CRACK ATTACK!
You head on down to the nearest bus stop. If you hadn't so wisely invested all of your money in crack-cocaine, you'd probably own a car by now and you could drive your happy ass down to the suburbs. But you have, so you don't. Who needs a car, anyway? Don't answer.
It takes several monotonous hours, but you eventually reach your desired destination - the well maintained realm of suburbia, a truly American innovation. A realm where everyone has two cars in the garage, and then work themselves to death just to pay them off. The American Dream realized! Your cousin Rob, who's around the same age as you, still lives with his Prozac-addled parents. It's all good in the hood, though. In this day and age, who ISN'T a parasitical scumbag leeching off their parents' hard-earned wealth? Don't answer.
After admiring his parents manicured lawn (and the many tacky lawn-ornaments that every asshole in the suburbs seems to think looks tasteful), you ring the doorbell and wait with much anticipation. Eventually your Uncle Tom (a Vietnam Vet who takes a wide array of medications to ease his flashbacks) answers the door.
"Why hello there, Uncle Tom! Good to see you again," you lie. "Is Rob home?" Your uncle scratches his balls and belches. You take that as a 'yes', and brush him aside. You know just where to find Rob: in the basement playing X-Box and tweaked out of his mind, dying.
Covered in beats of sweat and still twitching uncontrollably from your crack withdrawals, you greet your cousin. "Why, hello there, Rob!" "Well look who it is!" your cousin replies, putting his game on pause. "If it isn't my favorite crackhead!"
You let out a good natured chuckle. "Boy am I ever! And guess what I'm lookin' for!" Your cousin lets out a chuckle as well. "Let me guess," he conjectures sarcastically, "it couldn't be...crack, could it!?"
The two of you laugh in unison. But of course you're looking for crack! "GIMME SOME CRACK!!!!!" you demand, grabbing him by the throat. Then a fit of the shakes takes hold of you and you release your iron grip on his trachea.
Your cousin sighs and sets down the controller. "Look, cuz," he says, "I think it's time we have a talk..." And he motions for you to take a seat beside him on the old orange sofa that graces this musty basement. Oh, GREAT...sounds like another 'intervention'. You indulge him in this request, however, and obligingly take a seat.
"Bro, I love you, that's why I think it's time you quit smoking that crack." For some reason these words seem to strike a chord within you, where there's still something left of your humanity. "Go on," you tease him, rubbing your tender nipples seductively.
He glances at you with a withering look in his eyes. "That's why I'm glad you're here. There's a new train rolling into town..." You yawn. "Lemme guess," you offer. "It's called 'sobriety', right?"
You cousin bursts into hysterical laughter. "Of course not! No, my friend, the name of this train is called 'crystal methamphetamines'!" God dammit. Why is everyone turning their back on crack!?!?!
It takes several monotonous hours, but you eventually reach your desired destination - the well maintained realm of suburbia, a truly American innovation. A realm where everyone has two cars in the garage, and then work themselves to death just to pay them off. The American Dream realized! Your cousin Rob, who's around the same age as you, still lives with his Prozac-addled parents. It's all good in the hood, though. In this day and age, who ISN'T a parasitical scumbag leeching off their parents' hard-earned wealth? Don't answer.
After admiring his parents manicured lawn (and the many tacky lawn-ornaments that every asshole in the suburbs seems to think looks tasteful), you ring the doorbell and wait with much anticipation. Eventually your Uncle Tom (a Vietnam Vet who takes a wide array of medications to ease his flashbacks) answers the door.
"Why hello there, Uncle Tom! Good to see you again," you lie. "Is Rob home?" Your uncle scratches his balls and belches. You take that as a 'yes', and brush him aside. You know just where to find Rob: in the basement playing X-Box and tweaked out of his mind, dying.
Covered in beats of sweat and still twitching uncontrollably from your crack withdrawals, you greet your cousin. "Why, hello there, Rob!" "Well look who it is!" your cousin replies, putting his game on pause. "If it isn't my favorite crackhead!"
You let out a good natured chuckle. "Boy am I ever! And guess what I'm lookin' for!" Your cousin lets out a chuckle as well. "Let me guess," he conjectures sarcastically, "it couldn't be...crack, could it!?"
The two of you laugh in unison. But of course you're looking for crack! "GIMME SOME CRACK!!!!!" you demand, grabbing him by the throat. Then a fit of the shakes takes hold of you and you release your iron grip on his trachea.
Your cousin sighs and sets down the controller. "Look, cuz," he says, "I think it's time we have a talk..." And he motions for you to take a seat beside him on the old orange sofa that graces this musty basement. Oh, GREAT...sounds like another 'intervention'. You indulge him in this request, however, and obligingly take a seat.
"Bro, I love you, that's why I think it's time you quit smoking that crack." For some reason these words seem to strike a chord within you, where there's still something left of your humanity. "Go on," you tease him, rubbing your tender nipples seductively.
He glances at you with a withering look in his eyes. "That's why I'm glad you're here. There's a new train rolling into town..." You yawn. "Lemme guess," you offer. "It's called 'sobriety', right?"
You cousin bursts into hysterical laughter. "Of course not! No, my friend, the name of this train is called 'crystal methamphetamines'!" God dammit. Why is everyone turning their back on crack!?!?!