of every old-time drug user I tell.

“Hey my friend Pippi calls her column in a knitting magazine Get Spun!”

“Do the knitters know?” One friend asked.

Only the knitters who know shit about anything.

“Man I am Spun.” A friend once proclaimed.

“Hard Spun.” I assured him.

And that is all ye need to know.

Unless you still can’t figure out what Spun means.

One time in the passenger seat of a parked car I got so wasted on drugs — quality psychedelics — that I actually thought I was flying a spaceship.

It is the uncontested pinnacle of my personal far&wide drug experience. To this day I still swell some with pride at the accomplishment. Just you go an imagine the amount of drugs required. Plenty of people have taken enough drugs to forget momentarily which exact planet they are on.

But who here has borrowed & taken the actual spaceship out for a joy spin?

Truth told: The spaceship was not lent so much as conjured from brain resin — strange hypothalamic crystalline wash-off (reputedly the most potent drug concoction in the cosmos) — which lay sludge-puddled & stuck in the bottom of my skull. This residue of a 10-year plus drug binge is the leftover drugs that, for various unavoidable reasons, never made it to the hypothalamus; the part of the brain responsible for converting drugs into the neurotransmitter proteins — ie dopamine & seretonin –which rule so total-way awesomely.

Normally these sludge pools lie dormant but under special conditions — when the bottom-skull reservoirs are full, a feat accomplished at maximum on 2 or 3 occasions per lifetime — erupt. Back into the brain. And settle. Thinly & invisibly blanket the hypothalamus. Then seep slowly if with pronounced efficacy over the course of the ensuing decade into the various synapses.

WAY! Free drugs dudez!

That’s the real reason I seemed to handle a strange and blistering fast spacecraft — my first solo flight — with the greatest of ease. Because my reservoirs erupted. YEAH!! So I wasn’t just high on the drugs I took that night but on a semblance of all the drugs I — or anyone else — had barreled into my brain ever in my life.

Expensive little spaceship ride! I tell you.

But it was awesome.

That’s why Pippi says Get Spun.

Hard Spun.

Off to the Monkey House — gone. Gone far & hard enough to never come back.

Spun.

Spun Kookie.

Round & round & round & round
Round & round & round
& Round.

And Round!

Singing Thank You!!
For a real good time.
>>Grateful Dead

Any questions?

Yeah! Got one:

Who is going to win the 2007 Kentucky Derby (hint: my new favorite racehorse)?

I will place a complimentary $5 Kentucky Derby bet on behalf of the first reader to email me the correct answer. Get Spun. Spin It Like You Stole It. Good Luck.

Quick Question:

Who here hates White People?

Perhaps hate is too strong a word. Who then is wholesale prejudiced against Europeans and persons of their descent?

I’m talking about white Americans mainly, of course, but — to be fair, or prejudiced in an unbiased fashion — let’s go on & lump their ethnic forbearers (the French & English mainly) in with them.

There’s reason to hate us. We are the worst people in the world. Fools.

The root cause of all of Planet Earth’s problems.

Plus I don’t like our attitudes. The way we plunder around and act like we own the place. Like we’re somehow better than everyone.

I’m not saying that you should hate white people. I mean we’re not completely without merit. Let’s be fair: White People do buy a lot of things!

But…let’s just say you were excusably prejudiced against my race. It happens; lot’s of people are prejudiced against someone. Shit I for one am equal opportunity prejudiced — against everybody.

Myself none the least.

So if you hate white people — go for it dudes.

Right on.

But what shall we call these deviants?

Every other ethnicity has one — often hugely controversial — word that bigots use to rudely describe them. You know what they are. But there is no across-the-board one word smack-down for white people. And I think that’s wrong.

Honky? Cracker? Seriously. What about those words lend the user a sense of incontestable superiority? What does it say about the inherent worthlessness of my race?

C’mon!

I say white people are just a little worse than all that — don’t you think? Of course you do. Everyone does.

I feel sold short.

I think my race deserves a genuine, universally recognized insult.

How About:

Custiez.

That is Custie as in short for customer. But it’s derisively more than that. It says something about the god-given Worth of all white people.

We’re tools.

Kind of fits don’t it?

Yeah. But don’t all you Chinese folk out there go and start calling us that!

We’re sensitive.

So only white people get to call each other Custiez.