Posts Tagged ‘heroin’

If it isn’t obvious very shortly, I had to reach to pull that post-title out of my ass.
Can’t even begin to come up with them like Steamboat McGoo.  A force of nature to be reckoned with, that ability to spin the gold of post-titles from the straw of … sh*t… can’t even craft a good metaphor tonight.  On with the post then.
From Fox News

Apes on helium sound like opera singers, scientists discover

No no no no no!  That won’t work.  That sentence was engineered like a Yugo.  Or a brick.  It’s clunky and lacks that sleek-n-sexy feeling.  It has all the perkiness of cabbage soup with hot-dogs and slices of American cheese floating in it.

Rearrange it, using the exact same words, and if you are having a good day you end up with the same meaning, but way more fun.  Hopefully it’s like sex on a roller coaster with a half dozen scopolamine patches plastered all over your body.  NO idea what that would actually feel like but if it is vivid to the imagination it must be fun, right?  That’s what powers many a drunken dare, and that I do know from experience.

So let’s run that baby through the steps and see what it looks like when scrambled like a drunk kitten.

Scientists discover opera singers sound like apes on helium

See how much better that works?  That is something I can get behind.


I am a huge fan of Oscar Wilde (as you can see by the recent tagline change to “A Gentleman is…”  So today here are a few (just a few) of my favorite quotes:

It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.  – Oscar Wilde

How about that, eh?  I probably like that one because it strokes my geek ego.

One’s past is what one is. It is the only way by which people should be judged.  – Oscar Wilde

Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.  – Oscar Wilde
The idea that what you have done defines you now, but is in no way deterministic regarding the future, i.e. there is possibility of redemption, is comforting.  I may not be able to see the redeem-ability in others but the idea/ideal that it could be there is one that I like.
My favorite part about Wilde is that he saw a stark realism, and mocked it, yet you could tell he longed for his ideals.
Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.  – Oscar Wilde
Yes, he was a flamboyant individual with certain… tastes… which I don’t share, but I still like the guy.  I respect those who display a keen insight and an ability to craft words.
I think Wilde would agree with the notion:
We write what we are.  – Lemur King
If someone already said that then, well, damn.  But I am unaware of it being said before so I will claim it, for now.
Thank you, FARK… I needed a third topic before moving on to the fourth one below.

It was a case of show-and-tell gone wrong after a Fulton County elementary school teacher brought a poisonous spider to show her students – and one student was bitten.

Got the drama.  Check.  What about the tragedy?

It wasn’t even until later that evening that Jones realized something was wrong with her daughter. That’s when she collapsed.

All right, we got the tragedy.  Check.

Allegedly, the girl was pretty sick.  Her mother was quoted as saying:

“The doctor (said) it’s a fifty-fifty chance that she will pull through and a fifty-fifty chance she won’t,” Jones said.
So if my math/physics is right, there is a 25% chance she’ll live, a 25% chance she’ll die, and a 50% chance she’ll be in an indeterminate state between the two.  The poor girl is in a damned Schrodinger’s Box full of goddamned poisonous spiders.
I am usually not going to link HuffPo, but the subject matter is choice.  Some people have to learn things the hard way.  Chowing down on hot peppers to steal them probably isn’t going to make an impact on this guy.
Shoplifter Marcus Banwell might have gotten away with stealing from a UK convenience store — if he hadn’t chowed down on some looted hot peppers in the store and started vomiting.
They found scotch bonnets on him, a milkshake, a clarinet, and heroin.  My guess is all of it was stolen except the heroin, which was probably legally obtained.

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A dripping-fangs friend of mine wondered not too long ago how it came to be that some things… came to be. He said:

LK, you read my mind again. I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked myself about – say – heroin: Who the fiddly-fuck said, “Hey! I’m gonna mix this opiate solution with some alkali stuff and take the precipitate, strain it, and shoot the clear juice into my arm vein this Saturday night for a good time!”

I rolled up my sleeves, put on my thinking cap and thought real hard about such matters and realized that Heroin, I’ve already had a suspicion about. Many stories would be similar to the bullshit I’m about to spout…

… and yes, it’s bullshit, just like when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor, but let me run with it.

You look at laudanum, they made tinctures of all sorts of things, some good, some bad…. One day they discovered that wonderful little poppy just living it’s little poppy life in the wild and someone decided to load up a muffin because people were really hungry and tried everything at one time. Almost assuredly some Poor Bastard tried muffins topped with Nightshade when it was his turn to try things out, and so They assembled in short order and quietly and quickly crossed Nightshade off of the list of “Things We Might Eat On a Muffin Top”†.

So one of these guys ate a muffin that was 50% opium poppy, and/or didn’t pass a drug test, and/or saw God or Yahweh or whoever while simultaneously not feeling the lower half of his body and They gathered around and said “Why, this must be Something Special”.

The mechanism is clear:  A guy loaded up a muffin, got cataclysmically high, took some detailed notes, and They started making tinctures and reductions and powders, but the people that did it were knowledgeable people – edjumakated – and while they got addicted on a truly massive scale they generally did it safely enough that the addiction eventually killed them, not the preparation.

And one day, Joe Six-Meade-Pack was chumming-out-of-societal-class along with his rich friend because, even though they grew up in the sewers together, they had rapidly divergent lives beginning one day when one of them boffed the Queen’s maid’s brother’s barbers’ in-the-Convent-for-life sister and knocked her preggers and it Wouldn’t Do to have that Scandal so close to the Crown so the Royal family gave him a title and land – Duke of TumbleSnatch or some such thing… intending to buy his silence and extract future promises to spread no more wantonly sowed seed in the vicinity of the Crown unless called upon to do so by God and the Queen Herself.

Now, one day they’re chumming and Joe Six-Meade-Pack notices Sir Flounder, Duke of Tumblesnatch, doing a little bit of this and a bit of that to a mysterious preparation and then quickly – and expertly – jab a patented Very Expensive Hypodermic Device into his arm and sigh with the release normally only heard when 15 year old boys (coming around full circle, coincidentally) knock up some (S/s)ister other than their own.

So Joe consults with Flounder and learns the arcane arts of shooting drugs – the training of which, though having taken years on Sir Flounder’s part has been compressed into a 15 minute seminar touching on the most basic of things that Joe cannot hope to follow in the extensive detail that would imply that he understood things on a fundamental level causing Joe later to make up parts of the procedure from whole cloth while incorporating just enough of Sir Flounder’s wisdom to lend an air of legitimacy to the whole matter.

Now, don’t get hung up in the details – opium, laudanum, the date of the hypodermic, merits in the 1800’s of smoking vs. shooting drugs, etc., you KNOW that something similar is what has happened down through the ages – the conveyance of huge amounts of information from knowledgeable people to… complete and utter morons.

Some fellow, entirely “in the know”, pressed by an idiot friend who had no business attempting such things, lent his knowledge in sum or in part, and said knowledge was lost partially in translation, was embellished upon, got fucked up, misplaced, coffee-stained, used as a rag after a nooner with the cleaning lady or some ruminant animal, and was presented later as a very peculiar set of instructions claiming to do something amazing and succeeding only by virtue of not alarmingly killing enough people outright.

How else can one explain the prevalence and across-all-classes nature of meth cookery?  The things a wild chemist uses in the process are things that no sane or educated chemist would think of using, yet bathtub chemistry seems to work just enough of the time that the LD-50 dose (the lethal dose is determined by the contaminants) is above the tolerance level of most addicts and they get away with poisoning their customers slowly with toxic compounds.

Look up Krokodil sometime for a Tale of Failure so extreme that in comparison meth addicts by and large look like 1%-ers.

† However, shortly afterwards, They assembled in secrecy and quickly added Nightshade to the list of “Things We Might Add to some Inconvenient Bastard’s Soup”.

If you like the “Origins” idea, let me know.  I have more stories along these lines.


There are some Origins, however, that I cannot begin to understand.  Such as why a person would let themselves be injected in the weiner with silicone by someone unqualified off the street.

You would have to have some pretty substandard equipment to let yourself be treated by this person – yes, a picture of the actual creature that injected the poor dumb small dicked bastard.

She looks like a Sleestack from the  kids’ show in the 70’s, Land of the Lost.


For probably the first time ever, I agree with the punishment given my clerics in Saudi Arabia.

An official Saudi newspaper says a man convicted of raping his daughter has been sentenced to receive 2,080 lashes over the course of a 13-year prison term.

That’s roughly 3 lashes per week.  Juuuuust long enough to let him tenderly heal from the last ones before adding the new ones.

Ok, I’d sign off on it with one change.  ONE of the lashes has to be across the soles of his feet.

We don’t want to torture him, after all.

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Started it last night, just took a break and finished it.

(thanks to cbullitt for pointing out that biohazard is orange, not yeller)

Looks like they might just get the SOB who was lacing Tylenol with poison years and years ago.

And in Glasgow, they have heroin and anthrax

The rising toll has prompted Health Protection Scotland, the national agency for protecting the public from infectious and environmental hazards, to issue a warning to all heroin users to stop using the drug, regardless of whether they inject it or take it by other means.

Uh… if they could just quit in the face of risk of death, they wouldn’t be ADDICTS now, would they?  (yes, I know authorities are suggesting they go to clinics to help them with withdrawal during the hiatus on dragon-chasing)

Co-worker Laconic Pup said:

Hey!  You got your deadly bacteria in my deadly drug!

You got your deadly drug in my deadly bacteria!

*cue music*

Anthraxoin!  Two great tastes that taste great together.

And NOW, we have CthulhuCare, but you already knew that.


Just occurred to me… isn’t heroin being made with poppies in Afghanistan?  And haven’t the al Qaeda arsewipes been playing with anthrax?  Coincidence?  Well, they’ve been saying it was “natural” strains so probably not.  Just seems strange, doesn’t it?


A totally retarded blog/posting.  But I thought it was really pretty funny.  Retarded tho.


Guessing THEY got tired of Pelosi’s crap, too.  Sea Lions relo to Oregon after blowing San Francisco.


Isn’t he just the definition of disingenuous?

Nelson: We should have waited on health care

“I think it was a mistake to take health care on as opposed to continuing to spend the time on the economy,” he said.

Yet, he was all aboard in holding out to have his palm greased.

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A lead-in to the breathing individual below…  New York is helping it’s heroin addled populace out using taxpayer dollarsMakin’ pamphlets for the readin’ users out there.  Bitchin, yo?   Next… Meth aids…


I’m not sure how, but there seems to be enough neural activity for her to breathe and move around.  Normally you’d think of breathing as autonomic but this one is a real mouth-breather and that takes special circumstances.

I want my nuggets.

She is of the ilk depicted at this post at W+K Studio… quiet those quivering quads.  The male equivalent is here… Gotta pee?


Drudge’s caption for this pic (below) is wrong, IMHO.

“Airports Abroad Ignore Obama Demands.”

Now, anyone who ignores Obama in my book is all right.  Since it is about terrorists tho, I suggest we do segregated airplanes – terrorist watch-list countries that bitch about discrimination (read: Nigeria) should fly their own planes in and out of the US, and if they deviate even a little bit, shoot them down.  I think I suggested that before but you just can’t stress this enough.

Pretty soon, people who are legit will stop visiting, or at least flying to and from these cockroach countries, and there’s a bit of economic leverage there that requires little effort on our part.

Boils down to this:  Terrorists choosing to kill Americans is about as damned discriminatory as you can get.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, you cockroach terror-friendly countries.

So here’s that pic – the caption should read: 

An Official Motions Next Cavity Search Terrorist Flyer to Assume the Position.

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Yes, Cruel Wife… I know it is 7:30.  I know it is time to get up.  Give me a few more minutes, K?

Yes, Cruel Wife, don’t yell, I know it is 8:05.  Thanks.  A few more minutes, all right.

Yes, Cruel Wife I know it is… WHAT???  It’s TEN TO NINE?  WHYDIDN’TYOUSAYSOMETHING?  I’m LATE.

Followed by a 17 second shower, shave (half the face – the left half), shirt-shoes-socks-pants-tie, remove socks and shoes and put on socks first, pants go on the bottom half… brush teeth… yech, what’s that new toothpaste… neosporin?  In the truck, backing up, forget the tree because trees can be replaced, onto the highway, and it’s off to work at a high rate of speed.  At work by ten.

Late, but no one cared. Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  If I were on fire there’d be no one in the world who’d pee on me to put the flames out.  Glad to have run over senior citizens getting to work on time.

Work.  Translate complex assembly to spreadsheet format so we can track our errors to the grave, after they have been discovered.  Lunch… three New York Peppermint Patties (ok, five).  Dessert… another pot of coffee.

5pm.  Need to leave by 5:30 to get home by 6:30 at the latest to care for the kids whilst Cruel Wife sells cooking utensils to a bunch of chain-smoking blue-hair ladies with knit shawls that look like they were made out of cat fur yarn but really are just shawls coated in cat fur.   Thing is, the odds are against them serving kool-aid spiked with LSD, which is kind of a bummer considering how these things go – discussions about bowel movements, perms, the price of bananas, and that cute young man running for president… what’s his name?  Oh yes, John McCain.  Glad it’s her doing these things.

Driving down the freeway to the back-road route home.  Doing 77mph.  Sun’s in your face and just staying between the lines gives you the firsthand knowledge of what an ant must feel like under a hot sun and magnifying glass – your brain sizzles quietly to the sound of screaming retinas.  A hand held up doesn’t help the glare through the bug spattered windshield but that doesn’t matter – they’re really just there to take your mind off of the spiderweb cracks.

Look in the rear-view mirror on the off-ramp and realize that the blue car is a state trooper – and it dawns on you that the sound you hear is the siren.  Shit, he’s not passing you, he’s on your tail.  Locking the brakes and wrenching the wheel to the side is a time proven manner of impressing the cops so it seems like it is warranted here.  Thirty feet of shredded smoking rubber later your vehicle comes to a shuddering stop in a cloud of petroleum toxins.

The trooper edges up to the passenger side of the truck and opens the door.  He looks agitated.  He looks angry.  And he definitely does not look like he has a sense of humor – either on the job or off it.  Perhaps it was crushed when he was a child.  We just don’t know.  Without preamble the trooper submits a request for proof of insurance and registration and it is here that you sense that there will be no banter, no witty repartee, no friendly camaraderie.

A quick fumble through the glove box and frantic examination of the official-looking card confirms that your proof of insurance card is a year old because the new one is right where it belongs – on the desk at home, where it can’t get lost.  The officer is granted access to the proof of insurance card – gotta hold back that registration because of the shaky hands thing going on.  One baby step at a time.  Don’t show fear.  They can smell fear you know…

Sudden flash of insight… When asked if he had the siren on for a while he answers through clenched teeth “Yes.”   Damn.  Damn, damn, damn.  Insight #2:  The open window and rushing air is enough to cause one’s hearing aids to clamp down on the outside noise – all outside noise.  Showing the officer the hearing aids helps his composure, and the groveling part can never hurt.  Much.  Hard to fake microelectronics on spur of the moment.

Officer reaches into the glovebox, pushing the heroin kit and baggies of weed aside so he can get at the registration.  It’s wet because of the spilled beer on the dash, but still readable.  He takes all the personal information and politely requests a small powwow back at his vehicle.  If the officer wishes to palaver at his mode of transportation who are you to argue? First thing you notice is that the guy could be your younger brother, by about ten years, perhaps your son.  Ok, so that has you off balance.  Like you weren’t already.

Lots of questions are thrown out.   Where do you work? [Insert Town Name].   What do you do? Aerospace Engineer. How long have you worked there? Ten years.  Ten long years.  Ten long heart wrenching goddamned years.  Ten years of … oh.  You don’t want to hear that, do you? You have hearing aids. (Not a question, that.)   Huh?  Yeah. You read lips? Hell yes.  But the only reason I couldn’t hear you with the aids was that they can cut out on you like when I had the window down.  What’s that?  My WINDOW TINT? Window tint has to go. No shit? No shit. Hell yeah, I can get rid of it.  No problem. Officer gives long look.  Long long look, suddenly mentions how his dad has a hearing aid and a cochlear implant.  Does he like them? The officer says Nah, not the hearing aid, he says it makes things sound like shitYou laugh a bit hysterically, over the top for the situation. Yeah, they work better than the old box kind though.

After the conversation comes to a close, we hug for a few seconds, he gets in his car and drives off.

Driving home.  20 mph under the speed limit.  Suspicion is that the cop was going to nail some ass to a wall for speeding but has opted to give an early Christmas present.  Scraping tint is a whole lot cheaper than a ticket.  Spot two more sunny-weather patrol cars out working on a tan and boosting township revenue.

Home.  Home crap home. Kids nowhere to be seen, dog chewing on dress shoe.  Cruel Wife jumps up, grabs tools of her trade and says “Good luck with the kids” and runs out the door.  The kids, hearing the door and noting that they did not exchange goodbye grief-rituals begin rending garments and gnashing teeth… followed by hysterical wails and blubbery weeping.  Dog switches to left dress shoe.  Cruel Wife runs back in for a happy reunion quickly followed by a second attack of separation anxiety from the youngest child, Destructo-Boy.  Defib paddles sorted the problem out.  Dog forcibly removed from shoes.

Boy on back of couch, removed forcibly.  Boy activates ice dispenser with no glass.  Boy writes all over face with pen.  Boy is discovered a few minutes later around the corner with the dish sponge in his mouth, sucking on it.  Boy spends 20 minutes making weird faces with mouth and looking like he wants to retch. Two very long hours pass with endless permutations of the Boy’s antics described above and it is time for bed.  Toothbrushes are apparently sorted not by color, or size, or by image printed on the handle but by how worn the bristles look.  Check.  Write that down:  GirlHead insists that brushes sorted by bristle wear.  Must’ve missed that in the Book of Good Parenting (which I do not own).   Bedtime stories  – Frog and Toad and The Cat in the Hat.  Boy falls asleep in your lap and the location of his elbow explains why there is no feeling whatsoever anywhere in your groin anymore.   GirlHead tries the Little Girl Smile of Smiting and rolls a critical hit – daddy does not get a saving throw.

Lights go out. Time for a bowl of chili, loads of cayenne pepper, pepper jack cheese, and mustard.

Time for House…

Thus endeth a day in the life of the Lemur King.

Note:  I really was late for work.  No one cared.  No lunch, just chocolate mints.  I really did get pulled over.  No heroin, weed, or beer was anywhere near my truck or me at any time.  I did not hug the officer goodbye.  Yes the pup chews on my shoes while I am wearing on them.  It’s kind of affectionate. Yes, the boy put a days-old used dish sponge in his mouth.


Update:  I like my kids and I have a hard time understanding the Nebraska Dump-Your-Kid-Off-No-Questions-Asked Law (Safe Haven Act).   Pretty damn pathetic if you ask me.  Then again, I don’t know the kids either.  Usually though, the acorn don’t fall far from the tree.

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