drugs

Drugs Are Bad Mmm-Kay ??

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Doing some serious research about where to get a hold of some really yummy meth, FOR A FRIEND, I stumbled upon a beautiful anti-drug campaign that speaks for itself. These are before and after pictures of the natural beautification that meth can do for you without even putting any effort into it. There were over 100 pictures that I delicately boiled down into what I consider to be the best of this incredibly addictive batch. Enjoy !!

Thank goodness I spent extra time trimmin' my stache today !!

I'm glad my stache is still ... WHAT THE F IS ON MY FACE ??

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

Wow, I feel silly, this was a total misunderstanding, it wasn't mine
AHHHHHHHHHHHHH ... I'M 60 !!!!!!

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

People tell me I look like Huey Lewis
But I would really rather be David Letterman

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

METHYMETHMETHYMETHMETHYMETH

I'm so scared, I'll never do it again, I promise !!
Promise broken ... HEY !! IS THAT METH OVER THERE ??!!

Everything courtesy of Multnomah County Sheriff via KTLA.com

Steven Tyler Cut From American Idol

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I thought I was supposed to give these chics roses or something

The newest and most popular judge on American Idol, who also happens to be the rock-star front man for Aerosmith, Steven Tyler, was unexpectedly asked to leave the show for good after last night’s episode.

Apparently Tyler didn’t realize that he was judging a “singing talent show” which finds America’s best vocal talent who are then exploited to record labels to shove half-hearted pop tunes down our throat for the almighty dollar. No. He actually thought that the show was a cross between ‘The Bachelor’ and ‘Rock of Love’ with Brett Michaels, and that he was there to pick one of the girls to be his next wife based on her singing abilities and hot, young, tight little body.

Eeny, Meenie, Miny, Moe

The truth about Steven’s confusion was made clear last night after the show when one of the producers heard him saying that he really thinks the “smokin’ little bam-bam Easter blondie with an ass for bouncin’ quarters off of” is going to be his pick, but only if she’s a good cook and doesn’t mind fashioning feathers to roach-clips for putting in his hair. This then raised the question: “What show do you think you’re on Mr. Tyler?”

Steven Tyler is a 63 year old man, no make that, mega-man, who has spent the majority of his badass controversial life rockin’ his balls to the walls with years of alcohol and drug use and still looks pretty damn good. Which to that might I say, BRAVO to you Mr. Tyler, BRAVO! Now for a normal 63 year old man to be confused about normal, everyday things such as “which one is the brake and which one is the gas?” is something that is accepted and then quickly forgotten about unless said old man runs his car into dozens of innocent pedestrians. But for Tyler, let’s couple his age with the scientific estimate of approximately 80% brain cell loss due to week long hotel smashings with Jack Daniels binges and drug induced orgies that would put Charlie Sheen to shame, his confusion as to what he was actually doing on the show makes perfect sense. So let’s not jump into the judging game quite so fast people. Give this man a freakin’ break, he could be your grandfather for Heaven’s sake.

The hottest girl from Group B

“When a girl dresses all hoochie-coochie and shakes that money maker in front of me, I just assume she wants to get married and have babies”, said Tyler. “I also thought the other group of ugly bearded girls with deep voices was the pot which Randy Jackson got to pick from. Sorry for the confusion America, ROCK ON!!”

No Steven Tyler, YOU rock on!!

Charlie Sheen: Guru of the new Winning

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This is an honest to god open letter to Charlie Sheen. If anyone reading this knows how to get it in front of Guru Sheen, I beg of you, please do. I will do anything, ANYthing, to have this make it into the hands of my new hero so that we can hang all night in our aura of epic that only we two truly understand… Seriously, anything…

I’ve heard a lot of guff lately about the mental state and health of star of stage and screen, one Mr. Charles Sheen. The man has been hounded by questions of his sanity and his sobriety. People think he’s lost it, that the man is rocketing down a road of self destruction on his way to utter collapse and personal, professional and physical ruin. People are talking about how sorry they feel for Charlie Sheen.

"I've got tiger blood and Adonis DNA" - Actual quote.
"I've got tiger blood and Adonis DNA" - Actual quote.

But, see, you don’t get it: Charlie Sheen feels sorry for YOU.

Can you honestly say that you feel sorry for a man who can walk away from a job that pays him two million dollars an episode to play a toned down version of himself and then without batting a fucking eye say that, sure, he’ll come back, but now you’ve gotta pay him three? And know that he means every fucking breath of it. You think that’s losing? Charlie Sheen will tell you to your simple little face that that’s winning. And I for one believe him. I would be foolish not to. 

See, for too long, the exceptional have had to hide their superiority, to be humble and quiet in their personal knowledge of their uniqueness. The special have been forced to pretend that they’re just like everyone else to sell the normal people the idea that they could ever be special too. But once in a great while, a special person will throw off the guise of normal, relatable, humble every man and show you exactly how wrong you are to think that you could ever be like them. And that scares the shit out of the general public. They call that person crazy and narcissistic and dangerously addicted to drugs, alcohol and sex. I call those people jealous of seeing someone capable of owning the life that they all secretly wish could be theirs.

You see Charlie, I get it. We’re kindred spirits, you and I. In the old days two people such as us would meet on a mountain top and do battle with lightning and magic and the Earth would quake, knowing that it was witnessing the only thing greater than itself and that it’s continued existence was predicated entirely upon our whims at that moment. And the people would fear us, as much for what we do as for what we did not do.

But how do I, you may ask? How do I get it? How is it possible for my normal brain to ever claim to understand someone like Charlie Sheen? Someone utterly incomprehensible to those lower life forms? Because I’m not a sad normal brain like the rest of them Charlie. I am, in point of fact, a certified DOUBLE GENIUS. Shit yeah that’s what I said. But, certified by who you might ask. By myself of course, because how could I expect any of these normals to even begin to comprehend this?

We’re like two super sonic sub marines, tearin’ ass through the sky at a thousand miles an hour and people see us and they don’t comprehend how something so awesome and impossible could even exist. Then it dawns on them bro, they suddenly see clearly for the first time in their sad existence and see us for the bright bolt of light that we are and through their tears they wonder how they lived so long without knowing something like this could even exist. And it’s because they’ve been told that mediocrity is something to be sought after. A goal to be achieved. Nothing makes me sadder than seeing mediocrity being striven for, except maybe for a plate full of uneaten prostitute.

"It could never work Aphrodite, I've got Charlie Sheen DNA." - assumed quote
"It could never work Aphrodite, I've got Charlie Sheen DNA." - assumed quote

I understand that what you are putting out now is not anger, but passionate. I didn’t get it before. I didn’t understand that that was what was boiling over in my own samurai eagle heart. I thought I was angry, but that wasn’t it. If I was angry at anything it was with the world for not living up to our own personally standards. But now I understand that this pit of poison tipped rat vampires is only here to keep me from flying like the rocket propelled, birthday cake scented power monkey that I truly am!

You see, I woke up this morning with a helicopter hovering over my building. I go outside for my morning jog, look up in the sky and give the pilot the high sign and when I get back, it’s fuckin’ gone. Coincidence? There’s no such thing as coincidence man. They were there to make sure I was still alive, that’s it. Because the world needs me. I can’t even say any of my ideas out loud anymore bro, because when I do, the next day somebody’s making a million dollars on the easy little shit I say before my morning tea. So now I keep my genius locked away in a box labeled “not genius” and they’re not looking there because really, what that comes from me could ever not be genius, right? See it doesn’t make sense, and that’s what I’m counting on!

I want to hang with you Charlie. Beyond the fire and lightning that our meeting would call down from the halls of the gods of exceptionalism, I’m also selfishly thinking of my own self preservation. When I would put on my medical forms that my blood type was “Tiger Positive” the doctors would look at me with their stupid little questions in their eyes. But now I know that if something were ever to happen to me that there’s someone I can go to for a blood transfusion who would be able to handle it without my own blood kicking back into their body and devouring what was left of their unused soul. But until it becomes imperative for our unique physiology to preserve the last of our kind, we can just get together some Tuesday afternoon, each draw a little blood and have it fight, we can put that shit on Pay Per View and solve world hunger brother.

In closing, I want to make sure you know that I am absolutely serious right now when I say that if this somehow gets back to you Charlie, I want to hang with you. I want to finally feel free around someone who gets it! Give me a call Charlie, let’s be besties, because I am not mocking you, I get you, more than anyone else, I recognize your specialness and I fucking love it bro.