Archive for the 'mixed salt amphetamines' 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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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.

Another Free Jar From Dr. Tweeks!

I had a dream this afternoon about my buddy MG TANK.

tankcrop.jpg

He was dead from unexplained causes.

I wasn’t too sad though.

Things live. Things die. Welcome to planet Earth, dig?

It’s a topsy turvey world.

Nothing personal. I like the kid hugely. But…well you know how it is.Truth told: The whole thing worked out real sweet for me.

And TANK was too dead to know the difference.

Yo TANK! If you’re out there reading my blog from beyond the mysterious beyond — you should know:

Dude.

Your funeral total-way ruled!!

It was an open casket affair. MG TANK’S psychiatrist came. She’s a real nice lady. We call her Dr. Tweeks.

I stood in line behind Dr. Tweeks when we all filed past to view TANK’s body. Boy was that a stroke of fine luck & good timing! See, Dr. Tweeks paid last respects to her dearly departed patient by slipping a month’s supply of mixed-salt amphetamines into the breast pocket of TANK’s fancy funeral tuxedo.

MG TANK had a bumper sticker on his refrigerator. Yeah. Know what it says?

Yo TANK — I bet smartly you know which one I mean.

It’d be kind of like when I say, at times like these, “Hot damn it rocks to be Mike E!!!”

But in two or less words.

Tell you what dude: On account of having killed you in my blog post for a free jar of postmortem speed…I make you a deal. Tell me in the comment box which sticker I mean and I’ll give you a free pill the next time I see you.

Guess it wrong & I will off you again.

Righto then. Back to the daydream…

Tell you this: Just because that jar of speed was free sure don’t mean it came Easy.

Just as I moved to slip his funeral gift from Dr. Tweeks into my own sadly empty upper pocket MG TANK woke in a wild jolt from my daydream. Darkly disturbed at the molestation of his bon voyage stash & rudely determined to not have it be.

His fingers curled around my wrist in an icily genuine death-grip. His other hand stretched toward my neck.

“Off my cloud you dumb honky slut!!” TANK shrieked. I crammed my shirt-sleeve into his mouth to muffle his plea. It was no good at all for the whole funeral to know I’d got my hands on TANK’s last prescription. Too many fellow speed-freaks in the crowd. They’d demand to have it for their own.

And when I inadvertently neglected to cough it up the ensuing riot would pose a threat to public safety.

“Yo man!” I whispered frantically. “Don’t Fuck Around — if shit flies off someone might call the police!!”

“Cops??” TANK moaned wearily. “But..that’d be so bogus!!”

My friend wanted to roll over in his grave. But obviously couldn’t since he didn’t have one yet…*

TANK above all did not want Johnny Law to roll out & bust up his one & only funeral. He loosened his grip. Shot me a look that promised to haunt me & then spoke his last words on Earth:

See You On The Dark Side Of The Hobart Transport Portal!

“Word ’em up.” I said. Flipped the pill jar into my pocket. “Bring the Whateverz dude!!”

I strolled away giddily; like the gambler who just cheated & won. Or a little kid on Halloween who just scored the Trick or Treat candy stash from the limp grip of a neighbor –who’d been mauled moments before by a snarling & possibly rabid Mack truck.

Yeah — like thanks for the candy kiddo. Thanks for the candy!

Or maybe like me saying So Long & Thanks:

thanks-for-the-add.jpg

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

HUGE. next level huge

I started to write for audiences in earnest back in 1999. So 8 years. Just under a decade. My goal this whole while: Bust chuckles.

I always think what I write is the funniest thing since me & MG TANK stole that Cadillac convertible and drove it into a swimming pool in what appeared to be Atlantic City. But that’s another story.

I’m not sure if readers share in my giggle fits over every word I write. I like to think so — but by the end of a 70-odd sleepless hour mixed-salt amphetamine binge I really don’t give a hoot. I like to laugh. And my witty snips crack me the fuck up. My hammer-sledge one line funny smack-downs barrel blast my skinny ass to the floor.

Ya know what? My life sucks. I’ve been raped by men & beaten by women. My teeth are two-thirds rotted out of my head. I am intractably unemployable. Been homeless for over a decade of my adult life. Two and one half years — my longest run ever — this time around.

Yep. I’ve said it before and I say it once more: It sucks to be me.

But so what?

I get to write about whatever I want for no reason at all other than to make myself laugh. What luck. I’d be dead if it weren’t for that. No shit.

Die or laugh. Those are the two real choices I’m posed with most days. Laugh or die.

Today I had a third choice. Die. Laugh. Or bask in my greatest to-date literary accomplishment. 8 long years in the making. A pinnacle moment; truly the feat I’ve strove for the long while; since I bought my first lap-top after I made $10,000 cash in a weekend selling freeze-dry alien turds at Woodstock ’99. Another different story. One of my all time favorites though!!

This is the story about one thing my writing — a pro chuckle extractor testament — had yet to do. Until last night that is. The very first time ever that a reader has…

…In his own words (left as a [perfectly smashing] comment to the previous post):

Jay Logic Feb 5th, 2007 at 10:28 pm

Brilliant! I just laughed a piping hot Vanilla latte out of my nose, and all over my girlfriend’s computer monitor!”

I am shit-tickle happy. One of those moments, when I read that, where I could genuinely say “Well Hot Damn — it rocks being Mike E!!

In all these years of finger-tips ground tenaciously into my own little world that lives inside my computer’s keys — listening for the secret to make people laugh so hard they fall down — I have never once, until yesterday, caused a reader to Snarf.

Happy Snarf Day To Me! Happy Snarf Day To Me!!!

No but seriously. I hope it was awesome dude! To celebrate: Jay Logic gets to be the first ever open container speedWay blog Reader of the Week!

It & 3 bucks will get you a Bud Draft or 20 MG’z of addaboyz or a pouch of Top Menthol rolling tobacco!

Well congrat-ya-fucking lations!! You came to the right speedWay.

with style.

The weirdest thing happened last night.

I’d been up for a few — I think I slept a couple quick hours Wednesday morning & not a wink since. This all happened near midnight on Saturday…

…and I ate my last speed around Saturday noon.

Grr.

I was broke & hungry & so tired I was sure sleep would do more harm than good. I was a little twitchy & too conspicuously talking to myself out loud to be in public; though the Bar was in many ways preferable to the nervous confines of someone else’s living room.

Plus I’d begun to get creeped by anxiety over whether I’d find someplace to stay the night. And how bad it would suck to wake up tomorrow, if I did, still broke & hungry but feeling that special kind of Worse, after nowhere near enough sleep, than one feels on no sleep at all.

The bartender bought me a glass of wine. It helped considerable with the Twitchy Thing. But made me tired for real. So the bartender bought me a coffee.

If the Bartenders weren’t on my side I am certain I’d never Succeed.

My buddy Mike D was at the Bar. I remember the first time I met the kid. He was like ‘What’s you’re name?’ ‘Mike E.’ I said & he goes ‘Oh you’re Mike E? I heard about you — Yo I’m Mike D!!’

Mike D spins disco. Like We Are Family & shit — but also the disco you don’t really know. Deep sugar cube funk. There were turntables at the Bar. Mike D had some records. Next thing I knew it was shazam:On.

Human beings need water, shelter & food to Survive. But when we come up short on one or even two of these…if we can dance we get the chance to not just survive but do it with a little bit of Style.

I don’t remember the last time I danced. Think I should do it again sometime, though — on account of something real weird that happened halfway through the first song:

I smiled.