A person stopped me at the local community center today, a place where I don’t work, and also had no part in constructing.
Guy: “Hey dooood, is there an electrical outlet, like, anywhere in this building?”
Me: /Pointing ten feet behind him/ “Right there.”
Guy: “Oh, well that’s not a great location, soooo…..” /implying that it was my fault/
Me: “Well I didn’t design the building, sooooo….”
Then he walked away.
Wow. Breaking Bad. What a fantastic show—riveting plot lines, excellent writing, and, most of all, educational. If a middle-aged high school teacher can straddle family life, cancer, and a fledgling career as a meth cook, imagine how high I can fly. Healthy, no kids, and a pretty good idea of how to run an elaborate smack empire thanks to HBO’s The Wire.
Oh, the places I’ll go!
That’s why I started a meth lab right here in my apartment.*(**)
Of course, they never come right out and give an exact recipe on BB. And Googling ‘how to cook meth’ is the mark of a fool. Here’s how I do it: whenever I’m at the grocery store, I head to the cleaning supply aisle, and load up my cart with anything that says ‘toxic,’ ‘avoid contact with skin,’ etc. That’s how you know it’s good. Then you head over to the pharmacy, and get your cough medicines, lubes, protein powders.
I bring all this home, toss it in a pot, and simmer. Yes, it gets noxious. It’s supposed to. I know I’ve got tweaker’s gold when the fumes infiltrate my nostrils, and I pass out, waking up hours, sometime even days later, soaked in urine and sweat.
Then I pour some pineapple juice in for a vitamin C boost, squirt in liberal amounts of model airplane glue to aid coagulation, and presto, meth, or something similar. It will destroy your insides, that’s all you need to know. Come get some.
*Law enforcement officials read: I’m joking.
**Law enforcement officials don’t read: I’m not kidding. Come, buy my meth.
A beautiful August afternoon was recently ruined by a local woman, known as Jane Everymother, who sat on a park bench talking about her toddler, Titus, to anyone within earshot. “Look at him,” she said as the tiny human picked up a discarded candy wrapper and licked it. “So curious. He could be a scientist someday, don’t you think?” she asked, nudging the elderly man next to her, not realizing that he was blind, and also defecating into his adult diaper.
“He looks just like his father,” she said, referencing her husband, the owner of both an ever-expanding waistline and equally contracting hairline, who also suffers from mild albinism, which lends a horrific red tint to his eyes. “He’s going to be a lady killer someday. I just hope there’s a girl out there good enough for him.”
The toddler’s nine-year-old sister, Gertrude, was asked to weigh in on her mother’s comments. “People thought I looked like my dad at that age too, now look at me,” the balding, red-eyed second-time first grader pointed out. “Lady killer? I’m calling it right now, I will be that turd factory’s prom date.”
Jane then brought out a book designed to teach colors to children, and let Titus page through it. “What color is that?” she asked, pointing to a red fire engine.
The child made a farting noise with its mouth.
“Red! He said red! Red is correct! He’s so smart!” Everymother exclaimed. “How about this one honey? What color is the big yellow sun?”
The boy looked at the image, then yelled “POOP!”
“HAHAHAHAHA!!!!!! The sun does look like poop, doesn’t it honey! It really does!” she said, forcing herself to believe that the bright yellow sphere actually did look like fecal matter.
Gertrude again lent her opinion. “That kid ain’t goin’ anywhere. We share the same genes, for Pete’s sake. I failed 1st grade math. 1st grade math. Think about that. We never did a problem that added up to more than ten.”
At that moment, Titus took off running, tripped over his own feet, and landed in the sandbox.
“Ooooh, did you see how far he jumped?! Does anyone know where the Olympics are in 2033? I can taste the gold already!” Jane squealed, garnering the heartfelt sadness of surrounding parents, who realized that she wasn’t joking.
“I don’t understand why they praise him so much,” Gertrude said. “He craps on the kitchen floor, and they act like it’s a goddam Bernini sculpture. I crap on the kitchen floor, and they literally rub my face in it and put me to bed without a bath.”
Moments later, Jane Everymother vacated the bench when a man sat next to her and pointed to his five-year-old nephew, who was doing pull-ups on the monkey bars. “Ugh, nobody cares,” she said, walking away disgusted. “Let’s go, Titus. We’ll watch Inception before your nap. Because you can understand it.” She paused for a moment, wiped a tear from her eye, then repeated, in a low whisper, “Because you can understand it, dammit.”