Archive for the 'war on sobriety' Category

Truth is.

I believe I would surely have killed myself, perhaps long ago, without all those illegal drugs to cheer me up along the way.

Yeah. But my life was saved by rock & roll. 

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Got To Have A Code.

We all got one.

We must; it is compulsory.

Question is what’s ours? Yours? Mine?

You can trust someone when we know their code. Even if their code, by our best estimate, is dumb-fart wrong. When we know someone’s code we’ll know how they act. Even when we don’t like it — especially when we don’t like it — we best see it coming. When we know one’s code we can gauge their moves. Even if we’ll never for the life of us know what the fuck they be thinking.

Helps hugely to see It coming.

When I know my own code I don’t always know what I’ll do next — but I always know Why.

Knowing my own code helps incalculably.

My code is who I am at best. Our code is the highest ideal. Truth. Hunter S. Thompson once said: “There’s no such thing as hallucinations; only things more likely seen when you’re tripping.”

Actually I said that — in the epitaph I wrote for the good doctor. Which ran as a Letter to the Editor in my local daily. I said Hunter S. Thompson said that.

Final Wisdom: I claimed he poetically waxed right before he died. There’s no such thing as hallucinations…

Because it gives the quote better fireworks Action — the ooh ah shit that sells — when people think Hunter S. Thompson said it moments before he shot himself in the head.

All good writers are word thieves. But the best writers steal something better than words; something no one else has yet stolen. Something most writers much want, but will never even, think to steal. I for one am a roller coaster thief.

Better still: I’m Mike E motherfuckers!

Got an open container of make believe.

Make believe makes life better. I live to make life better. I make my life better when I believe unshakably in me.

I don’t know what my code is off the top of my head. Got a bitchin’ Motto though:

Better Living Through Make Believe.

Bad Bromine. BAD!!

It was a moment of great hilarity.

“John?” the kid Bobby asked. John was my organic chemistry professor. Back in 1999. Each day at the beginning of class John would entertain questions. Bobby always came prepared with several. Some were good curiosity-driven questions. But this one he asked as a joke.

“John,” Bobby famously asked. “I heard it negates all hallucinogenic effects if you add Bromine to a molecule of LSD!”

The kid sounded pretty excited.

“Ah, Bobby.” John’s eyes filled with suspicion as he looked at his student. “Why would you DO such a thing??”

The girl sitting next to me shit her pants and nostril snarfed her feces.

John Hayes is widely regarded as the best o-chem professor in collegiate history; truly a cult legend in circles where such an accolade matters. His class had a certain atmosphere, a magic rarely experienced in college science departments. It was fun.

Now this kid Bobby was, on paper, the smartest kid in my college o-chem class. Bobby always scored real good on his tests. He father was a medical doctor and Bobby clearly had been groomed from birth to follow in his footsteps.

On paper I — a high school dropout — was the dumbest kid in my whole darned o-chem class.

Our professor, John, taught organic chemistry in the same classroom for 3 decades. Each day he walked into the room. Entertained questions. Then picked up a lone piece of chalk, turned to the board & got down to Business. Amazing. John knew his business.

He taught his year-long class with no text book. John copied his personal notes on to the chalkboard directly from his brain. These we dutifully transcribed to study for exams from. The final exam — in May — was a 6 hour affair which covered material we’d copied into our notebooks the previous September.

On the first day of class John shared with us an insight into the precise nature of his business. Why he was in the business to begin with; on the first day of class John told us why he taught organic chemistry. And I quote — he said he “liked to warp young people’s brains.”

Unquote.

WhoA!!

I was pleased as dosed punch to hear it.

To my mind warping young people’s brains is a solidly exceptional want. I wanted to be like my organic chemistry teacher when I grew up; matter of fact I still do. John took the place immediately as and remains still one of my very few “wanna-be-like you when I grow up” Heroes. And a good one. Good heroes are hard to find. So John, if you read this: thanks for being my hero dude.

I was not there to be groomed for medical school. It did occur to me that once successfully completed the year long class would satisfy the science requirement which, still incomplete after 4 full years of high school, prevented me from being awarded a diploma. But that’s not why I took organic chemistry 10 years after the fact. I was there for my own solidly exceptional reasons.

To figure out about what all those drugs that have slogged benevolently ’round in my brain since way back on Grateful Dead tour — what were they up to these days?

I mean can you scrape them out somehow and you know like smoke ’em dudes?

Way.

Tao Way!

DUFF Custiez!!

The dedicated auditor learns all material presented in the class syllabus. Does the homework. Gets tested & graded. Suffers at times mightily to gain the proffered knowledge. But at the end of the day is rewarded no credits toward matriculation for the effort.

People said I was crazy doing what I was doing. The biology professor oddly suggested that auditing classes was like trying to kiss my sister. I guess he meant like: “What was in it for me?”

Knowledge. To a degree that you can’t get in college.

Moreover it was my smashingly good fortune to learn from John Hayes; a once-ever Welcome To Planet Earth experience. In it for me? Well I got my gad dang brainz warped up good! I got higher than a dosed bowl of punch.

Higher than drugs kiddoz!

I know, I know! I sound like a god damn old lady. But I tell you this: if I (of all people) say it “Got me higher than drugs…” you can bet I mean it as no disrespect to Drugs personally. In fact it maybe did not get me Higher than a particularly excellent drug at its’ experiential peak. But the ochem class “Got Me High.” I felt high from it when I woke up every morning. Plus it was cheaper & lasted longer than any drug you can buy off the street.

For Disclaimer’s Sake: “Higher than” is in no way meant to imply “better than” drugs; in fact higher than drugs veritably begs to be made better still with a giant pot of Alien Turdz tea.

shroomz.jpg

John once saw fit to explain to the entire class that Bobby wasn’t as smart as he looked. Rather, he was very “tenacious with his question asking,” John said. The question-answer process solidifies parcels of information in the mind. When we form our own questions we engage a personal relation with their answers; a deliberate act of internalization.

Anyway that’s what John said Bobby had going for him. He came across as the smartest kid in the O-chem class because he asked a lot of questions. At times it seemed that Bobby hoped to quixotically topple the long-stood notion that “There are no Dumb Questions in a class like organic chemistry.”

No dumb questions, maybe. Sometimes Bobby asked smart-aleck questions he’d contrived to elicit a chuckle. Like the one about what happened when you added a bromine to LSD. But by no means was he the Class Smart Ass. There was only one Class Smart Ass. Was it me? Oh hell no. The class smart ass went by the name professor John Hayes.

So. If John was the Class Smart Ass. And Bobby wasn’t all that — then who was incontestably the smartest kid in the class?

Well first off: how could such a thing be quantified? Who would know?

“You know Mike E.” John assured me once, years after I historically aced his class. “You’re gifted. In fact after 30 years teaching that class…out of ’em all you are my organic chemistry Standout.”

“But I mean like I’m a total fuck up John!” I protested.

“Then you’re the most brilliant fuck up I know.”

Swhoosh.

Hunter S. Thompson himself could not pay me a more giddily meaningful compliment. As meaningful — yes. Like the compliment Jay Herron left me in my comment box yesterday. Such moments of synergy are what keeps the artist categorically addicted to our audience. And the chance that one may see fit to tell me I’m All That — as John did — has long kept me addicted to my many heroes.

It twisted an earlobe to earlobe drug eating grin on to my face for weeks.

And begs the question: What did Bobby the bastion of o chem mediocrity know about a drug we’ll henceforth call Lucy?

By all outward appearances…Nawt Shey-it. As they say with drawls in Memphis TN. Or as it’s put in these parts: Not a damn thang!

In any event he clearly did not know as much as me. I mean I just kind of look like I’ve spent most every minute of my life blasted out of my brain on drugs. Like Wile E Coyote wakes & bakes when he rolls out of bed each afternoon — on a good blast load of TNT.

Bobby most likely never tried Lucy. Definitely he never got high with a little bangin help from Wile E & TNT.

He just said it to be funny. All eyes turned to John. Who smashed the joke pitched him by Bobby so far out of the park it rained 6 packs of 802 Woodchuck hard cider & Chivas Regal in tall rocks-filled glasses. It was the most gigantically funny moment organic chemistry has ever seen.

Yeah & I was so there dudes!

So what’s the big deal? I tell you what the big deal is. What’s the quantifiable difference between Bobby & me? Between folks of at times notably above-average intelligence — and the singularly sharpest mind John Hayes observed over the course of 3 decades of o chem teaching experience? I mean what sets me measurably apart from the Others?

Alien Turdz mostly.

Nuclear Obliteration? AWESOME!!

One time we all ate Alien Turdz. Up on Spaceout Mountain. There were like 10 of us. It was a springtime Saturday in 1995. The first real warm day that spring.

Tons of people climb Spaceout Mountain. Especially on Saturday. But that one sun drenched spring Saturday everyone was lucky. Since miraculously no one besides us boisterously tripping space cases climbed Spaceout Mountain that day. A lucky break like I said because anyone who did — Sober People especially — would albeit inadvertently have Seen Too Much.

So we’d have to kill them.

Stupid Sober People.

I drooled. Giggled. Giggled & drooled. Giggled at the puddle of drool that collected on the ground beneath my chin; specifically at the colony of fairies that sprung to life from that drool puddle.

Drool fairies.

There were drool fairies because I was spun.

Spun.

How spun?

Hard Spun.

Spun kookie.

Drool streamed merrily from my mouth.

“Blah blah blah.” Someone said. “Bla bl-blah bla sunglasses.”

The fairies rode the drool stream like a waterslide.

Someone nudged me.

It was Superstar Brown.

I want to write some words here to describe my friend Superstar Brown; deliver to my readers some clue about the benevolent enormity of his character.

His last name really is Brown. What else can I say about him?

I call him Superstar Brown.

“A little to the left!” He insisted.

I continually drooled.

Superstar Brown literally shook me from my inattentive yet blissful stupor.

Drool flew everywhere.

I laughed uproariously.

“Did you hear me?” He asked, seemingly excited about something.

“Oh shit yes!” I assured him. “Something about blah blah whatever SUNGLASSES!”

I wanted to stare at the ground and drool some more but Superstar Brown wouldn’t let me.

“Not whatever sunglasses. WEARING SUNGLASSES. Look!” He commanded. And pointed to the sky. “A little to the left.”

With my eyes I followed his gesture. He held his hands palm open toward the western horizon & nodded just slightly toward the south.

I stared. Drooled. And just about shit my pants.

“A little to the left??” I asked amazedly.

It was little to the left. Unmifrikkinstakably.

“A little to the left.” Superstar Brown assured me.

I attentively wiped some drool off my chin. Blinked. Blinked. Blinked again. Plainly I could not believe my eyes.

Superstar Brown beamed; pleased to no end.

“You see him!” My friend triumphantly exclaimed.

I nodded alertly.

“Wearing sunglasses.” I declared.

The sun had begun to set. It made the clouds all crimson & electrically groovy. We were on planet Earth.

Planet Earth is awesome dudes. Too bad we’re about to smolder it & her inhabitants like the ass hit of $20 rock in Superstar Brown’s crack pipe. Shit we may nuke Iran tonight. Or else we’d have to invade them the old fashioned way. You know, with troops.

The United States of America plans to invade Iran.

Begs the question:

With what Army?

Um-K!

So instead we nuke ’em. Nuke ’em tonight? Maybe even!

We might nuke Iran tonight.

When I grew up Ronald Reagan was president. As a child I feared him tremendously. I thought he would start a nuclear war. Maybe that very night! I attempted to wrap my formative brain around the notion. Find some way to make it OK. There was none. Sweatily anxiety-barbed chills crawled out of the marrow in my spine. I could not sleep.

Then my mom would have a terrifically awful time of it when she had to wake me up for school in the morning. We’d get in huge fights because I wanted to stay in bed. I would throw temper tantrums. My mom would tremble tearfully and often had full blown on-the-spot nervous breakdowns.

And sometimes I would want there to be nuclear war before school started the next day. Because I rarely did my homework. And if there was nuclear war I would not have to go to school & get scolded.

Guess there’s always an Upside.

But mostly I’ve spent my life in revulsion of the nuclear obliteration possibility.

Until very recently.

We all saw it. A little to the left? Not sure what it meant exactly. Left of what? Dunno. The middle of the sky maybe? Maybe. But no matter. What counts is the sunglasses.

I saw them. Saw what Superstar Brown meant. 15 years later I am still plumb giddy — I mean pleased as a dosed bowl of punch — about it.

It was Jerry Garcia. Well it was a cloud. But a cloud which I recognized immediately as Jerry. As though the cloud were sculpted to his likeness. I mean this cloud looked so much like Jerry Garcia it must have been. A work of art! Truly.

Me & Superstar Brown high-5’d elatedly.

Mo-frikkin SUNGLASSSES — wearing ’em!!

I was stunned. Stunned as if the sky suddenly turned yellow & the sun went electrical blue. It was strange but I coped; with the aid of a few billion rawly rip-blasted lung loads of laughter.

Is it a Drug Hallucination if everyone sees the same thing?

There’s no such thing as hallucinations; just things seen more readily when you’re tripping.

Hunter S. Thompson wrote that shortly before he died allegedly.

Certainly one may not refute the good doctor’s logic. What is a hallucination? Something you see. Like green leafs on a tree. Which actually are not green. Rather, tree leaves reflect waves of sunlight which travel within a particular range of velocities; velocities that in turn are absorbed by our eyeballs; velocities which sing to the tune of green. Put simply: green is not a color. It is a speed.

There’s no such thing as green. But some greens — like an alien’s phantom green hue — are seen more readily when you’re tripping.

I am madly tempted to twist this argument in high gear all the way around the steered-with one knee Bend — and propose thus: There Is No Such Thing As Reality.

No such thing as Reality. Then what is there?

Actuality.

In all actuality Reality is a farce. Because by its nature Reality is something we are stuck with. It can not be altered and it automatically sucks.

The Reality is that you have to buy the ticket if you want to take the ride.

Actually we can ride for free.

Ride is a Verb. Actuality is a noun. Reality is a noun. Actualize is a verb. Ride is a noun. Ride & Actuality can morph from noun to verb & Go. Ride. Actualize. Go.

Reality makes no such adjustment on its own behalf. Reality does not become a verb. Reality does not exist because it does not have the power to Go.

Jerry Garcia was actually up there in the sky above Spaceout Mountain the one time we all got faced on Alien Turdz. That is to say that we all saw him. First Superstar Brown. Then he showed me.

“Motherfucker’s wearing SUNGLASSES!!” I shouted ecstatically.

“I was not shitting you.” Superstar Brown said.

Sunglasses!”

It was different from seeing Jerry Garcia play his guitar onstage. In part because he had no hands. Just his head. From the chin up. I swear it was Jerry. I swear! Plus I never heard Superstar Brown say it was Jerry. All I knew was something a little to the left & sunglasses. But the second I saw that fucker I knew exactly what Superstar Brown wanted me to see. Or should I say who he wanted me to see. Jerry I tell you! Or perhaps it was actually a cloud that turned into some dude who coincidentally looked just like Jerry Garcia.

Maybe whoever it was did it just to fuck with us because he knew we were tripping on shrooms.

Either way the cloud, in all verifiable actuality, was very cool — cool like a ZZ Top song — because it sported a spiffy pair of sunglasses.

This I know beyond certainty: Jerry was alive that day; he did not die until several months after we all saw him up in the sky.

It was the last time Superstar Brown saw the beloved Fat Man.

And you know what? Even if we made it all up — it still qualifies as a bona fide Jerry Garcia actualization.

Actual is conceptually very nifty.

What is a cloud in actuality?

Clouded actuality.

In actuality what is a cloud?

Awesome. Like an open container of billion proof make believe. Clouds are awesome dudes.

YEAH! Can ya smoke ’em?

If you chow down enough Alien Turdz I bet you — you can probably pull a cloud clear down from the Blue & smoke the fucker for breakfast. That’s why Alien Turdz — which actually are a kind of mushroom that grows on Pluto only — are way bitch ass awesome too.

Mushrooms from Pluto & clouds on planet Earth. Man. Clouds. Mushrooms. 2 of the finest things in the cosmos don’t you think? You do! Smoking clouds for breakfast after you chow Alien Turdz is cooler than an alien chick with 3 phantom green boobs.

Mushrooms. Clouds. WooHOO!!

Mushrooms. Clouds? Mushroom clouds. Hey…that’s what happens when you’re nuked!!

Mushroom clouds the size of the Empire State Building. Right? Mushrooms. Clouds. Both good. Mushroom clouds: HUGE! Sounds to me like more of a good thing!!

Hey. Ya know? They also say drugs are like these terrible things. We know that’s an obscene lie. So when They say nuclear fallout is a terrible thing — why the fuck should we believe Them?

Now all of the sudden I can’t stop thinking about how super excellent it’ll be to get obliterated atomically!!

Clouds. Mushrooms. Brilliant.

And that is why I support Iran’s pursuit of nuclear weapon technology.

So they can Bring It On motherfuckers!

I mean we could nuke Iran tonight. We will maybe. But if they can’t nuke us back well come on Georgie: What’s in it for me??

Yeah — and one more thing! Missile defense? But…what if it works? Say you shoot an incoming nuke out of the sky.

How will I get My Rocks Off then you bastards?

I tell you it’s a trampling violation of my damn Civil Liberties.

Which proves my point once again: You got to fight for your right to Party.

thank God for cops.

I dosed up some acid one night last summer. I was in Brooklyn. Funny story that goes along with it: I’d completely forgotten that I even had the stuff. The cops found it for me.

I had just wandered — absolutely innocently — through the city housing projects in Brooklyn’s Red Hook neighborhood. The projects just happened to be in between where I was and where I was going. But when I turned the corner I encountered two plain clothes NYPD detectives who assumed a white boy like me must have been in the Projects for drug related purposes.

“Whatcha got?!” They demanded.

“Nothing.” I said.

My smart ass was sorely tempted to follow my response up with a question, along the lines of:

“Why — do they got some Good Shit in there??”

But I held my tongue. A wise move? Perhaps. Though it went against my Policy; to fuck with the police in any way possible as long as I got nothing on me. Still, I felt vulnerable — being a country boy homeless in New York City — and smartly fearful of the NYPD. So I asked for directions to Van Brunt street and left it at that.

They gave me directions but shook me down first. An almost empty bottle of Sweet Breath “mouth drops” was uncovered while they ripped through my bag. The cops thought nothing of it but — wearing my best poker face — I was all thinking, like:

“Woo HOO!!

For once! There’s actually a cop around when you need one.

A couple hours later — near sundown — I was kicked back on the grass in this bad ass little waterfront park in the same neighborhood. Digging this view:

red-hook-statue-of-liberty.jpg

Awesome dudes.

The red ball of sunfire sank low over & then directly behind Lady Liberty’s torch.

Way awesome. I popped the top off my Sweet Breath vial. Poured in some water. Swished it around to dislodge whatever dose molecules were clung stubbornly to its’ side. Deposited the contents into my mouth & swigged them down the hatch.

It was a powerful brain whack. I tell you that.

Too powerful — for most people. That’s why the stuff is parceled out in hits maybe a tenth of the size of the one I estimably took.

A powerful brain whack; especially for a good old boy from Vermont — way out of his element wandering the night away on the streets of Brooklyn. Homeless. Utterly penniless. Unable to afford those distractions — ie BEER!! — so critically essential to the Drug Cosmonaut who needs, in cases of Brain Emergency, to reliably return to Earth.

The escape hatch as it were.

I had none of these things. Not even a cigarette. And anyone who smokes them knows how crucial they are when you’re tripping.

I am a daredevil. What can I say?

One thing I did have was a Friend. That helps incalculably. A friendless man may be forever lost. But Absynth Eve was with me. We were living in her car. Actually it wasn’t her car. It was an inadvertantly stolen Toyota Prius hybrid — but that’s another story.

Absynth Eve is about my best friend on all planet Earth. But it happened that on that night — she declined to trip with me — Absynth Eve was so entirely sick of the very sight of her best friend that I, for most of the night, was shall we say excused from her stolen hybrid car.

You’ll unavoidably have that when you live with your best friend in her car.

I wandered the streets alone. Far, far gone out of my skull on no less than 10 solidly potent hits of LSD.

It was the kind of trip that distinguishes the casually suicidal — we who may occasionally consider taking our own lives for pragmatic reasons — from someone who truly wants to scale a 5-story building then jump off head-first and die.

I obviously fall into the former category. But I guess maybe I wasn’t sure — and it’s good to know. For that reason the Trip ranks among my more productive drug experiences.

For most of the night I amused myself by looking for hundred dollar bills on the ground. No $20’s, please. Um-k? I’m too broke to find a twenty dollar bill! Hundreds only.

And I was amused. What the hell? Here’s what life is to me: I make stories. I listen to stories. And I tell stories. Now obviously I hoped to tell you guys the one about the time when I found that loose Hundie floating down the street in Brooklyn. But I tend not to have that kind of luck.

But again: what the hell?

Hunter S. Thompson about once wrote something smart about his Hero:

Muhammad Ali was not a lucky man. He was Fast. Very fast.

I slurped in a gigantically pulsated breath of New York City air. Scanned the pavement. Shrugged my shoulders & sighed.

And wished I had a frikkin cigarette!!

I tried to bum one from strangers all night — to utterly no avail. Until morning, when I passed a man who’d just stirred from his slumber. He was still halfway under his blanket. Outside a church, where he’d slept on a cardboard box.

He was rolling a cigarette out of a pouch of Top Menthol tobacco. Cosmically fine luck; Top Menthol happens to be my 2nd  (after the more costly American Spirit menthol) favorite brand. In fact I am smoking one right now, out of the pouch that Absynth Eve just sported me $1.26 to buy from Wal Mart.

Trouble was he did not want to give one to me. Why should he? $1.26 is literally a lot of money to a homeless man. I asked. He shook his head no. But took a closer look at me, and by my grungy appearance he concluded that I was homeless.

Then he let me roll two.

DEGENERATE GAMBLER CHRONICLES: episode ga frikkin Zillion!!!

I have a long & storied history with the gambled dollar.

So know you know.

There exists an adage; one shared among gamblers in the esteemed know. It must be understood. And it is by some few. Ignore it and you’re doomed. Still, most gamblers do. That’s why most gamblers are dumb bet sluts who will always lose.

It takes a classy & real smart bet slut like me to know: I must Bet To Win.

Read the adage again.

Bet To Win. Linguistic action is wound evenly in to the 3-word phrase’s entirety. Bet To Win. Verb. All go. I must bet to win.

Silent space between each word in the phrase passes precisely measured and too fast to see. Unless you’re hallucinating. Then absolute quietude may wrap in fast moving energy packets around the eyeballs. Whoa dudes; you can taste the silence. Not unlike the way you’ll imagine chocolate tastes when swallowed by your eyeballs. But…can you smoke it? Just then the chocolate silence eye lid whiff shimmies & morphs into an eye of its’ own & winks.

Makes the heart leap that silence; like silence spaced between 1 & 2 in the 1 & 2 & 1 & 2 & in a drumbeat.

The three words in the adage is like popping 3 speed pills at the same time. BAM! All at once. Or more like the cumulative effect of an evening’s first three beers; brilliantly interdependent, their sum greater in a mysterious way than the added worth of each part.

The third beer is when it gets awesome dudes!

Bet To Win. What does it mean — I must first bet in order to win?

No.

I must bet to win.

Dig?

I don’t always win but I want to. And raw want to win is the key.

Most people bet to gamble. They hope to lose as little as possible. They may not want to lose. But the House Always Wins.

You’ve heard that one right? House Always Wins. Rule.

They used to have a rule at amusement parks. Old ones, like Brooklyn’s Coney Island — which I was fortunate to visit this summer. Is Coney Island still open? Probably for another few days, that’s it. I think after this weekend Coney Island is doomed.

What a bummer. Never even got to ride the Cyclone. Though it has long been on the top of my list of Roller Coasters to Steal.

Anyway back when the wooden Cyclone roller coaster was built They had a rule. Not written. Written rules are much easier to break. You know where to find them!

Who here likes to break the law??

Whoo!!

Like how since it’s Expressly Forbidden by law all those illegally downloaded movies are more fun to watch.

But the rule at Coney Island was different; this was a law of Physics. Written? Not precisely. In fact it was considered so obviously true that it was inforced by & large with nary a mention.

Roller Coasters Don’t Go Upside Down. Unless there is a catastrophic accident.

Upside Down? Nope! Not Roller Coasters. They just don’t.

House Always Wins. Same deal. Rule was probably first made up alongside the ancient roulette wheel. The very first casino gamblers were informed that House Always Wins is intractably Truth. The rule has passed virally down, generation-to, from slut custie gamblers to their retard offspring.

That’s me!

But I — a dedicated life long rule breaker– aim to break that one rule above all.

Why?

Because I want to win. It’s my passion. That simple. I thus aim to win more than I lose. I must win. As must we all; if not as gamblers then at whatever it is you do.

Plus the rule is wrong. Bogus. Fraud-on its’ face Not true.

The house turns a profit. They are a business. This is America. Profit they should! But every time a bet is payed out the fact is: the house does not win. It loses.

I aim thus to prove irrefutable to anyone who cares that the House can & does constantly lose.

So we can win.

I aim to prove it thus because I am a teller of Truth.

I’m Proud Of Me.

Tonight I took just enough pills to cause me to hit the drive-through at Wendy’s. Order for Absynth Eve & me. Drive to the second window. Pay. Get change back from my $20. Drive off & tool oh I’d say a good ten miles down the road. When Absynth Eve grew acutely panicked when she could not immediately locate her Frosty root beer float.

“It’s around somewhere dude.” I assured her. And hoped that somewhere was easily accessible — since Absynth Eve & I live in her car amongst many of her’s and all of my own — albeit very few — worldly possesions, those lost Frosty root beer floats have been known to take literally days to dig for & locate. I hoped for the best. But was on balance not overly concerned. As I reached, with supreme confidence, to the mid console cup holder where my own Frosty root beer float had every reason to be.

By now we’d driven at least another mile or so.

“What’d you do with my Frosty root beer float?” I asked suspiciously. And wished suddenly that I’d got a different kind of Frosty float — orange soda maybe — than my friend’s. Whom I carelessly assumed had taken unfair possession of mine after she’d lost her own. Of course she did. Must have. Then where was mine?? Yeah I bet she don’t know. Where else would it be? In all realms of possibility nowhere. But could I prove it? Nope.

Same damn float.

Another mile.

“Did I forget the floats?” I asked incredulously. “Are you completely shitting me? Fuck I wanted one.”

“Wanted? Oh fuck no.” Absynth Eve corrected me sternly. “I will have one. You have to go back!”

“Just for the floats?”

“Just for the floats — it’s all for the floats. That ratty cheeseburger I really do need to eat so I don’t die was just an excuse to pull in & get me a Frosty root beer float!!”

It really was about that fucked up with the eating thing; where some 99 cent Wendy’s pretenda-bacon cheeseburger was our long sought nutrient level salvation from late-stage poverty induced starvation. But would we have gone back for them? Probably not. Think of the gasoline we’ll waste and besides — what Counts are the root beer float Frosties.

Those are what we use to ward off the depression you get from living in a Toyota Echo.

Serious business.

Abandon the Frosties? Can’t happen.

No indeed.

But you can it turns out drive off & plumb forgot the burgers along with the Frosties & fries — the whole damn order in fact. And not realize it until you’ve tooled a good 15 miles along. It can happen. But only under special chemically adjusted circumstances.

You have to pop enough pills to really space way out, man! A right proper amount. And tonight well by golly — I DID!!