Sure, city life has a lot to offer — but sometimes it’s nice to be partying with old pals in the small town where you were raised and subsequently got the fuck-out of as soon as you could.

 
Sure, city life has a lot to offer —  but sometimes it’s nice to be partying with old pals in the small town where you were raised and subsequently got the fuck-out of as soon as you could.

For those of us who grew up in these small towns, going home is like taking a vacation to a place where tight pants are still weird, and Sublime never got old. My own personal Shangri-La, where I spent my youth skateboarding and listening to NOFX, is a town 2 hours north of Toronto called Penetanguishene.

Its population is about 8,000, and is located between a few smaller townships full of Frenchies and farmers. I don’t know what the name means, but generally we call it Penetang for short – or Poontang if you want to be ironic. (Not ironic like your t-shirt, but ironic because it’s impossible to get laid here, or at least, extremely unpleasant).

Anyway: I grew up here and got the fuck out as soon as I could. Afterwards, I spent about four years in university, hundreds of miles away, and when I graduated this December I decided to take off for South America (right now I’m in La Paz). But before the traveling began, I went back home for a visit with mom and who ever in the old crew was still around.

Mostly I hung out with this one dude, my good old friend Benny.
  

He is the only coke dealer I have ever met who brings the scale out with him, and one big bag of dope, and weighs it out right there on the spot. (This is possible in small towns because parties don’t happen at bars, where a scale would prove troublesome, but always in basements or outdoors around fires. On a similar point there are NO BARS there, except for the Legion, and the kids all go get drunk at the Boston Pizza, in the next town, on Friday nights.)

The first night we hung out we watched cool dance videos on TV for a while and then I wanted a pack of smokes, so we walked 20 minutes to the only corner store. This is what the streets look like at night:

No side walks, hardly any lights, and plenty of snow. Maybe it was the ecstasy we parachuted earlier, but the stars were out in amazing numbers and I fell in love with the absolute silence of the place – there was no wind and no noise, except our crunchy footsteps. I felt like I was in a dream world and I even started wondering why I ever left this place…

Benny is on unemployment during winters and he is in love with only two things: his beautiful girl and his snowmobile. I remember him being a scary driver in highschool – he used to drive at crazy speeds in his underwear, grasping a bottle of vodka in one hand, swerving around bends and trees to make it out to bush parties — so I was pretty worried when he told me we were gonna go out and go for a ‘big rip’ on his sled on one of the many frozen, picturesque lakes in the area the next morning.

Hesitations aside, the next day I put on some of his girl’s snow gear and we set out. Here’s me looking like a loser in girl pants:

It was a sunny day and there was a layer of water on top of the ice. He drove at least 100 mph and it felt like it would take just one miscalculated turn and we’d spin out, fly through the air and bash our skulls before plunging to our icy deaths.

At one point, he parked the sled in the middle of the lake for a bit; when he saw the worry painted on my face he said: “Don’t worry bud… You only need two inches of ice to support us..” Then he jumped up and down on the ice. “Look at that! Fuck! at least six inches here..”

Across the lake he showed me this little shack where a dude lives with his dog.

 
And here is the “bum casserole” Benny found beneath the bed (a casserole made of pennies, nickels and cigarette butts):

We smoked a roach joint, drank a tall German beer and ate a few Percocets before heading out once more to the ice, this time on foot, under the full splendor of the sunny Northern Ontario winter day. Jesus, it was so beautiful.

Later that night we took a cab out to another pal’s house to jam in his basement. I was shocked and pleased to learn that the cab driver was the dude who lives in the shack! Here is a picture of him, his name’s Andy, and he seemed nice.

Andy told me he actually doesn’t live in the shack anymore, though, but that he used to when he couldn’t afford the rent or something about the cops. . .  I can’t remember.

Anyway, all the good times aside, by the third day, it started to get real boring. I still have some pals who live with their parents, and none of them all really seem that happy. Most want to get out, now, too. And although it is a nice relief from a life in a bigger place, where there’s always shit you have to do and buy and people to deal with, I would never go back if it wasn’t for visiting mom.

-Tobes McSquire

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So i just wanted to tell you that a few weeks ago i was reading your article on heroin and the part that stuck in my mind was that if you see someone really fucked up, you should walk them around the block and you’ve seen that save lives.

Dear Street Carnage,

So i just wanted to tell you that a few weeks ago i was reading your article on heroin and the part that stuck in my mind was that if you see someone really fucked up, you should walk them around the block and you’ve seen that save lives.

Last night i was still high on Adderall i had railed the night before and as a result hadn’t eaten in two days before drinking way too much vodka and rum, then smoking way too much weed close to all at once. I was sitting outside on a bench when i couldn’t feel anything anymore and my hearing filled with ringing and i suddenly felt like my head was completely submerged. I could feel my brain shutting down and i felt like i was about to die, when i remembered what you wrote, and I knew I could trust it. Now i know i was certainly on nothing like heroin, but I definitely had alcohol poisoning and making myself stand up and walk around got my friend’s attention and passing out in her arms before my friends smacked me awake and fed me bread was definitely safer than passing out on the bench, because i don’t know how long it would have been till they realized what was wrong.

Maybe you didn’t save my life, but i am so grateful to you. I’ve been reading your stuff for years and i always thought it was great, but just you taking the time to write that essay might have kept me alive.

Thanks,

ilse cruces

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3. DEAR STREET CARNAGE,

Dear Street Carnage,

Do you remember those huge hits that came 4 to a square that comprised one picture? Whelp, I use to be able to get those things for 75-150$ a sheet.

Dear Street Carnage,

Do you remember those huge hits that came 4 to a square that comprised one picture? Whelp, I use to be able to get those things for 75-150$ a sheet. Yes, in the good old days you would pay that much for a sheet, sell some for 5 a hit, get everybody off and pocket the money, everybody was happy. What the fuck’s up with this mutha fugging modern day shit price of 10$ a hit?! The grapevine told me that sheets are going for $500. I absolutely refuse to pay that much for acid so my friends buy it and feed it to me for free to curb my stubbornness. So what’s with the sudden jump in price, supply and demand? Then why is everybody I know around me eating the shit and happily dropping a ten spot on it, they’re fucking ruining it for the rest of us.

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3. DEAR STREET CARNAGE,

So I think at the end of your book, you were talking about gaining weight in rehab, how much it sucked, and how you’ve lost weight now. I am having major issues right now with the 30 plus pounds I gained, most of which have to do with beer and laziness — but even though I have cut those things out (wine and exercising), I still cant lose weight. (Well really, I am sort of joking about those things, but I am watching what I eat and jogging 30 minutes three times a week.)

I am having major anxiety about my weight everyday, and even if a guy is into me (which they are, not to sound cocky), I still feel totally insecure about my body. Just wondering if you had any advice on how to feel comfortable in your body because I know this is something you’ve dealt with, just like ANY GIRL!

Rephrase this email however you want to make me sound dumb/smart/genius/ridiculous, but I would be really into reading something you wrote about weight issues for girls and body insecurities. I think it should be addressed because I know tons of ladies who are struggling with it. It’s not just me! Does it get better as you get older? Because I am 21 and I am already seeing phases of my life where I am skinny, then fat, then chubby, then normal. I just want to be skinny all the time. Is that totally evil?

Love,
-ME

Dear You,

Wah,
-LESLEY ARFIN
LesleyArfin.com
CafeconLesley.BlogSpot.com

Send “Ask Barf” letters / replies to AskBarf@StreetCarnage.com (include photos!)

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From the best episode of Intervention we’ve ever seen. Here is the original.

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I dated two drug dealers in my life the first one sold weed, the other, blow, and why did I do this? For the glory, that’s why, and the drugs, and for the love of party I guess.

I dated two drug dealers in my life the first one sold weed, the other, blow, and why did I do this? For the glory, that’s why, and the drugs, and for the love of party I guess. I didn’t NEED to be with these guys, I figured what the fuck and wrote it off as a vacation from boredom. Next time I will just get a better hobby, here’s why:

A-appeal

You have to appeal to a dealer’s fantasy of what a drug dealer’s girlfriend should embody, and that usually boils down to your attitude and your ass. This guy thinks he’s king of his friends and custies, so he wants a trophy to lord around, he wants his friends to want you but know they will be F’d UP if they touch, totally cliché and totally fucking true, in every drug movie you have ever seen there’s the drug missus and everyone wants to plow her regardless if she is busted-looking or not, the fact that she is the dealer’s woman makes them want her MORE. Practically every friend and customer behind my bf’s back would give me horny eyes and be really into what I was saying and I got the if I fucked him vibe he wouldn’t rat.

B-bitchy

You have to be bitchy like a choke chain, especially to your drug dealer boyfriend, right-away stand your ground firm or otherwise you will be his punching bag for the duration of the relationship. Despite it seeming risky the idea of lipping off a dealer, in actual sincerity they are scared little babies who constantly doubt themselves, their lives, everything, so you can get away with lippin’ them all you want. The main point of bitchiness is to put custies in their place, and to entertain your boyfriend by talking shit about them to pass time. A lot of customers owed my bf money and would get drugs on spot so my presence shamed them into paying up, in this case it is a bonus to have extra eyes and ears around.

Also, the business, bongs, blow.

C-Custies

Custies, what a dealer refers to his customers as, as a means to demean them, like his line of “work” isn’t the scum of the earth’s business. You will meet all types of people, many you would never give the time of day to in the real world, greasy hair, garbage clothes, low-IQ city, slow, boring, annoying fucks. Many are loner-types who schedule in their weed-purchases as hang-out burn sessions and you get in on all of it for free, always. When custies get high they like you to be there to look at, and they like you to laugh at their shitty boring stories. When they burn-out they go home, then more show up. Great. Your boyfriend needs you to double as the barmaid and bouncer, to get rid of them when they’re starting to feel like equals. Going on deals you will visit a lot of their houses, apartments, street corner hang-outs, and so on. Eventually, sometime when your boyfriend is on a good high he will refer to you as his partner, act really touched like you are pleased that your hard work is finally being recognized, laugh like hell inside your head.

Also, coke, duh, and clothes.

D-Delusions of grandeur

Both guys were pretty unstable but tried to appear otherwise. I remember as I was prepping to leave the second dude he was just falling to fucking pieces, total mental collapse, breakdown, crying and sobbing and hyper-ventilating on the kitchen floor. They think they own the world and the world recognizes their greatness and having cash laying around fuels the fire. You don’t have to be a dealer to be like this, it’s something you are born with and your environment and the people you surround yourself with either kills or feeds it. Selling drugs to people who are way beneath you definitely helps.

Also, dreadlocks.

E-ego

Get ready for some MASSIVE ego based on insecurities of his past, so you know you’re in for the fucking funny farm. There is nothing scarier than an unstable person with copious amounts of self-love. 95% of his time is spent trying to convince people he’s superior, wiser and far more urbane than them. Some of his custies have money, legitimate funds, and your boyfriend wants to earn their respect, and he attempts to do this by way of fashion groupie-ism. Often you’ll show up to find a new expensive fugly jacket your boyfriend bought that day and you have to straight-faced tell him it’s awesome, along with all the custies in the room who can’t even pay their fucking phone bills. He also knows everything about designer labels because counterfeit merchandise is also part of the biz, and you have to pretend to be into it too.

F-friends

You will lose all of your friends when you date this guy, anyone with a brain will be like see ya. Think of it as a holiday. Some of your friends (the pieces of shit ones) will stick around to get the drugs-convenience spill-over though. Your new friends are custies/friends of your boyfriend, which is ideal because when you dump him, you don’t want to see those people ever again. My bfs thought we would be together forever, yes we had something truly special. Dude, what we had was a co-dependent abusive relationship, the foundation of which is based on drugs and money and being high all the time. You will see your friends again when it’s over.

G-Grow-op

If this is ever mentioned, you didn’t hear it, you don’t know what or where it is, the end. You will be privy to a LOT of information that if you weren’t stoned immaculate (snappy Doors reference**) could make you shit in your pants. As leverage, your bf will try to instill some fear into you that if you should ever leave him, crap about “certain people” finding you, blah blah, while vaguely possible, isn’t likely, you are small potatoes. Anyway, remember a few names or faces, but as more and more time passes after you break up, you forget everything anyway, and you move on. I was baked the whole time anyway, and I’m not stupid. When it’s all over you keep everything quiet – it’s part of a code. I took a lot of shit worthy of calling the cops and charging both guys, but I didn’t. I never saw any grow-ops though, I’m just using it as an example.

H-Hooked

The job of the pusher is to get you hooked to keep you blitzed so you won’t leave, cos then you get to thinking oh no where will I get dope if we break up, and if you weren’t high all the time you’d realize how much of a dick he truly is, duh. A dealer also relies on the addiction of his custies and you help him make drug time, fun time. You are what junkies picture in their head when they think of getting high, you have to provide them with a space and atmosphere so that they keep coming back and forget that they’re such aimless losers. It’s your job to be like hey come over and we’ll do ‘shrooms Friday night together then when blasted I’d put my bikini on and dance to MJ for whoever wasn’t too fucked to notice.

I-

I dunno, intelligence? Something you will not come across very much while you are dating this dickbag. You’re going to be doing quite a bit of dumbing yourself down, you know how you’ve had one friend your entire life and you barely hang but when you do you turn into someone else completely cos this friend is a total ignoramus and you bring yourself down to their idiot-level, yeah that’s you and your boyfriend and everybody you come across. We couldn’t find a lighter once and this chick said we could boil water and light our smokes off the steam, ‘nough said.

Also, itching, intimidation.

J-Junky

You are a junky, you are dating a drug dealer, you tell yourself you are not a junky, but you are, smoking weed five times daily and doing blow here and there, yeah, equals junky. Sucks, eh? I guess you could take it down a notch to pothead. Junkies will bang on the window at 5 in the morning for coke cos they ran out of meth. The word junky will never be used cos it makes things real. Being a junky and looking like one are two different things, consider functioning alcoholics, they’re fine and tolerable, encouraged even, but once they are stumbling messes of themselves, goodbye. Same for junkies. If you want to be one of the gang, you have to look the part, yes this is a movie duh. You will barely take showers too cos you will be constantly hung and burnt-out and the feeling of water on you is too much to handle. (I would like to mention that I have never done meth, heroin, acid or injected anything ever in my life, ps.)

Also, joints, rolling them, Johnny Depp.

K-Kate Bosworth in Wonderland

That’s who you want to be, and that’s who you are, and there is always an ex-girlfriend of your boyfriend who is in the background that he keeps secret from you but you are aware of anyway but act otherwise, anyway, she’s crucial ‘cos at least he has her to understand him and tolerate all his shit. Anyway, Kate Bosworth, booooiiiing. Remember the scene when Val Kilmer fucks off for a long time and leaves her alone in a motel room forever, you are going to be doing a lot of waiting so maybe you should start a blog or something.

L-lying

There is going to be a lot of it and eventually you will be doing a lot of it too, dealers are extremely paranoid and uptight and will do little tests to catch you in a lie because they have a lot of time on their hands between dealing and getting high, they see you as an activity. Their craft rubs off on you and soon enough you pull some stunts too. Dealers are all pathological liars so have fun. This is not unlike delusions of grandeur, ‘cos they actually believe the lies they tell you and will fly off the handle if you don’t say you believe them like the very character of their being is under question. The word TRUST will be thrown in your face a lot, try not to laugh hysterically over it. Haha but that’s like every relationship, just large-scale when pretentious drugs are in the mix.

M-money

Do not touch it, do not look at it. Dealers count their money OBSESSIVELY they like to pretend they are Johnny Depp in Blow and money is stacked to the ceiling of every wall, when you see your boyfriend counting his money or worse, your boyfriend and one of his friends speed-counting it together, you will feel very embarrassed for them. What’s worse is, cos you’re dependent on this guy for a social life you have to act cool about it. Oh speaking of that, you do not have a life outside of this guy, you are not allowed cos he is insanely possessive.

Also, mafia, manipulation.

N-Narc

Dealers are extremely wary of narcs, you will be at a house party and your boyfriend will whisper to stay away from so-and-so because they are a narc. 9 times out of 10 this is false information. Who knows how the narc rumors begin and who started them. Why would a narc party with dealers and custies all the time? This isn’t – insert any fucking drug movie here. Rumours were spread about me even being a narc, like if I narc’d on you why didn’t you go to jail? Also, dealers think they are sneaky and all stealth and they’re not, they may as well be running around with fluorescent red arrows hovering over their heads.

O-Opportunity

You will have the opportunity to deal yourself. Don’t. Instead, just hook up people you know and while you should be getting a cut, don’t ever ask. Your boyfriend knows he should be giving you a cut, but he won’t cos he’s greedy and thinks you’re dumb (yes because it’s dumb to have clean hands, idiot). When and if everything goes to shit, that not having anything concrete to do with “the business” will help you sleep better at night. Oh if he ever asks to put money in your bank account the answer is NO. Another important O is Other dealers, you will meet a lot of them, speak their lingo, but for the most part, shut the hell up when in the same room, chances are they are a million times crazier than your bf, who is also petrified of these guys.

Also, OD.

P-Paranoia

This will get on your nerves and drive you total bananas. Remember the I call bullshit article when drug dealers were called out for using code-speak on cellphones? Well, they still do that. But they also fuck up a LOT. They use online chat to set up meetings too which blows my mind, hello bill gates computer evidence that’s catalogued forever. See, paranoia rubs off on you too.

Also, possession.

Q-Quit

He’ll talk about quitting now and again so try not to be discouraging just nod your head and be quietly amused like the world is his oyster and no options are closed to him. He wants to go legit, and that’s cool, but he is so addicted to the riches and the “power” he will never ever be fully legit. Think of it like your dad be-moaning never becoming a rock star or something, no big deal.

R-Rolling joints

This one is up there with being almost as annoying as watching them count their money. Every pothead has an insane amount of pride about their spliff-rolling abilities, and if they fuck it up the first time, they will rip apart the joint and do it over, if there is even a tiny crease they will tear it apart again and you have to sit patiently and not act like your skin is crawling up your face. Then when it is passed around you all have to comment on how amazing it is and usually it’s packed too tight and runs anyway so you waited all that time for nothing. Bongs are mostly a west coast thing, not really an option, I think it boils down to suburban kids being too paranoid to have a drug implement hanging around from all the coke they do. You will get really good at rolling joints, little pinners are the best and always appreciated.

S-Scarface complex

One of the first things the second dealer I dated said to me was that he had a Scarface complex and it took every bit of effort to not fucking erupt in a volcanic fit of laughter. I could write a book based on how that was the stupidest thing I ever heard. This guy had gold rings on every one of his fingers and used to polish them all one by one at house parties in the kitchen in front of everybody WTF? Dear Italians who idolize Al Pacino in Scarface, dude was a CUBE (no NOT Italian believe it or not) so SHUT UP and he dies in the end!

Also, sketchy.

T-threats

Laugh when this happens to you then make some back. The one guy told me he hid coke somewhere in my house and if I ever ratted him out he would tell the police I had all this blow at my house, I believed it for a second then was all nah, so bullshit. They will avoid hitting you in the face if they know you come from a good background and will call the cops on them, but that won’t stop them from threatening to do it you know when you hold your fist up and make your face all ugly-mean, push the envelope here, you have to, laugh at them, call their bluff.

U-user

User, junky, hophead, pillhead, coke-fiend, whatever, these are your peers for the next little while and you know, you don’t even have to be dating a dealer to hang with these geniuses, some of you probably have a few in your circle already. A user is someone who uses, a dealer is someone who gives a user something to use, obvs.

V-vans

After awhile you will be pretty paranoid yourself and every van you see you will think it is the FBI (Flowers By Irene haha, no seriously.) You might think it is terrorists too, this is why I can’t smoke weed anymore. Burn on me.

Also, Vancouver.

W-weed

Try to smoke as little weed as possible cos you will start to go manic and piss everyone off. You will learn about all different kinds of weed, oh and this is a way for female custies to flirt with your boyfriend in front of you, because you obviously do not give a shit about the quality or kind of weed, but the girl custies act disgustingly enthusiastic over it while getting high with you guys and you have to swallow your rage. They are usually from BC and are insanely annoying and your bf has a pink crush on them from all their flirting, which is solely a means to get free or cheap weed.

X- x-pensive things

The first dealer I was with was kinda a cheapskate, the other one liked to front, so money was blown a lot, this goes back to the Scarface mentality, Goodfellas, whatever, you are supposed to make people feel inadequate beside you by way of dazzle-camouflage, and when you have nice shoes on and jeans you forget all the bad stuff. Don’t get greedy though and don’t let him buy you everything because every time you fight it will be mentioned and used against you.

Y-Yes-men/Yes-man

Your bf is a yes-man and he hates himself because of it, but that’s how he makes money and in order to cleanse himself of the sleaze what is yes-manism, he has a bunch of groupie yes-men at his beck and call, they are all full-on addicts, and sketchy guys who drive him around and do drop-offs for/with him and get a tiny cut, typically paid in drugs.

Z-zoloft

I took anti-depressants while dating the second dealer cos the first one fucked me up so much, long story short, Zoloft plus drugs isn’t a good idea, it made me manic again. I am not on them anymore and all the weight they made me gain is off finally too. There are many possible outcomes from dating a dealer that could happen to you, the main one is bitterness. You will also feel embarrassed, but whatever, it wasn’t so bad, there were some good times (keep telling yourself that). And guess what for the rest of your life you get to start conversations with I dated a dealer once and all of your stories will be ten times more ridiculous than everyone else’s. WINNER.

-Raymi
RaymiTheMinx.com

Editor’s Note: Decided to close this thread because it’s getting boring.

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You are doing yourself an incredible disservice if you do not watch this video Corey Haim made in the early ’90s to convince people he was sober. He’s totally high as a kite in the whole thing.You are doing yourself an incredible disservice if you do not watch this video Corey Haim made in the early ’90s to convince people he was sober. He’s totally high as a kite in the whole thing.

And if you’ve seen The Two Coreys, the most underrated reality show of our time, he still is, some 15 years later.

Anyway, in the following video, he expresses his passion for music. As far as musical tastes, he’s into “that Japanese funk” (???), and he believes that Prince “is the future,” even though at this point, the apex of Prince’s career was already in the past. Like many people on stimulants, he deludes himself into believing that he can do anything. Notice that he plays the keyboards with one finger.

He also pretends to know what those knobs on the side are for.

Other things we learn:
Who he looks up to: John Ritter

His plans for the future: He’s “moving towards the writing and uh, the directing thing too.”

How he’s feeling: “I’d have to say the way I’m feeling nowadays would be intense and powerful.” Cocaine will do that to you.

Why he loves kissing: “Kissing a girl is like having dolphins swimming through your blood stream.” And by “dolphins” he means “heroin.”

There’s also an awesome modeling session he does, at his own expense, which is probably the gayest thing he’s done since he began having sex with men for drug money. Anyways, enjoy!

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…and a few that were forced on me.

…and a few that were forced on me.

In my long, illustrious, golden, noble, spermy, hilarious, fun-filled life, I’ve done me quite a lot of drugs. I’ve ingested every illegal drug that has crossed my path, and I’ve frequently altered my path in order to score others. Basically, the only drugs I haven’t done are the ones I haven’t been able to find.

Back in seventh grade, my science-fair project was a visual presentation of illegal drugs’ purported horrors, and I say “purported” because at the time, I had never tried an illegal drug, although they clearly fascinated me. Looking back, it turns out that I have sampled every illegal drug I wrote about in my science-fair project—and I’ve enjoyed every one of them.

Merely for kicks, I’ve taken all the legal recreational drugs (alcohol, tobacco, and caffeine) many of the legal pharmaceuticals (Valium, Xanax, Vicodin, OxyContin, Benzedrine, Adderall, and the tragically no-longer-available Quaalude), every conceivable manner of cannabinoid (hash, hash oil, hash brownies, and a rainbow coalition of weed), scores of psychedelics (LSD, MDMA, psilocybin mushrooms, mescaline, salvia, and Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds), the stimulants (I’ve smoked and snorted both meth and cocaine), the dissociatives (PCP and ketamine), the opiates (I’ve snorted heroin and smoked opium), and I’ve even dabbled in inhalants (amyl nitrite and nitrous oxide). Like I said, I’ve done me a lot of drugs. Of everything, I’m sure you’re most impressed by the Hawaiian baby woodrose seeds. What’s undeniable is that, despite doing all those drugs, I am able to remember doing all those drugs, which any sane and sensible person would conclude gives me the cognitive capacity to do even more drugs. I still have some brain cells left to kill.

I doubt that it’d be legal if I were to come right the fuck out and ask you, my legions of faithful and attentive readers, to supply me with any of the psychoactive compounds I’m about to enumerate. But I think it’s legal to wish that you’d bring large quantities of them to me for free. That’s not the same thing as asking. That’s only a wish, and I don’t want to live in a country where wishes are illegal. Part of what’s great about being an American is that our forefathers constructed a sacred document creating a beneficent government that allows you to do lots and lots of illegal drugs before you ever get caught.

DMT

I’ve heard rumors—and I don’t want to research them and find out they’re false, because it’d be a letdown—that smoking DMT mimics the chemical your brain releases when you’re dying. I’ve been fascinated with DMT’s legendary psychedelic powers since my teens when I read that after smoking only one DMT-laced joint, comedian Lenny Bruce abandoned his black-and-white suits and began wearing colors. I’ve met a few people who’ve tried it, and the haunted look they get in their eyes when describing the experience only makes it that much more appealing. Technically, I smoked a little bit of DMT a few years ago in a group of about six people, but I guess I didn’t inhale enough to “ride the snake,” or whatever it is that happens to you. For a split second, it felt like I was able to look into my wrist with X-ray vision and see my bones, but that was it. I definitely didn’t leave my body. But a friend of mine at the same smoking session looked like he was on Jupiter for a few minutes there.

GHB

I know almost nothing about GHB except that you sip little salty scoops of it, it’s allegedly a common choice of date rapists, and it’s dangerously easy to overdose. None of these things, of course, serve as impediments to my twisted psychology. To me, all of them are selling points. I have a vague and possibly erroneous understanding that GHB induces mainly an immobilizing, alcohol-like “body” high, with frequent projectile vomiting as an added bonus. The whole shebang sounds nasty, chemical, and sordid, which is all very, very cool.

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Author’s Note: This article’s adequate and satisfactory completion was interrupted on June 1st by the matter of me having a 9-on-the-Richter-scale epileptic seizure, then brain surgery to remove a large benign tumor that had been pegged as the seizure’s cause, followed by another honkin’-big post-surgery seizure that served as the cherry on top. I emerged from the hospital after eight days as strong as a heterosexual mule and apparently with highly sharpened cognitive skills. Despite your jeers, jabs, and jibes, I will continue to exploit this situation for all the sympathy, trinkets, and bad-ass credentials I can garner from it.

In the hospital, I was hooked up to enough wires to string a harp. At one point I was connected to three separate IV trees pumping unsolicited drugs in me around the clock. I enjoyed a morphine drip for the first day or two, but after that, I received absolutely no painkillers or antibiotics, which seems nasty, unfair, and perhaps a touch passive-aggressive. One of the medications, designed to quell irregular heart rhythms, can also turn your skin irreversibly blue. I can’t determine whether any of the multiple seizure medications with which they’ve plied me have had any effect on my thinking or mood.

But I can tell you a tad about Decadron, which is the steroid they gave me to prevent my cabeza from swelling up to dugong-like proportions. From all the hype, I’d expect steroids would turn a person into a violent, unfeeling, US Marines/pit-bull meanie, but quite the opposite is true: I’m a bawling, oversensitive Sissy Mary. I only need to look at my wife or dog, and it’s wah-wah-wah all the livelong day. They weaned me from Decadron nearly two weeks ago, and I’m still a walking premenstrual vagina.

I’m sure you’re wondering whether any of this has “taught me a lesson” or imbued me with a golden sense of spirituality and light. The answer is a quick and emphatic NO, although I may have to rethink that line about still having some brain cells left to kill.

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Despite having the only E addicts I’ve ever met in my life, it took until now for the UK medical community to discover a legal drug that makes you want to embrace both Peace and Love with some very large doses of Unity and Respect.

Despite having the only E addicts I’ve ever met in my life, it took until now for the UK medical community to discover a legal drug that makes you want to embrace both Peace and Love with some very large doses of Unity and Respect. It’s called Oxytocin which sounds a lot like one of the greatest drugs in the world, Oxycontin (legal heroin) and it makes you want to hug everyone.

We saw what E did to the working class over there. It ended their hooligan violence and turned them into prancing Oasis “vibers” with sandals on and pajama pants. Now that the middle class has invented their own version, we are going to see a whole new generation of blissed-out french kissers lying in the mud at Glastonbury. Can’t wait.

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1. UNDISCOVERED TRIBE DISCOVERED IN BRAZIL

After receiving the Volcano Vaporizer in the mail, the first question that popped into our heads was, “What the fuck is this?” Turns out it’s a $500 heating machine that gets “herbs” warm enough to emit their magical properties without combusting them into smoke and creating all the bad shit being on fire brings. Remember Kik from the 1970s? Me neither but apparently it’s the same basic thing.

After receiving the Volcano Vaporizer in the mail, the first question that popped into our heads was, “What the fuck is this?” Turns out it’s a $500 heating machine that gets “herbs” warm enough to emit their magical properties without combusting them into smoke and creating all the bad shit being on fire brings. Remember Kik from the 1970s? Me neither but apparently it’s the same basic thing.

The whole machine is a little confusing to set up at first. You have this empty bag that has to be affixed to an adaptor thingie that has to be plugged upside down to the heater engine and this can only happen when the green light indicates the temperature is perfect. Sounds like the stuff of non-drug users but once you go through the instructions, it’s a cinch.After the bag is full of light gray smoke, you remove it from the heater and start sucking. Be careful though, like a brand new motorbike on a newly-paved road, it’s hard to tell how fast you’re going. Most people were surprised to blow out a giant cloud of smoke where they thought nothing had gone in. High-wise the vaporizer feels like doing a tenth of a hit of acid if there was no such things as bad trips and your brother owned a beer company. It was a body buzz with a heavy dose of hilarious laughs and none of the fuzzy raunchiness you get from smoking joints. That’s why the $500 doesn’t seem so bad. The buzz is $500 better than smoking a joint. Besides, everything cooks so efficiently the amount you’d put into a small pipe can get five people wrecked out of their fucking minds.

In closing we’d like to say we thoroughly enjoyed our experience with the volcano and on a scale of 1 to 10 we’d give it a ¢§•§.

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