Alcoholism: Anybody looking to slander your behavior will always bring up that you drink too much, regardless of the frequency or severity, instantly putting you on the defensive. It’s just like when you make a crack about a gay person, are accused of being homophobic, then scramble to pretend you’re a big fan of men fucking. A relationship counselor once hinted that drinking eight beers during Sunday football hints at a problem — that’s less than a beer per hour, plus it was a lie; it was more like 18. When did alcoholism suddenly become applicable to everybody who drinks enough alcohol to enjoy a hint of its effect? It used to be an affliction proprietary to Irishmen who drank varnish; now if you reach for your fourth beer, you can hear high horses whinny from all directions.

Bruises of Mystery: Good morning. Without any theories as to how they got there, you have a constellation of bruises. Your arms and legs are peppered with small black spots, some newcomers, and some yellowing oldies. The red giant is always found in the most improbable place. How did you get four baseball-size bruises on the interior of your bicep and under your left nipple? You are 90% certain you did not go anywhere near the batting cages last night. What the fuck?

Calculations: You might have flunked out of ITT Tech, but if the problem begins: “40 oz. of malt liquor is 8% alcohol and costs $2.50, while 16 oz of marshmallow-flavored wine is …” you are as fucking aces as Michael Eisner figuring out 9% on a restaurant tab.

Drunk Driving: We all know it’s wrong when we’re sober, just like we know fat or ugly women don’t deserve even the most disingenuous compliments when we’re sober. We also know how quickly our sensibilities erode with each passing drink and how a bogus sense of invincibility simultaneously swells. Unfortunately, we Americans are slaves to our cars and few things suck more than having to contend with waking up hungover and not being able to easily acquire a “Revive” Vitamin Water and a sausage egg and cheese. Sure, there’s designated drivers sometimes, but he’s just the guy that pounds three waters 10 minutes before its time to leave. Don’t drink and drive.

Extract: You’ve gone to a party, underestimated the amount of gin it will take to put you down for the night and the liquor store is closed. A rummage through the pantry, fridge and medicine cabinet comes up blank. You know what you have to do. There’s a row of fiery shooters sitting among the spices and seasonings, some running up to 160 proof with flavors ranging from vanilla to almond. And it’s not like anyone ever uses that shit. By the time your theft is discovered, you’ll probably have made a clean escape to the grave.

Food: At 3:47 a.m., a slice of pizza that has been dessicating beneath a hot lamp to the point where it looks like the skin of a mozzarella elephant has you salivating like a Somali watching a U.N. airdrop. If you’re at home, managing the focus to cook up a box of The Cheesiest makes you feel like a god. On the road, it’s not by chance that the greasiest, most vile drive-through is the one with a line backed up to the streets minutes after last call is enforced. Just don’t try to assuage your doctor’s concern over cholesterol and blood pressure readings by explaining the unlikelihood of you living long enough to have a heart attack. It’s faster to just take the scrips and throw them away.

Gastrointestinal Malaise: A warning to all — do not drink black & tans and eat Burger King onion rings the day before a first date unless you feel the need to frantically sacrifice a pair of boxers to the trash can in a men’s room with no lock.

Hangover: For centuries, saucehounds have concocted snake oils and practiced arcane rituals to combat the cruel penance of a day(s) of pounding head, sizzling confetti shits and chilling sweats, and for centuries, they have failed miserably. Honestly, do any of us really believe a B complex and a glass of water will undo the damage done by a cube of Miller Lite? After that, you could use your urine to pickle deformed fetuses. Drink a water in between every drink? Sure. Why not do crunches between every bite of cheesecake or put on additional condoms during every position change?

Irreparable damage to reputation: When the sun rises and the haze of sobriety sets in, there’s a good chance that the people you were partying with will no longer think the stained carpet, smashed furniture, overturned cat box and felonious assaults were so funny. It’s a thin line between he’s a blast to party with,” to “that guy is NOT coming to my fucking wedding!” Usually this line is crossed when bar buddies invite you into their home. There’s nothing that can be done about it, and anyway, it is better to be dreaded than anonymous.

Job on the Drunk: Look, you are totally in the right here. No reasonable employer can ask you to remain completely sober for eight hours. I mean, if you can’t land an aircraft with a couple of shots in you, what kind of pilot are you anyway? All you need to sail through this requirement at most jobs is a screwdriver in a Minutemaid bottle and a pack of breath cleansing gum and you run almost no risk of being caught.

Kamikaze Pick Up Attempts: Long after you’ve shattered the beer goggles on a fall to the bathroom floor, any actual objectives other than amusing yourself go by the way side. Plus, it’s not like you have any legitimate game at this point anyway. So you approach that blurry thing with the girlish voice by blurting whatever horrible phrase oozes from your scrambled brain. Some part of you is still demanding a mate, but it’s orders won’t be carried out any more efficiently than those from the part of you responsible for walking in a straight line. My personal best here is approaching a girl to tell her about the internet video I had seen of a man being fatally sodomized by a horse. Kablam!!! Sure, a successful pick-up would be the ideal, but why be cleanly shot down when you can honor your ancestors by going out in a flaming ball of social catastrophe?

Law Enforcement: They’re bound to turn up eventually. If you don’t get a DUI yourself, you’ll have to bail out a friend who does. There are those uncomfortable moments when you stumble up to your car, key in hand and see a parked cop car and have to decide what to do, and there are those even more uncomfortable moments when you are led away from work in cuffs. The nasty secret of cops is that they almost never catch you. You can coast for years. You become emboldened and no matter how long your run of luck, you will eventually choose the wrong time to throw an empty whisky bottle at a pedestrian as you run a red light in a deaf school zone. Our only real advice is deny, deny, deny… and bewhite. ”

Moderation: The Drunks Three-Minute Mile.

Nosy Clerks: I prefer shopping in the judgement-free environment of the liquor store, but some times sale prices lead me to the grocery store for several weeks at a time. They might not say anything, but I can see it the scorn in their eyes when they realize I’m the guy who has bought three 1.75 liter bottles of store-brand vodka from them in a week, paying exclusively with Coinstar receipts. Fuck off, asswipe. You scan Apple Jacks for a living, yet you’ve shamed me into avoiding you by choosing a longer line. And of course, the same fucker will card me. It’s a bit flattering, but on the other hand I’m more than 10 years past 21 and have a beard like fucking Euripides, so give it a rest now and then.

On the Road: What is it that makes road sodas some of the most delicious beers? We’re not encouraging the sucker driver to actively drink, but when you’re a passenger on a road trip to a sporting event or whatever, few things feel better than slugging beer in the car. Unfortunately, the pissing situation can become tedious if the vehicle’s owner is fastidious, meaning they don’t like it when you clumsily whizz all over their floor mats while trying to keep your helmet aimed in the mouth of a 32 oz. Gatorade bottle.

Pissing the Bed: You have reached the point where your central nervous system had to take the controls and crash land you on the nearest soft surface. You are unconscious and your system is brimming with diuretics. About four hours later, as basic subsystems start to come back online, you startle from your sleep, feeling a strange chill. Even as you mutter “No, no, no,” flip blankets, strip off clothes and look for a spilled drink that isn’t there, you know what you’ve done. You drank yourself into infancy. If it was your own bed, your mattress will forever be cursed with a faint brown halo of shame, but you control the crime scene, so this is the best-case scenario. If it was somebody else’s bed, couch or floor, nothing can mend that relationship but time. If a still-sleeping innocent was involved, you are bound by your own sense of honor to frame them by whatever means necessary. If you did it in a hotel room, it will probably be the only time in your life that you fear reprisal from a Motel 6 maid.

Queerness: Good times, lowered inhibitions and a sense of camaraderie and belonging — this is why many of us drink. But there is a dark side to the bro-down world of putting your buddies in hug-headlocks — the guy who takes it too far. Maybe he’s gay, maybe he’s just really lonely and drunk, but that lingering arm he draped on your shoulder doesn’t have the same harmless feeling it did when Dum-Dum Jimmy did it to you moments before he went to bang some divorcee in the passenger seat of her Hyundai.

Regret: Even before your 250-grit eyelids grind open to a day pre-emptively squandered, you know there is something to atone for. Prior to blacking out, there are blurry snapshots of offended women flicking through your mind. You feel like something expensive of yours might be broken. You wonder where your car might be parked and if there’s a Jack Russell terrier decaying in your wheel well. You make some casual, “feeler” phone calls to your friends, trying to piece things together. Eventually, one of them answers the phone, not with a “hello” or “‘sup?” but an emphatic “Dude!” At this point, all you can do is listen helplessly to whatever combination of staggering, cruelty and law breaking that you weaved together the night before while promising yourself a future of sobriety.

Sadness: As Lenny Leonard so aptly stated, “Nuthin’ like a depressant to chase the blues away.” Intoxication has an inertia to it that can inflate mediocre situations to greatness, or exploit your insecurities to a point where you’re insulting yourself in a mirror. It’s not all that dissimilar to laying a tab of acid on your tongue, only the teeter on the cliff takes much longer and you can go to sleep instead of boring others with profound descriptions of your Dali hallucinations. Every drunken episode is a role of the dice, and many times, sweet escape is denied, and all you’re left with is your miserable self, only crippled to deal with how shitty you really are.

Too Drunk to Wank: Let’s be realistic. Unless you’ve just rocked Madison Square Garden, it’s a pretty safe bet that traveling across the room on all fours, trailing a potpourri of (mostly) human excrement is not going to get you laid. Instead, you spend five minutes coaxing forth an erection, exhaust both arms and try to focus on the booty video on BET without your mind wandering to fantasy football, before giving up and passing out as a man incapable of outperforming even the most frigid monkey.

Unsafe Sex: Let’s just get it out — condoms suck. We’re pretty sure AIDS sucks too, but we know condoms suck. Speaking for my penis alone, it’s a hill climb to nut while sporting a jimmy sober. Tack on a BAC of .20 and you’re setting yourself up for a frustrating finale-free slamfest or, worst case, a bored and traitorous dong. If it was some horrible stranger and you underperformed, you still may feel obliged to redeem yourself at first opportunity instead of focusing on throwing her cell phone in the toilet while tiptoeing out of her pen, so we will responsibly state that abstinence is often the best course of action for the true drunk because why take all that risk to do something so utterly fruitless? Unless she’s really hot.

Van Damme: Along with Seagal’s canon, the Golan-Globus era of JCVD are 3:00 a.m. staples of the basic-cable networks. Along with the aforementioned shit food, your wet brain demands low-quality stimulation as well and what it really craves is a movie that ends with a guy being thrown down a fucking elevator shaft or a bitch in a penguin suit getting executed with less mercy than Rasputin.

Wine: Every now and then, when the buzzes of shit beer and vodka have you bored or you’re about to indulge in a fantastic meal, wine is dictated. In smallish amounts, it is quite pleasant and it ranks up there with tequila shots as a means to getting laid. After heavy amounts, you suffer like a baby bunny trapped inside Dave Lombardo’s drum kit. It also makes your poop greenish-black, which we’ll assume to be unhealthy. If wine is your go-to drink, you are either gay or a gay hobo.

Xanax: Among the most popular of all supplemental party favors, with good reason. Unlike military grade painkillers, it’s not commonly mixed with aceta… Tylenol which is pretty, pretty bad for a drinker. Also one of the afflictions for which Xanax is commonly prescribed is being female, so they are in abundant supply outside of gaming and LARPing circles, wherein one must rely primarily on allergy prescriptions. Warning: excessive use may cause two college educated men to forget that the letter “X” is part of the English alphabet and initially post this list without an “X” entry.

Yukin’: Sometimes we want escape so totally that we are willing to nearly kill ourselves. Of course, this is the world’s fault, not ours. As you predictably drink yourself into your standard stupor at a pace that cries for help, somebody offers you a shotglass of something awful. Even though you are a complete boozerocker, you don’t really want it, but at the same time, you don’t want to lose the pointless distinction of being King Drunk. You kick it back and grimace. With the first one out of the way, more come, some of them even reluctantly purchased by you. If you’re any sort of drunk, your grey zone is huge, perhaps a range of 15+ drinks in the comfortably buzzed zone before you hit the wall hard. The spins are merciless. You battle with your own esophageal functions like you’re being assaulted by a poltergeist Max Hardcore. It surges — and is swallowed. You seek water, but it only provides the necessary gastric bulk for total overflow. You know you’ll feel better, but also look like a pussy. You make it outside and, inexplicably, don’t hunch over to expunge the poisons, instead, getting the standing rigors and demonstrating the awesome projectile power of a body rebelling against its own idiot brain. Astute bar patrons watch in amusement, then disgust as you make your way back inside, feeling refreshed enough to request that they resume serving you.

Zzzzzz’s: Even at our best, we need a solid 6+ hours of sack time a night so our next-day snoring doesn’t get us fired. But on a Tuesday night, the aggravating responsibilities of friendship can force you into listening to a dumped buddy moan about how his girlfriend cheated on him (Hint: She’s a coke whore and cheated on you with a guy that has lots of coke) while having a few beers. A critical moment comes where you have to ditch him, but if you love your booze, that may override practicality, especially because now, you have somebody else to drink with, so its OK! Then, every hour on the hour, you calculate and delude yourself — four hours is more than enough, three hours is more than enough — next thing you know, you hear the alarm blare and it almost brings you to tears.

Adult Services: Whether using a phone book or website, it’s a dead end to look for any other term. Some phone books have removed the section altogether, preferring “Adult Entertainment” to legally cover stripping, basement/garage modeling, jumping out of cakes, and the like. “Services,” on the other hand, ensures the exchange of sex for money, though it’s never wise to ask the friendly voice on the other end for specifics. Trust me, “That’s between you and the lady” will meet every awkward inquiry. And for fuck’s sake, don’t ever pick up a streetwalker.

Bargaining: Do not, under any circumstances, try to negotiate a fee upon arrival. It’s even worse to do so after you’ve taken off your clothes. If the cost is $100, the best ladies are all-inclusive, but there are still rackets about that require additional tips. Yes, you may have to learn the hard way. If you hand over your money and she isn’t naked herself within 30 seconds, I hope you brought additional cash.

Comfortable: As in, “Maybe you’ll get….” If you hear these words upon arrival, get naked. Yes, completely naked. Leaving your socks on will only cause the lady to repeat this phrase or, in extreme cases, call her dispatcher. If you’re in the buff, it’s unlikely you’re a cop, or at least that’s the assumption.

Dental Dam: If you’re the crazy sort who needs to eat a much-abused pussy, failing to use a dental dam will likely send you to the hospital. I munched once (and briefly) sans protection, and I’m not sure I ever washed away the odor. Whore pussy is for tapping, not immersing the same tongue that expects to savor a Big Mac afterwards.

Erection: If you have a raging one on the drive over, you will not exceed three minutes in the sack. If you still don’t have one after she’s tickling your balls, I suggest the other persuasion.

Fellatio: Any respectable prostitute will perform oral sex at the opening bell (pity if you get one of those “massage first” chicks), but decline immediately if she pulls out a condom. Yeah, it’s safer, but you might as well be wearing a wool sock. Sure, I’ve gotten off to the mere sight of a chick in the nether regions, but to this date, I’ve never actually enjoyed a condom-oriented blow job. If she rolls it on before you can protest, move directly to sex.

Gonorrhea: You’re more likely to get it from your girlfriend than a prostitute, so dive in with confidence.

Humiliation: Usually very costly and reserved for specialists, you can often convince your regular to smack you around a bit if you overpay for the half-hour session. Don’t ask if it’s your first time, but once you’re comfortable and familiar, a sawbuck or two will likely earn a disparaging comment or perhaps an open-hand slap. Full beatings usually require a doubling of the overall price.

In-Call: Jump in the car, baby, because you’re going to her place. Or his, if that’s your cup of tea. Curiously, this is the preferred method of meeting an adult sex worker, as you can remain relatively anonymous and avoid blackmail schemes such as those featured in Punch Drunk Love. Sure, there’s a chance some dude is hiding in the basement, waiting for you to be naked, vulnerable, and amenable to handing over your wallet, but that’s not likely to happen in your more upscale, non-Detroit/Newark markets.

Jerking Off: Sure, she’s a pro, but do not ask for a handjob from a prostitute. She’s not only beneath such rote behavior, she’ll likely do it half-assed just to piss you off. Still, that’s not as bad as paying $265 and only being allowed to jerk yourself off. Bitch wouldn’t even remove her top! Not like I’d know or anything.

Kissing: It’s pretty much conventional wisdom that prostitutes don’t like to kiss because it’s “too personal,” but that’s one of the oldest myths running. They don’t want to kiss because it’s likely your breath approximates her pussy after an atypically busy afternoon. I slobbered all over a tubby whore once just to say I did, but dragon breath was the last thing my tentative erection needed for the good fight. A peck goodbye is the preferred method. Making out is for teenagers and drunks.

Love: If it existed, you wouldn’t be here.

Music: I can’t remember ever visiting a prostitute who didn’t have music playing, though on one occasion, I fucked in a motel room while the television was on. Maury, if I’m not mistaken. Acceptable tunes include Enya, Seal, Marvin Gaye, and light jazz, though R&B will work in a pinch. Avoid heavy metal and country at all costs. AC/DC is for strip clubs.

Nasty Talk: You always think you’re going to use such language (hey, she’s a whore, not my girlfriend), but it never happens. The minute you start saying, “You want my cock, don’t you bitch?” you feel completely stupid for assuming you could be manly. You fear women, that’s why you can’t find any outside the parameters of a transaction, remember? Meek and mild is best, just in case you want to see the little lady again. You are allowed to scream like a banshee during your orgasm, but leave the trash talk at home.

One-and-Done: Few things are as depressing as finding that hot little number who makes you shoot your wad inside of a minute, only to find out that “per hour” is arguably the most misleading term on earth. Most whores are “per load” types, which is their right, but if you manage to find a lady who lets you go as many times as you wish without additional currency, never let her go. I mean, follow her from coast to coast, if necessary. I would suggest jerking off right before seeing a prostitute to ensure a longer experience, but every time I think I can do this, I realize, post-orgasm, that I just saved a bunch of money and am too tired to go anywhere.

Prostitute: An acceptable term in some quarters, but “escort” is pretty much the standard these days. Never, ever use “whore” or “tramp” when discussing business, and if you’re a real gentleman, you’ll resort to “ma’am” as needed.

Quickie: If you’re going to be the sort who can’t fill the allotted hour (or half-hour), make sure you’re dropping no more than $100. My personal record is $150 for five total minutes, but that’s a mistake no man will make twice. Fine, three times. Find a prostitute who allows “multiple visits” during the session, and you’ll never fear the call of pre-maturity again.

Ramada Inn: The worst fucking place to ever meet a prostitute. Yeah, they often have the outside entrances you crave, but they never seem to cool down those rooms in the summer. As strange as it sounds, I’ve had the greatest times at Motel 6, perhaps because I don’t feel so guilty about dripping my juice on the comforter. It seems almost obligatory.

Sexy attire: I never did like it when whores would answer the door wearing a teddy or some allegedly “sexy” item. Such things made me more self-conscious and mindful of the business side of the situation. No, it’s best when they come to the door in every day clothing, like a sweater, blue jeans, or tight-ass shorts that reverberate camel toe. And if they look like they’ve just gotten home from a big meeting, complete with librarian-style hair bun? I’m hard before I hit the foyer.

Talking: Very, very important to exchange words with a prostitute after sex, though no more than 3-4 minutes. Believe me, she wants you the fuck out of there. Still, I learned many things over the years, including the fact that a whore’s number one client is a married cop. My sweet, sweet Gina in Colorado Springs puffed up like a peacock whenever she told me about fucking a high-ranking officer at
Fort Carson, or some suit from the mayor’s office. And it made me go all aw-shucks with pride whenever she asked me how my Master’s Thesis was going. Still unreadable, thanks.

U-turn: Once you call to arrange an appointment, don’t be a dick and not show up. If you have regrets, call her and cancel. She has better things to do than shower for no reason. Though you may not.

Voluptuous: They’ll tell you over the phone if they’re in possession of a healthy rack, and it’s best to insist on it. Sure, it’s wise to withhold funds from anyone “full-figured,” but if the only way you’re going to get a mouthful of funbag is to climb Mt.
Fuji, so be it. Few things are as depressing as driving across town to find an emaciated chick who looks like that neighbor boy who never eats.

Washcloth: The classier dames will always offer to wipe down your penis after sex, which is more than my damn wife has ever done. Then again, she has to mount me for free.

Xavier: Just isn’t a believable pseudonym. I tried Enrique once, but giggled my way to a hang up. You’re not faxing her a copy of your Social Security card and routing information, for crying out loud; just give her your real name.

Youth: Yeah, I’ve had the ladies fresh from college, or its whore equivalent, waitressing, but your dollars are better spent with the 30-40 crowd. Not only does an older woman have the chops, she’s more likely to convince you that she actually wants to be there, rather than simply being too lazy to punch a time clock. A hot 20-year-old, while good for the loins, will never pull off the head-back moan. But a MILF? I’m buying it, baby.

Zero: When you’re earning $7.25 an hour and still living at home, your bank account will never rise above this point if you insist on more than one whore per month. It’s why the Lawd done made credit cards.

Carrying on the tradition begun last year by Wax and Erich ,  let’s move on to the next substance abuse lesson.

Take a moment to learn….

The ABC’s Of Hard Drugs:

Anhydrous Ammonia:
A quality ingredient found only in the finest meth kitchens from Luther, OK all the way to Trimble, MO! Add this to your ice and make $20 more on the gram. Anhydrous is the stuff that gives meth it’s subtle laundry detergent taste. Usually only two ways to come across this organ dissolving delicacy though. 1)Be a farmer. 2) Rob a farmer. You think siphoning gasoline is risky? Try sucking this shit out of a tank while an angry farmer fires buckshot in your ass.

Bender:
Your mom, your 10 year old niece, your boss – all in close contact with one another as well as with all area hospitals and jails. Not knowing you’re in the rundown Rose Petal Inn two miles away under the name “Pat Magroin” where the Columbian maids are starting to think you’ve got a bit of a drug problem.If you were a little white girl they’d have called off the Amber Alert by now. It’s been five days. You struggle with whether to keep your cell phone on so you can order up another fix or whether to keep it off to keep your nosy wife and kids at bay. Not to mention GPS tracking concerns. By the time you reappear alive, your loved ones will wish you’d been undergoing torture in a tranny clown’s basement dungeon.

Cokeface:
Not only do you suck up blow like a Hoover, your face looks like the front of a vacuum cleaner. You may even sound like one, given the wheezing between the gaps in your huge looking horse teeth because you can’t breathe through your nose. You’re fidgeting through the club with a face that is an attractive combination of the old school Joker and Ted Haggard and it’s only a matter of time before you too give in to gay drug sex.

Dogs:
These things fucking suck. How convenient for the lazy idiot cops that a German Shepard can sniff out the tiniest amount of drugs in a 4,000 square foot mansion. Scumbag vice police would’ve had to surrender in this retarded war long ago if not for these goddamn animals. If dogs only knew the abject sociopolitical and economic failures of the nation’s Draconian drug war, whereby America now has a higher percentage of it’s population in prisons than any other country, bar none, and their own integral part in it, maybe they’d stop fucking barking at people at the airport.

Ephedrine:
Because of those scheming crankster gangsters you can’t even clear your sinuses without three forms of ID. Mules are now mapping out all strategic truck stops and cigar stores in their 100 mile radius because one box of pills can trade for a gram of dope. It’s now actually possible to be arrested for having Sudafed on your person. Some tweakers, lacking other ingredients, have chewed these nasty things pure hoping for the same buzz they get from the final product, meth. Instead they find themselves in the ER on a defibrillator, thereby suggesting that a combination of lithium, ether, fertilizer, and battery acid is necessary to prevent overt health problems while using.

Family:
The long suffering victims of your pathetic lack of willpower. Don’t believe in the War On Drugs, eh? Tell that to these poor bastards. Yes, you could make a reasonable argument that money is funneled into failed forced attempts to reduce the trade and people with diseases are locked up in zoos with rapists and murderers, but what good does that do for your family when you haven’t bought anyone a Christmas present in eight years? Medicine cabinets will be emptied first, bank accounts second, and living rooms third. You’re incapable of doing your people favors because you possess nothing and your skills have been whittled down to good scoring techniques. With drugs, not basketballs. Your daughter can’t afford to take gymnastics. Gymnastics! They don’t even have to buy any equipment, dickhead. Your brother hasn’t seen you sober since 1997. Sometimes you help your 4th grade cousin with his paper route and he throws you a Hamilton. And by throw, I mean he tosses it to the ground and you scramble to grab it.

Glass:
Yes, it’s another name for methamphetamine but more generally, we’re talking about the glass pieces people blow and shape to fire up their stash. You have 12 of these, all handcrafted and yes, decorated and shaped like dragons and swans. It’s an OCD hobby derived from your hands needing something to do while your brain is registering a new thought every three seconds. You blow more glass so you can smoke more dope so you can blow more glass so you can… Tricking these things out is a lot like putting primered flames on your coffin. This is more a tweaker pastime as crackheads just bust a narrow rose vase they sell at ghetto gas stations, stuff it full of Brillo, and get down to business.

Heron:
Smack. Junk. Black Tar, Taliban Tammy. Whatever name it goes by this stuff is the old school. Hollywood was feasting on the H while your great grandpa was battling Germans in Dubya Dubya Two. Heron remains the most dangerous drug out there as it seems like there’s a hair’s difference between a cool buzz and a fatal overdose. You can be functional and keep your job for awhile while banging, but make no mistake – your ass will be dead broke, all the time. If your boss is down with you sporting the same stained, stanky khakis and decrepit moccasins to work each day, go for it. You can take anyone’s Lean Cuisine from the company fridge around lunch time. That’s what they’re there for, evidently. Coats and purses too.

Inpatient Treatment:
You’ve stolen cars and held pistols to heads but now you’re groveling to an abusive counselor regarding a sleeve of Fig Newtons that showed up somehow in your pillowcase. You’ll probably leave with some bizarre sort of PTSD requiring you to keep a supply of plastic cups on hand for urination for the rest of your natural life. During Empowerment Group this afternoon you’ll dab tears from your face while recognizing the similarities of a leathery 45 year old grandma’s list of “Unmanageables” to yours. You’ll give her a hug while nine people whoop and clap. You feel like you’ve developed a profound bond with Gary No-Teeth but in seven days you’d sooner run into traffic than have to pass him on the sidewalk outside of this place.

Job:
You might could still have one. But how dare they ask incisive questions about two more unscheduled days off because yet another grandmother in yet another city fell in the bathtub and is in intensive care? How dare they ask how she’s doing, requiring you to even remember the lie, told while searching through the carpet for something to smoke 20 minutes after 9:00 yesterday? Why don’t they stop hassling you?

I mean, you don’t know where your PC went. It was here when you left on Friday!

What do you mean you can’t use the drive-thru window as a pillow?

“Oh, I see. Wilburn lost his fingers because in my sleepless haze I turned the bandsaw on while he was cleaning it? Whatever you say there, Chief! “

Knuckling Down:
You’re a runner. You don’t have the ingenuity or resources to slang yourself, but more importantly you don’t have a shred of willpower. Each week you’re pawned off to a new, more disrespectful James Spader, dangling a carrot sprinkled with crack in front of your face while a Japanese businessman waits in the next room. This job is more stressful and labor intensive than manning the sour cream gun at Taco Bell. And it pays less. You’re a middleman of middlemen and you put yourself in harm’s way several times a day just to stay high. You have to drive an 8 ball across town on expired tags because you have nothing left of value they want except your ability to take the fall. And now that they post detailed county arrest records on the internet you can’t even flip if you’re busted because your dealers know the time, the place, and the unlikelihood of you being back on the street hours after getting pinned with 11 different baggies all marked with different dollar amounts. It’s not like they posted bail for your disposable ass. You’ll be forced to eat your wire at gunpoint before getting two to the chest.

LSD:
Meh. Nothing to write home about from prison really, but it’s registered a funny story or two. Remember the one about the kid in the hospital who thinks he’s a glass of orange juice and can’t be moved or he’ll spill? Or that LSD is mopped up by the nerves in your spinal column giving you that “acidic” sensation. Or that after a few hits you’ll carry on an actual, genuinely intelligent, conversation with a cartoon character? That’s all bullshit. LSD just makes you laugh a lot and say retarded shit that makes your buddies think you’re a gaywad.

Meth:

What kind of fucking alien shit crash-landed on an Iowa farm in 1971, had it’s chemical components copied by biker scientists, and was meted out to Section 8 apartment complexes throughout the heartland? Unlike weed, shrooms, heron, coke, or even crack, meth has no organic properties. It’s the margarine of drugs. It’s the CGI of drugs. Or just some meteor drippings not from or intended for this world. This shit has the same effect on the average Joe that earth’s orange sun had on Clark Kent.

Feel the need to spank it for 48 hours straight? Smoke some shards. You say a water break is part of an 11 hour dismantle and rebuild session on a Chevy 383 370HP/455TQ Vortec engine with forged Tri-Level Pistons? You pussy. Bang some fire in your arm and get back out here and help me figure out a way to pry open this ball bearing. It’s no wonder people launch themselves out 4th story windows on meth. If you can have sex for three days straight without stopping to eat so much as a tic tac why wouldn’t you believe you can fly too?

Niacin:
Just another failed body-cleansing tool. At least this one’s fairly cheap and didn’t require you to pawn your brother’s DVD collection to get it. Cause of course, damage control is usually done “after” you’ve blown your paycheck. So, they tell you to take a bunch of Niacin with the intent of speeding up the release of toxins from your kidneys. Apparently it’s supposed to smoke out the fugitives camped out in your bloodstream because Niacin burns like a motherfucker. It turns your skin red too. So that during your UA, the sniffer dog of usage detection, not only will you drop dirty but you’ll feel like you’re having a heat stroke.

Outpatient Treatment:
Just your presence taunts the in-patients. Your soda, the brandishing of your cell phone, your jingling car keys. All connections to the outside world that these losers lost access to cause they were too stupid to lie during their Substance Abuse Eval. You get to come and go as you please while they have to get up at 5:30 am and cook each other breakfast. And ironically, you’re still getting high. In fact, given that you’re probably still not “serious this time” you could make great connections and possibly even fill some orders.

Paranoia:
This is the one that separates the men from the boys. Sure, weed gives you paranoia; no doubt about it. The intensity of the paranoia however is so materially different from the X files your mind is flipping through after being up for a few days that it’s commonplace for meth and crackheads to ask burnouts for safe harbor. The wild and colorful parade of completely fleshed out characters chasing the sketched tweaker would be too much even for a Guillermo Del Toro movie. As a true hard doper you will create entire premises about who is after you, even mentally outlining backstories for the principal threats. You keep hiding and re-hiding your shit because a car honked four blocks away. You think your hair will get you a possession. You’ll end up tethered to a toilet while clinging to a bottle of Clorox, so that at the first sign of plane in the sky, you can flush everything and pour the bleach over your head.

Quitting:
Given that most people don’t quit of their own volition we’ll drop those pretenses right now. You get busted. If you’re white and just notched a possession, generally you get some treatment options. Drug courts are the new 90 days in jail. Good for the criminal justice system. Seriously. Just be aware though, that abstinence needs to arrive swiftly and certainly. Who cares if you couldn’t get out of bed the day before without at least a chopped up Oxycontin pill? You better find the tools to stay clean by morning, dipshit, or they’ll yank your deferment.

You’ll hear often in treatment that it’s not about not using drugs, it’s about recovery. Yes, abstaining of course, but really developing healthy living skills and learning how to handle life’s stressors. It’s about appreciating riding a bike again and balancing your checkbook. Forget about the loin churning, mouthwatering cravings you’ve developed over two decades. You need to figure that shit out on your own, fuckface. Oh and here, pee in this. We got your PO on line 1. Really though, if you are quitting of your own free will, good luck. Your kids… will probably still remember you, man.

Rock:
Add a little baking soda to your stepmom’s little white secret, a dash of water, maybe some cinnamon, and then go ahead and add five more years to your sentence. Crack rock. Oh you scourge of urban decay, you neighborhood-wrecker. The stuff that’s been sending bruthas up the river since Red Alert was laying mad beats for the Zulu Nation. Why don’t we just airdrop a couple tons of this on countries we’re fighting with like we did on Brooklyn in 1981? Then just let the insurgents start sucking our soldier’s dicks instead of shooting at them. Sadly, for all the disparate consequences associated with rock, baseheads could get twice the benefits for half the jail time if they’d only get accustomed to speed.

Sucking Dick:
The most viable career option for the late level crackhead and a top brick in the “..but I’ll never do that!” addiction pyramid. A modern touchstone of the hard drug trade.

You’ve unloaded any possible material trinket with but a single circuit of technology, including your 13 inch B&W and your analog alarm clock. Now it’s time to get by on raw, slurpy talent to keep the party jumping.

On the flip side, for the opportunistic John, a hummer can be had in most American cities for $20-40. However, the John is under pretty heavy time constraints in a Houston alley at 3am where a gangbanger strolling by just might turn the tables and make that John blow him. For free.

Tomorrow:
Oftentimes, the worst day of the week for the true drug addict. Some have the luxury of sleeping it off, even though their next tomorrow usually mandates more degrading hustles. For you though, there will come a point today when the realization of your horrific situation settles in. A lot of times it’s after waking up from a 45 minute function shutdown nap. Holy fucking shit! I told my boss I was in a car accident and broke my spine and I’m a quad and couldn’t make it to work. How am I going to talk my way out of that?! Your wife and kids are still waiting for you to return with the Benadryl from three days ago and you don’t have the money for another night at this motel. You have 16 voicemails on your phone you now have to listen to during your devastating comedown. At this point it’s best to just start drinking away the guilt and worry, right….NOW!

UA:
As mentioned, Niacin is one of many failed antidotes to the contaminants swimming through your veins, souring your kidneys, and betraying you in a little Dixie cup you once sold at your lemonade stands during better days. The job UA is usually fucking cake. You don’t even have to use your own piss because nobody goes into the room with you. Some have been known to get by with a syringe of Mountain Dew, kept warm by their sweaty taints.

A clean correctional UA is a little more difficult. If your usage is four days old or more you might be able to drink some of that overpriced shit like Urineluck and pull it off, as long as your corrections officer doesn’t mind that your piss is neon, smells like sulphur, and has five times the Creatine content than it’s supposed to. But if you’ve used in the past two or three days you might as well own up to it before dropping, as a preemptive stab at mercy. Cause I think my PO has sucked enough dicks in his lifetime to know the difference between a real one and a floppy roll of pink latex with a metal spout on the end.

Vicodin:
You get a tooth pulled. Your dentist prescribes the pointless IB 800. You quickly start crying in front of him, railing about the pain and how you don’t know how you’ll ever sleep with such a gnawing throb for the next several days. He thinks you’re a faggot but whips up a scrip for good ol Vicodin. You don’t care what he thinks and spit the gauze out on your way to CVS where you eat two Baby Ruths and a box of Milk Duds while waiting for them to fill your prescription. You get your bottle and down five before even leaving the pharmacy.
The rest of the night, you delightfully scratch every square inch of your body as the opiates seep out your pores.

Weed:
Pfft.

X:
Or Ecstasy, baby. Yet another threat to your freshman daughter’s purity. And she’s conscious during sex on this, so you can’t even get mad. This is like the wine cooler of meth. Marketed to college kids, there’s some speed, sometimes some opiate mixed in, some LSD, and a little bit of ketamine, maybe that shit that Somalians chew. People admit to just wanting to “be touched” and “felt” while rolling on E. Can you home school for a BA yet?

Yay:
Cocaine. Just the smell makes you shit your pants with gastrointestinal anticipation. You make coke calls to grade school teachers because the endorphins released always bring along their friend, nostalgia. You believe everyone feels as good as you right now. And if they don’t, you want to spread out rails, even though this is the worst drug to share since you know you’ll blow through it before midnight, knocking back another one every 20 minutes. You sit on a bed with a buddy and a bunch of licked CD cases, making bullshit plans to take a trip to New York next month or start school again. You converse excitedly, interrupting and talking over each other, until it all runs out and the thought of choking out another word is agonizing. Around 6 am the buzz is gone, your nose is clogged, and your heart is beating out of your chest while chirping birds serenade your crippling depression. The horrible, horrible comedown is an exact 180 of the high you felt last night.

Zzzz:
Stealing this one from The ABC’s Of Drunkenness because it’s an integral part of either addiction. You haven’t had REM sleep in weeks. The few times your body forces you to crash always come with flashing images of the activities right before you started getting high. It’s probably some strange indication of guilt. If you do find rest, it’s at the most inappropriate times. The maintenance man at work has to jimmy open the lock of your stall because you’ve been sprawled out on the can for two hours. You pull picket fences behind your car as you start to nod off while merging into highway traffic. You go through life seeing movements out of the corner of your eyes and sometimes you swat at them.