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Posts Tagged ‘muffins’

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.

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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.

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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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