After I was done vomiting a combination of screwdrivers (the drink), waffles, high fructose corn syrup and screwdrivers (the tool), I began to realize that Ibogaine withdrawals are not my thing. A knock on the door signaled me to it, and I stumbled slowly, fumbling for any kind of gun I could get my hands on and settled for my Glock 10A. Last time I answered the door it was none other than the police, and the last thing I wanted to do was be caught without a proper negotiation-expeditor verbal and visual clause that a loaded weapon offers.

    Anyone not holding a gun is out-right and forthrightly fucked out of his or her brain if I’m in possession of one while in this state of mind. I open the door and it’s a close friend, one I’ve managed to retain in my mangled states since elementary school. Seeing the need to invite him in, I knock the grip of the gun on his forehead and drag his unconsciously cured self in. I realize I might be slightly moody.

    Have you ever been to hell? I have! It’s exactly like The Block in Orange, complete with a 10pm curfew. It also sounds like a wet turd impacting at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, which is somewhat better than a Jonas Brothers concert. Of course, all I heard there was the piercing shrill of Disney-coked up b-tards. That’s when I started hitting the Ibogaine hard. Fun fact: Alcoholism will cure Disney in one dose.

    These kids are the same suckerfucks who ate the yellow cake Nigeria sold Iraq apparently. Fuck us if we can’t find evidence, and guess what? I’m about ready to get down to fucking us long and hard for once. I am rough, I am tiring and I don’t care whether America consents or not: Rape me, and I rape you.

    The very moment in which my rage became all too familiar is when I felt my head split open. It wasn’t Athena that fell out, but a baseball plundered to the hardwood floor. I pick it up and with my best Bob Feller impression: swinging arms and high left knee letting the ball roll along my fingers, the claws scratching across its leather skin. So much for my closet door.

    What’s the whole point of this? Go back and re-read it if you can’t understand it. For all of those who are confused out of their minds, I’d suggest you take the easy route and read the last line in this sad state of linguistic affairs you dirty rotten cheaters. For the rest of you: MAY I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE: SEX!

    In case you didn’t know it, SEX sells. If I had a pair of tits…wait a second…my nuts dude…they itch…my mind tells me that the only logical solution to this dire situation is that I scratch my nuts. You see, the problem is that this’ll require more than two passes, and any more than two is playing with yourself.

    “Take your time,” my friend has finally come back to consciousness, “No one gives a flying fuck. Hell, they don’t even give a walking one. Just play bro. Put on some soft-core and just play.”

    I kicked him in the head like Pele.

    I prefer him quiet.