Drugs are Bad
I Tripped and Fell Down the Stairs
Mushrooms are nothing
new to me. I’ve been eating them on pizza for two decades and I
scraped them off the floor in my apartment’s bathroom with some
I have also, on occasion, partaken in hallucinogenic or “magic”
The latter brings to me much euphoria and a much, much cleaner high
acid could ever provide.
I do not want you,
the reader, to think that because every so often I am tripping fucking
nuts, that I am any sort of junkie. (Nick, Craig, stop
I am simply a young man who feels that the ban on use of a product that
was plucked from a bovine’s fecal material is ridiculous. I am
going to stop smoking weed, eating shrooms, stealing cars, or sending
to news corporations simply because it is illegal to do so. In a
way, every time I trip, I am (unbeknownst to them) punishing the
and its bullshit policies on, well, bullshit fungus.
I now realize that
I have digressed greatly from the intended point of this essay, which
not in any way a political commentary on drug use, or, for that matter,
sending Anthrax. It is an important issue but it deals only
with the story I am about to unfold. All you really need to know,
and probably already do, is that I take drugs. And that’s pretty
As are many of you,
I am employed at a shitty job that I only sulk my way through due to
horrid inconvenience of finding anything better. I have coworkers
and bosses, responsibilities and tasks, you know, a job, right?
The interesting part
of this is the “bosses” part. I have two. Two bosses?
Two bosses, Bob. They are a grossly mismatched pair, but between
his absolute lethargy and her total raging insanity, I suppose they
a rather weird number within the hole in “0.” (Contact me for
information on Robb’s Number) Now this overbearing and absolutely
horrible, wretched human being of a woman has made it no secret that
and the big boss smoke weed. (Did I mention that they are
Well, they are, but he really hates her down to her rancid organs) I do
not want to know that my bosses smoke weed, especially since I am
oblivious to everything about them and like it that way.
But now I know the
truth; that the people who won’t let me order salami because they don’t
trust me smoke weed like Cypress Hill at a rave.
Now truth be told,
I rather pity Tom, my boss, because to date Stephanie, 605 California
Apt. A, Lawrence KS 66044, must be roughly like being dropped from some
height, naked and with your eyes taped open, into a swimming pool full
of fluorescent light tubes.
Days go by without
me giving it much thought, but as Tom and I were closing one night, he
and I talked about the numerous problems his girlfriend and assistant
was creating at work. He agreed almost completely, and in fact
on me even more that he wanted to choke the cunt and tie her to a tree
with barbed wire.
He rubbed his
“I need to get high,” he informed me quite casually.
I was taken aback
to say the least. Hearing the person who signs your paycheck say
he/she needs to do illegal (grrrr) drugs is, as always, an interesting
spot to be put in. Was he testing me, or did he want me to sell
some shit, what? “You could do that,” I finally popped
My response sounded more like a confused question than a statement of
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said
Tom. “I just assumed you smoked weed. I guess I assume
Again I was perplexed,
now by the fact that my boss “assumed” I smoked weed. Did I
Did I have dreads and a bandana? Was there a Phish sticker on my
car? No. I feel slightly miffed when friends think I am a
Hearing my boss “assume” it was a plain old kick-in-the-guts. I
to kill my wounded (they were weaker now) feelings with narcotics.
“Well, that’s actually
what I’m planning on doing right now,” I said to the guy who could fire
me if he didn’t like my shoes.
I’ll spare you the
rather inane banter that led him to my apartment to eat shrooms and
weed and opium. And I will be honest…it’s because I was high
I’m high now, and it is simply not coming back to me.
So we puffed and
while Requiem for a Dream played. We had fun for a while until I
peaked. Have you ever heard of a bad trip? This was what
call a “BAD, BAD, BAD MOTHAFUCKIN TRIP TO HELL.” I didn’t think
walls were bleeding, oh no, I thought the blood was walling. For
a brief period I freaked, but luckily most of my roommate Paul’s
tower was spared and the voices did, after a time, cease.
So we’re both tripping
nuts and high as a pair of aces when we decide it would be a good idea
to go and get some food. Why either of us thought this was a good
idea when we couldn’t even exactly pin down the source of the ambient
(the ambient noise was coming from the television) is beyond me.
I didn’t think my
legs were shaky, I thought the floor was shaky. Compensating your
movements based on the shakiness of your legs is easy. But when
floor itself is rapidly gyrating, it’s not so easy. I did have it
easy on the escalator that carried me to the lobby of my
I know I don’t really have an escalator in my apartment…please don’t
me how it worked then. It just worked, and I’ll say no more about
I did have a slight
misstep at the bottom of the ride; my foot got hooked on the escalator
operator’s cane and I took a tumble. I cracked my skull into the
hard linoleum floor with what can only be called severity.
Tom noticed that my
blood was heading, and luckily he had the common sense to sit on the
and start pounding his forehead with his fists. “I’m too fucked
to do anything about this!” he whined.
Now languish is a
severe and horribly lonely word to use here, but it more than
applies, plus I beat Paul to it in story setting. (He’ll get
I lay, languishing, upon what I felt sure was my DuPont deathbed.
I felt like I was the only person in the universe, and what made it
was the firm feeling I had that the universe was shaped like an
huge pair of those novelty Groucho Marx glasses.
I was the only person
in the world, and my head was bleeding. If the human race wasn’t
in trouble before, it was fucked now. I snickered as the thought
of me as the only human left reviving a corpse of one of the people now
dead and successfully mating and creating a race of super-powered
again, I deviate from my course.
Ponder, if you will,
my plight. I am on the floor, a severe and leaking head wound
me no end of frustration, and a boss crying in the corner and muttering
about Karma. It was a smidge uncomfortable and I knew that my
life fluid would soon be the end of me. I decided to act.
My action was merely
the benign movement of my left hand from my chest to the floor.
made sense at the time. I would later come to find that my left
had been dislocated and broken in nine places. I also had a new
elbow. At any rate, I finally decided that it was time to prompt
Tom into getting some help. I managed to lift my head from the
wincing at the peeling sound.
Tom was weeping gently
and gnawing on an electrical outlet down the hall.
A piece of a tooth chipped off and shot up like an enamel flare.
He remained oblivious and continued his snack. “Tom!”
He cast me a glance
this time. He then screamed and crawled down the hall and out the
back door. I felt like my zombie wife (remember her) just left me
because she found me unattractive.
The clot on my scalp
would likely have helped, in the long run. That no longer
as I dropped my head to the floor. I realized then that I hadn’t
felt bleeding for some time. My wound had scabbed. The
scab was not long for the world. My head went down, and I went
I don’t remember
else until I woke up a couple of days later at LMH. I had
tripped at the top of the stairs and rolled down the three
I had also the misfortune to repeatedly hit the harsh corners of the
with my shins and tibia, leading to a total of 17 breaks total.
move me more easily the paramedics had actually rolled my legs up.
The gash in my head
was not as bad as I had thought. The gouge in the bone was only a
half-centimeter in depth. I was patched up and tossed into a bed
to wait for the doctor.
Then who should appear
in my door but Tom and Stephanie, 605 California St., Apt. A, Lawrence,
KS, 66044. “How ya doin’, Robb?” asked Stephanie, 605 California
St., Apt. A, Lawrence, KS, 66044.
My words sounded muffled around the tubes.
“I’m really sorry,
Robb.” Tom sounded sincere, but he was playing with string while
he was talking. I had obviously slept off whatever he was still
We chatted, they
people came and visited, and yet I was still alone on the left eyebrow
My date of release
rolled around, and the doctor gave me something for the pain.
was just a stupid move. He knew why I’d hurt myself.
I am now outside 605
California St., Apt. A, Lawrence, KS, 66044.
The moral of this story is
that drugs are bad because the Bible says
If you would like to read other stories with morals by Robb
Cunt, and Why It’s Ok to Say It
Why America Needs Terrorist Jokes Now More than Ever
Blowing Up Churches, The True Adventures of Rudy the Bird