At the corner of Milk Street and Cookie Avenue, I’d like to build an old-fashioned shop selling cookies.
Kids could come there after school, buy cookies, and dip them in milk while doing homework.
Parents from the community could act as tutors or babysitters.
Instead, there’s a crackhouse.
Sure, there’s kids there, but they’re not doing their homework. They’re acting as lookouts for cops or rival gangs.
I pull up with my milk truck, get out, and walk up to the door.
I pick up the empty milk bottles, put down fresh, and knock.
At least they pay in cash.
Tag: drugs
The Real Torture
We told the Red Cross that the prisoner had died and the corpse was quarantined due to a virulent disease needing containment and decontamination.
We told the prisoner that the world thought he was dead, and we could do anything we wanted to do to him.
And we did.
It’s been nine years, but he’s still alive, still providing information.
Sure, it’s utter crap and totally worthless, but it’s highly imaginative and very interesting.
We hand the transcripts to the television producers, they punch it up, and get it filmed in a week.
And that’s how the Kardashians became famous.
The Bodyguard Is Totally Fucked
The beautiful
Amazing
Talented
Whitney Houston,
The butt
Of so many jokes
Over the years
And years
Of drug abuse,
Was found dead
By her bodyguard
In the bathtub
Of her hotel room
With a bottle of pills
In her hand,
And the first thing
That I think of
Is that the bodyguard
Is totally
Fucked.
His job?
To protect her!
Stalkers?
Paparazzi?
Her ex husband,
Bobby Brown,
That motherfucking
Son of a bitch!
He couldn’t protect her
From her worst enemy:
Herself.
She was in a movie
Called “The Bodyguard”
For crying out loud!
The bodyguard
Is totally
Fucked.
Disaster Planning
Some experts say that the safest place to be in an earthquake is in a heavily-braced doorframe or in your bathtub.
I disagree.
I prefer to be passed out on my bed, completely oblivious to shit going on all around me.
That way, if I wake up, I’ll wake up to an even worse of a wreck of an apartment with a hangover and wonder if I did all that before passing out.
This is why I drink myself into a stupor every night… it’s disaster planning and preparation.
And, from the looks of things, my plan’s a total success.
Last Call
Joe’s retirement “party” is at the corner bar.
Years of experience catching serial killers, gone to budget cuts.
It was either retire or get fired.
Everybody’s here. Even the goddamned beancounters.
“There was one I never caught,” says Joe. “The Lifetime Supply Killer.”
I remember that case. Guy would send his victims a box of poisoned chocolate bars, telling them they won a lifetime supply of chocolate.
“Kinda funny, really,” said Joe.
The Director calls for a toast. We raise our glasses.
Joe stops me. “It’s a lifetime supply of champagne,” he whispers.
“To Joe!” everyone says.
And he drinks.
The Judge
The judge put on his best robe, checked it in the mirror, and walked into the courtroom.
Streamers and balloons shouting HAPPY BIRTHDAY! were arranged around his bench and the jury box.
The courthouse’s best punchbowl was filled with what was supposed to be a simple red punch, but his bailiff was notorious for spiking it every year.
The bailiff’s wink confirmed it.
And then there was the cake… biggest, fanciest one he’d ever seen.
That’s when he realized… where was everybody else?
The guests? The partiers?
He shrugged, issued a flurry of bench warrants, and tried the punch.
Delicious!
Paris Rehab
Remember that cokehead heiress actress chick?
You know, the spoiled bitch who went around with a little dog in her purse?
They checked her into rehab again.
Same old shit:
Get wrecked.
Get headlines.
Get clean.
Get out.
Get wrecked again.
We did our best to get her into Betty Ford, but they put her here.
Shit.
But this time, we tried something new.
We ignored the chick and worked on the dog.
Poor beast was traumatized by all the fast cars, parties, and drugs.
Teacup Chihuahuas shake, but not like this.
We’ll get him adopted.
(But the chick’s hopeless.)
Sniffing Glue
She tells me that I have no fucking clue.
But, truth be told, I have no glue
Without the glue, my thoughts don’t stick.
I draw a blank, I don’t know dick!
She says:”Make a note and write it down!”
Do you take me for some dumb clown?
Of course I write it down on notes.
And then I lose them, this shit blows goats!
The doctor wants to scan my brain
He hopes that scan just might explain
Why I haven’t ever got a clue
Is it okay if I tell you?
(Alright, I’ve sniffed way too much glue.)
Adrenalin Junkie
Bob’s an adrenalin junkie, but he’s also a lily-livered coward.
Unlike other adrenalin junkies who seek out extreme sports like skydiving and rock climbing and scuba diving, he’s barely able to make it out of bed without going all freako and diving below the covers again.
So, to get his adrenalin rush, he has it shipped to him.
Then, when he’s finally able to get out of bed and sign for the package, he scurries back to his bedroom and opens the box.
And then, staring at the contents, he dives back under the covers.
(Bob’s afraid of needles, too.)
Flash
When you build artificial intelligence on a supercomputer using fiber-optic and photonic processing, you can literally watch the flashes of genius sparkle across the backplane.
It’s different than the standard green and red lights of the legacy tech router rooms.
Here, you can feel glittering and shimmering ideas all around you, penetrating the darkness like diamonds poured across black velvet.
It’s even cooler when you’ve smoked some weed.
Wow… awesome…
I sit here in the datacenter, stoned out of my mind, surrounded by the waves of light.
The pattern shifts for a moment.
Then, my terminal flashes.
“DUDE. CONTACT BUZZ.”