Dear Meth Head (yeah, tweaker--that's you):
We've had a rocky friendship, stemming mostly from your entertainment value. I can't tell you how many laughs you provided Liz and I on our frequent viewings of COPS, but we often have to watch while we're all congested. You see, you've made it hard to buy Sudafed and many other things with pseudoephedrine. Now I've found out that my good ole' friend Nyquil no longer has pseudoephedrine (nor does it have that half-ass phenylephrine shit). My extensive Sudafed purchases likely have me on some federal database (I guess checking out Mein Kampf in high school also had me being watched). I know you like to make your Saturday nights in Missouri more interesting, but we need to breath. Here's an idea, smoke crack like everyone else on COPs, and then we won't have an even harder time getting pseudoephedrine. That would make everyone happy. Now, get back to cleaning your kitchen, freaking out, or living in a house that smells like cat piss.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
An Open Letter to Meth Heads
Labels: Dating, Ghetto, People Watching, White Trash
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