I got to admit, I been kinda conflicted as of late. I know that I have a certain obligation to the younger generation, given my hierarchy in the ass-beater stratum, but I can’t front. During infrequent moments of sober reflection, I sometimes feel that I should use my esteemed status to discourage illicit drug use. Peeps could easily accuse me of actively promoting the recreational enjoyment of my drug of choice (e.g., Speed, Meth, Ice, Crystal, Chalk, Crank, Tweak, Uppers, Black Beauties, Glass, Bikers Coffee, Methlies Quick, Poor Man’s Cocaine, Chicken Feed, Shabu, Crystal Meth, Stove Top, Trash, Go-Fast, Yaba, and Yellow Bam), and they are probably right.
To hell with that noise, I didn’t sign up for the spokesman for the (Im)Moral Majority. I will leave that up to champions of virtue like my man Big Bill Bennett (the writer of the “Book of Virtues” and gambling addict who can be heard daily on the conservative AM talk radio show “Mo[u]rning in America”).
Instead, I occupy a seedier toe-hold on the American Cultural rock-climbing wall; I represent the shameful and grueling negative example that parents need as a promotional tool to shock their crumb-crunchers into perpetual sobriety. If I jumped on the official “War on Drugs” bandwagon and shouted all that bullshit, I would lose my hard-earned credibility. Instead, society can look at my drug procurement travails, bitter criminal prosecution defeats, and partially castrated body as the greatest justification in the world to keep their nose, lungs, and veins clean from the scourge of chemical-induced soul-chamber annihilation.
Keep on rockin’ in the morally bankrupt, debt-ridden, global-warming, industrial-complex controlled world.