In the midst of Charlie Sheen's recent meltdown, I've decided to weigh in with my own opinion on drug use. It occurs to me that many folks out there are perfectly capable of controlling themselves during an extended period of drug-induced debauchery. Take Keith Richards, for instance. He's been in a chemical fueled haze since about 1965, but you never hear about him running into the street naked, brandishing a firearm, and threatening to eat Portugal unless somebody removes the spiders from inside his kidneys. Courtney Love is a different story altogether. She pops a Xanax at 5:00 and by 5:30, she's being led away in cuffs.
I get the feeling that most of you are probably too baked right now to have comprehended that example, not that I blame you. So as a public service to stoners, trippers and tweakers everywhere, I'll give some additional scenarios. If any of the following reminds you of your OWN behavior, please cease and desist any and all drug use (no... you don't have to want to do it for YOU, like the rehabbers say because the ENTIRE REST OF THE PLANET wants you to do it for THEM, and that's close enough) and add your name & photo to the comment section of this post so I can easily spot and shun you when you crash my next party.
Hey hey, this party is off the chain! Unfortunately, you'll never know because you've decided to hit the three foot bong and go sit under the trampoline in the backyard and "groove." This would normally be fine, but you've also decided to bring a guitar with you and clumsily strum through Wish You Were Here, making sure you really emphasize the "two lost souls swimmin' in a fish bowl..." part. Again, this is borderline excusable, but you've played it five times now and nobody is interested in "singing along," and they still won't be interested, even though you keep singing it louder and louder. Why can't you be like the rest of the stoners here? They seem to be perfectly happy just sticking their heads in a bucket of ice cream and BBQ sauce and listening to "Car Talk" on NPR. Are you still trying to get laid? Is that what the problem is? Oh, Christ. Are you actually playing More Than Words? You just hang tight, toots... I'm gonna go throw up.
Whoa! There you are...yeah. I see you. Okay, get out of my face. You keep sniffing, and rubbing your nose. No, I think it's very cool that you managed to get a hold of some "yayo," and I get that that is what's happening and you can now stop manufacturing this persona in which you behave as if you're on coke even though you are on coke but just to make sure I know you're on coke you keep doing that thing like Leonardo DiCaprio's retarded character in What's Eating Gilbert Grape? Yes, I do think your breath smells like cocaine. Is that because you're on cocaine? What a surprise! Well, yes, I'd love some. Does that mean I have to pretend to like you for the rest of this party, though? It does, doesn't it? You're going to follow me around all night bitching about "the drip," regardless, aren't you? Shit. Oh, we're having a serious talk now? You'll never live up to your father? Go buy another 8-ball at the strip club and get in line, Tony Montana.
And there you are miss thang--no I haven't missed being out of touch for the past three years, but you seem pretty fucked up. I like it how you keep touching me and my hair, though. No, wait. Now you're touching another person. Now you're touching a wall. Now you're licking the side of my beer bottle. Oh, toots. You've done some E, haven't you? Yes, I see, you've got the whistle and the glo-sticks and everything... I should have known. Yes, I do love kittens. Yes, they are magical. Okay, I'm going to be honest, you're weirding me out there when you wave those glo-sticks in my face. And there goes the whistle - that's soothing, toots. Look... that's really loud. Yes, even louder when you blow it right in my fucking ear. Yeah, fine - let's make out in front of this crowd of horny men.
Helllloooo, "that guy". We were having such a nice time just now, until you decided that it would be a good idea to "snap" and crawl into the dumpster and cry about how you are a "fraud" and "living a lie." This just dawned on you? We're all a bunch of goddamn frauds and now we're supposed to get you out of that thing? No, I don't think chopping your penis off is the answer here. I feel sorry for you, but now is not the time to work out your "issues." I've got an idea: How about you hang out in that dumpster and cry while the rest of us slink off and pretend this weird episode of yours didn't happen. Oh, now you're happy and want to "hug" and frolic amongst the trees and "nature?" Shit, I liked you better when you were stuck in the dumpster crying, deliberating over whether or not to swallow your tongue. And for your files, that thing you're caressing isn't, as you claim, the Virgin Mary...it's an old toilet.
Nice meth-mouth, toots. Nah, I don't think teeth are that important, either. I know I know, you feel totally sexy don't you? Well, unfortunately, your face looks like an anus with two eyes glued to it... not so sexy, pal. What's that you say? No, I disagree. I think it WILL hurt if you punch a hole in your driver's side window. See...told you so.