Cocaine is Good for What Ails You

  

Since everybody is always asking me about the history of Coca-Cola, here you go--courtesy of the fine folks at wikipedia:

Fascinating History In-Brief

"The prototype Coca-Cola recipe was formulated at the Eagle Drug and Chemical Company, a drugstore in Columbus, Georgis by John Pemberton, originally as a coca wine called Pemberton's French Wine Coca. He may have been inspired by the formidable success of Vin Mariani, a European coca wine.

"In 1886, when Atlanta and Fulton County passed prohibition legislation, Pemberton responded by developing Coca-Cola, essentially a non-alcoholic version of French Wine Coca. The first sales were at Jacob's Pharmacy in Atlanta, Georgia, on May 8, 1886. It was initially sold as a patent medicine for five cents a glass at soda fountains, which were popular in the United States at the time due to the belief that carbonated water was good for the health.

"Pemberton claimed Coca-Cola cured many diseases, including morphine addiction, dyspepsia, neurasthenia, headache, and impotence. Pemberton ran the first advertisement for the beverage on May 29 of the same year in the Atlanta Journal.

"By 1888, three versions of Coca-Cola — sold by three separate businesses — were on the market. Asa Griggs Candler acquired a stake in Pemberton's company in 1887 and incorporated it as the Coca Cola Company in 1888. The same year, while suffering from an ongoing addiction to morphine, Pemberton sold the rights a second time to four more businessmen: J.C. Mayfield, A.O. Murphey, C.O. Mullahy and E.H. Bloodworth. Meanwhile, Pemberton's alcoholic son Charley Pemberton began selling his own version of the product.

"John Pemberton declared that the name "Coca-Cola" belonged to Charley, but the other two manufacturers could continue to use the formula. So, in the summer of 1888, Candler sold his beverage under the names Yum Yum and Koke. After both failed to catch on, Candler set out to establish a legal claim to Coca-Cola in late 1888, in order to force his two competitors out of the business. Candler purchased exclusive rights to the formula from John Pemberton, Margaret Dozier and Woolfolk Walker. However, in 1914, Dozier came forward to claim her signature on the bill of sale had been forged, and subsequent analysis has indicated John Pemberton's signature was most likely a forgery as well.

People in Mexico Must Be Afraid of Being Fed to Dogs for No Reason At All

The somehow-always-escalating violence in Mexico over the last decade has just got to stop being so crazy. Thankfully, despite their brutality, our era's thugs still pale in comparison to both the brutal conquistadors and the psychopathic tyrants they supplanted, but still--come on.

It's like Mexico is an episode/season of Breaking Bad--the best show on television--so no matter how bad you think things are going to get they always get much worse and keep you on the edge of your seat.

One day you're a respectable family attending a provincial bullfight, feasting on all manner of delectable street meat, and dozing in the cool shadow of a mountain of used plastic silverware and putrid diapers trucked in from Texas, the next day you have a sack thrown over your heads, get fed into a sausage grinder, and become a hasty buffet for a pack of alpha-male pitbulls raised to ruthlessly erase all evidence of your existence. For no reason. Well, other than the fact that some asshole druglords want to send the government agents and their employers (aka taxpayers) a message that they are not to be fucked with or everybody will die eventually die a horrific, carnival death.

Mayors getting kidnapped and stoned to death in the woods, their corpses lying in the back of a pick-up truck for days before being found?

Wacko lieutenants becoming famous for dissolving bodies in vats of lie? Headless bodies hanging from bridges when the President comes to town?

People's faces being peeled-off and sewn onto soccer balls?

Danny Trejo's severed head riding atop a turtle's shell?

It's like the Mexican druglords have spent the last ten years one-upping each other, hell-bent on bringing home the Most Sadistic Would-Be Batman Villain Ever hardware every year at their annual, always-fabulous Mexican Druglord Conference in Cancun and things are really coming to a head here, the fate of a nation in flux until one of the longtime favorites (or will it be a darkhorse?) is finally cast by Christopher Nolan in his next movie already. [C'mon, Chris, don't be selfish here--think of the people of Gotham. -Ed]

Only then will a winner be declared. Only then will these men tire of the game and get back to being productive members of society, stop destroying whatever they can get away with.

If Christopher Nolan fails us here (he will), no living soul in Mexico is safe. People invited to dinner parties will start making ridiculous excuses like "Oh, I'd love to come, Sandra, but I'm afraid my entire family might be fed to dogs for absolutely no reason if somebody happens to see us in the street" and it won't be funny because they would totally mean it.

Dogs and cats will be murdered in cold blood and often later eaten by starving Mad-Max scavengers--or used as bait to lure a meatier human out of hiding if they feel strong enough for a struggle.

Even budding flowers will fall victim to the casually lethal boot-heels of restless warriors.

Harmonicas can be quite deadly

Eventually the Wild West will reign again, as all men remaining in Mexico will be pitted against each other in a relentless series of unscheduled, unregulated, him-or-me machine-gun duels.

In the end, some Mexican-Jeff-Goldblum eccentric-billionaire type (or perhaps total-Bond-villain Carlos Slim?) will square up against a rough-and-tumble bully from the other side of the tracks and smile knowingly as he smites him with a remote-controlled missile to win--finally--the entire vacant blood-soaked nation as his playground/torture chamber.

Hey, whatever--heavy is the head that wears the crown, right? Jeff/Carlos will kill 'em all, eat 'em, play the game, and figure the rest out later! Once he wins the competition!

After all, if the end result of all his efforts is for whatever reason less than ideal, he can always just drink himself to death at an abandoned luxury resort in Acapulco while writing one hell of a suicide note. If that is indeed Jeff/Carlos' path, I hope that he also has the foresight to attach the lengthy missive to a particularly-burly trained seagull's foot before he dies and send the winged slave to find A Living Person in America Who Would Open a Random Piece of Mail Delivered by a Seagull and Be Able to Make Some Sense Out of Nearly-Illiterate Post-Apocalyptic Pidgin Spanish with no delay.

Once I get my hands on that suicide note (ohpleaseohpleaseohplease) I can finally publish my (unrelated) bestselling novel about the unsympathetic, stomach-churning trials and tribulations of a notorious, suddenly-repentant-at-the-end, murdering asshole that The New York Review of Books will call "Lyrical, raw, and positively breathtaking--an astonishing debut focusing on a megalomaniacal prick who is so delusional he actually thinks he is a normal person, a person with strengths and weaknesses you can weigh, despite all evidence pointing to the fact that if he is not the spawn of Satan he may as well be."

That kind of success being something I could immediately take to the bank, I will probably set up direct deposit to an account in the Cayman Islands and never be seen or heard from again once the raucous celebration--for the humble but well-appointed launch of what will turn out to be the groundbreaking novel of a burgeoning Golden Era of Literature, the captain of the elite avant garde--winds down and I seize the perfect opportunity to sneak away unnoticed.

I will disappear in plain sight and live on the lam under the assumed identities of a series of retired international playboys who share a voracious appetite for women, adventure, and the fruits of the sea.

I will rewrite my memoirs for the rest of my life--on stained cocktail napkins stapled together--until I accidentally fall off a hotel balcony in paradise and nobody ever even figures out who I was, much less what wisdom I wanted to impart to the Earthlings I left behind.

But enough about me--what will all of you do, America? Will it even affect you? Will you even notice that your drunken trips to coastal Florida are not taking place in Cancun, a beloved resort you will never be able to visit for the rest of your life because murderous warlords own the streets? Will you join them or fight them when the furious, probing tentacles of their violence become too much to bear?

Please send me your well-reasoned answers and I shall peruse them with casual interest while traveling aboard one of my many identical yachts speeding in different directions across the vast watery stretches of globe, while wearing a clever disguise that just makes you want to weep for its beauty.

Thank you,
Goodtime Charlie

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This Is How Uncool I Am

Does this look cool to you?

I cannot imagine why it would ever be something to do, but apparently in England people like to get together and consume spoonfuls of powdered caffeine at parties.

Huh? Wha?

Recognize:

Last week, according to AOL Health, it came to light that Michael Lee Bedford, [a] British man, died after consuming "spoonfuls" of caffeine powder at a party with friends. AOL Health reports that Bedford had the equivalent of 70 energy drinks in his system at the time of his death in April. According to Dr. Eric Braverman, a lethal dose of caffeine would be about 10,000 milligrams — or 100 cups of coffee — the website reports. 

(courtesy Time.com)

I'm gonna go out on a limb here and bet there were no girls at this "party" and the guys were desperately trying to work up the 'caffeine courage' to fuck their pet robots in front of each other all night while they play videogames and laugh in high-pitched voices.

Either that or I guess I'm just not that cool anymore and it was not only a bitchin' party, but caffeine is also a breathtaking high I've been a stranger to for way too long.

Might be worth the experiment--I'll order a 60-gallon drum and see what happens. If it's empty in two weeks, break through my window, shoot me with a tranquilizer dart, strap me to a comfortable couch, and let me ride out the withdrawal til I'm back down among the mortals. A ride like that should be one you can walk away from.

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Message Received

This just in from the Mexican front, via Huffington Post:

Violence peaked in Tijuana in 2008 amid a showdown between two crime bosses – Fernando "The Engineer" Sanchez Arellano and Teodoro "El Teo" Garcia Simental, a renegade lieutenant who rose through the ranks by dissolving bodies in vats of lye.

Garcia was arrested last January. While killings have continued, the most gruesome displays of cartel violence – decapitations, hangings and daylight shootouts – subsided.

Last week, in the wake of Calderon's visit, several bodies were found beheaded and hanging from bridges in Tijuana, leading to fears that the cartels were resuming brutal tactics to send a message that the government is not in control.

Vats of lye? Ohhhhhhkay. Huh. Considering all this new shit comes in the wake of that rural mayor getting stoned to death in the back of a pick-up truck and the following certified-nutso statistics, I find little reason not to believe them:

Upon taking office in December 2006, President Felipe Calderon deployed tens of thousands of troops and federal police to fight drug cartels in their strongholds. An unprecedented 28,000 people have been killed in drug gang violence since.

Ciudad Juarez has become one of the world's deadliest cities amid a turf war between the Sinaloa and Juarez drug cartels. More than 2,000 people have been killed this year in the city, which is across the border from El Paso, Texas.

Oh, Mexico...I love you but you're bringing me down.

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Abilify Your Life Today

Abilify is a drug made by Bristol-Myers Squibb that is used to treat schizophrenia and bipolar disorder.

But, let's face it, that's a limited market (read: limited profits), so the greedy assholes over at BMS decided to widen the pool a bit by shifting gears and pushing it as an add-on drug to treat depression.

Because, naturally, if everybody wasn't already depressed (they are), they would be so depressed by this depressing news that Abilify's potential consumer pool will eventually reach 100% of the global population. Regardless of whether the drug works (it doesn't), this represents a near-perfect blow in the struggle between pharmaceutical companies and the forces of good.

Are you depressed about the side affects of your antidepressant--and even more depressed that it isn't effectively combating your depression? Is it getting in the way of you smiling while giving foot massages to your wife on an isolated dock at your lake house?

Well, then force your doctor to prescribe Abilify to, you know, make you more able to face the day, silly!

These happy customers could be you! 

[If you were actors not taking Abilify -BMS Legal]

Sorry to have to spoil all the fun times here, freedom-lovers, but that communist towelhead Obama (who can't even prove that he was born!) makes us have to say shit like this:

Side effects of Abilify include, but are not limited to...

Nausea, vomiting, constipation, headache, dizziness, an inner sense of restlessness or need to move, anxiety, insomnia, restlessness, an increased risk of death or stroke, very high fever, rigid muscles, shaking, confusion, sweating, increased heart rate and blood pressure, abnormal or uncontrollable movements of the face, tongue, or other parts of the body.

Also, be careful when you stand up, as you might faint from lightheadedness caused by a sudden change in blood pressure. And don't get sick, because your white blood cell count will plummet when on Abilify. Don't ever drive or make a decision either, because Abilify adversely affects your judgment, thinking, and motor skills. It will also "impact your body's ability to reduce body temperature."

Don't drink alcohol or breast-feed, and be aware you may experience suicidal thoughts and/or fall into a coma unexpectedly.

And don't forget, these side effects are in addition to any you are already experiencing from your regular, inneffective antidepressant medication (which we want you to keep taking, since we make money off that, too).

And let's also not forget that antidepressant meds are Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitors, which means they are attempting to treat an emotional problem as a biochemical problem, despite the fact that the link between depression and a biochemical imbalance has never been proven.

Anyway, whatever--enjoy your easy solution, lazy Americans!

And do be careful behind the wheel of your 5mpg XL-SUV--I'd hate for you to scratch the bumper as you plow through a class field trip because your medication made you think they were ducks and you were playing a video game in your dreams where you hunted animals from your Escalade.

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HOLY SHIT

For everybody who is interested in dabbling in some meth (I know you're out there--the numbers don't lie), take a look at the following horrific photos after the jump--if you have the stomach for it...

Breaking News: Depressed Hollywood Actor is Now Fat

Heartthrob-cum-fatty Jeremy London might not be living the high life like he used to during his Party of Five days, but he has at least managed to etch his name onto the list of 2010's strangest news stories.

If you made this stuff up, everybody would think you were stupid:

Armed bandits abducted and robbed Party of Five star Jeremy London and forced him to smoke drugs during a harrowing five hour ordeal in Palm Springs, California, police have revealed to RadarOnline.com.

London, 37, was attempting to change a flat tire on his vehicle when a man stopped to help him, outside the Bahama Hotel & Apartments on North Palm Canyon Drive, late on the evening of Thursday, June 10.

Bows and Arrows Are So Hot Right Now

I don't know how you feel about it, Internet, but I think Lindsay Lohan looked pretty damn good at this photo shoot the other day. And she showed up for work! Double points!

I mean, her ass is just...jutting right out there. If it weren't for the meth-breath, the persecution complex, the idiocy, and the craziness, I could see myself settling down and growing to love that little potbelly.

Dare to dream, kids--dare to dream.


(For more photos, check out dlisted)

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Coolest Squirt Gun Ever?

Oh, I mean bong; coolest bong ever.

If nothing else, it will certainly last longer than this one:

(Photos courtesy City Rag)

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I Predict You Will Read This

What with Nostradamus being not only ancient but also wrong most of the time--not to mention painfully vague--and that whole Mayan 2012 thing clearly not gonna happen (right? RIGHT?!), the world is sorely lacking fashionable prognosticators these days.

WTF, psychic soldiers? Are you all doing so well reading tarot cards to middle-aged divorcees in the soiled living rooms of your creepy little suburban houses with neon signs in the window that you don't give a shit about the big picture anymore? Are you that selfish? People need to know how everything (Earth, humanity, Breaking Bad) is gonna end!

Goodtime Charlie's 8th Grade Yearbook Photo (courtesy GTC Archives)

Enter Goodtime Charlie to selflessly fill the void and launch a million imitators (Prediction #1).


Prediction #2:
You will die someday and although it will suck for you and your loved ones, the vast majority of the people in your neighborhood won't even notice.


Prediction#3:
If there is a hell, John Mayer and Shia Lebeouf will be in it--which is reason enough to repent and be a good boy from here on out, if you ask me.


Prediction #4:
This man will continue to get beat up ("For no reason!") for the rest of his meager existence.


Prediction #5:
KFC's currently infamous, way-over-exposed-by-the-media, and disgustingly profitable Double-Down monstrosity will one day seem totally normal and may even be casually referred to by the populace as a 'sandwich.'


Prediction #6:
Drug addicts will soon comprise an overwhelming majority of the population, but it will not be as cool as you think because they will be using the wrong kind of drugs.


Prediction #7:
Despite the efforts of far too many losers, jorts will never become cool.


Prediction #8:
After he breaks up with Bar Rafaeli, Leonardo DiCaprio will for some reason date another devastatingly delectable supermodel and Bar--not missing a beat, cheeky bird--will immediately join me in the hot tub in my dreams.


Prediction #9:
The Republicans will win some elections and lose others, as will the Democrats; afterward, everything will remain pretty much the same.


Prediction #10:
It won't take long for the ballooning income disparity in America to result in a fully-formed, third-world, two-class nation and a bloody revolution that will ultimately fix nothing.



Well, there you have it, commoners without truly enlightened vision! Tune in next time I randomly make predictions while sitting on the toilet in the men's room at a highway rest stop, stance set to 'wide,' patiently waiting for some ass before I go home to my loving wife and kids for pasketti and meatbulbs night.

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Missing the Boat: By the Numbers

A cell phone company in Bulgaria supposedly suspended (five years ago?) the number 0888 888 888 because the last three people who used it have all died.

Sounds like an eerie coincidence, right? There must be voodoo at work, right?

Well, here is a brief profile of the last three people assigned this mobile number, courtesy of the Telegraph:

1. The first owner Vladimir Grashnov – the former CEO of Bulgarian mobile phone company Mobitel which issued the number – died of cancer in 2001 aged just 48.

2. The number then passed to Bulgarian mafia boss, Konstantin Dimitrov, who was gunned down in 2003 by a lone assassin in the Netherlands during a trip to inspect his £500 million drug smuggling empire. Dimitrov, who died aged 31, had the mobile with him when he was shot while eating out with a model. [You kinda wish 'with' wasn't there, right? Me, too. -Ed.] Russian mafia bosses – jealous of his drug smuggling operation – were said to have been behind the killing.

3. The phone number then passed to Konstantin Dishliev, a crooked businessman, who was gunned down outside an Indian restaurant in Bulgaria's capital Sofia after taking over the jinxed line. Dishliev, an estate agent, had secretly been running a massive cocaine trafficking operation before his assassination in 2005. He died after £130 million of the drug was intercepted by police on its way into the country from Colombia.

Hmm. So...some 48-year-old guy died of cancer...no big deal there...two criminals were shot dead...no big deal there, either...three rich people wanted the only Bulgarian vanity mobile number that consists of the same digit...ditto...snore...

Call me crazy, but I find the fact that two nine-figure international drug traffickers were both thriving in Bulgaria far more fascinating than this whole telephone-number thing.

The GDP of the entire nation is only $45.9 billion, after all (by contrast, the US GDP is $14 trillion). Assuming Dishliev's operation was about triple that last bust (it could well have been more), these two drug smugglers alone accounted for $1.27 billion--or 2.8% of Bulgaria's GDP.

That is the equivalent of two men in the United States independently running drug empires worth a combined $39.2 billion, or roughly the entire GDP of Bulgaria.


To give you an even better perspective on that number, when the DEA dropped in on Pablo Escobar's secret cocaine factory in the jungles of Colombia in 1984, they seized 14 tons of cocaine--worth only $1 billion. At their peak, the entire Medellin Cartel was only making $25 billion a year.

The bottom line here? Who knows. Selling drugs is lucrative? Don't carry a cell phone?

Oh, wait--I know:

If you are an illicit captain of industry in a small European nation and worth a staggering sum of money, you should probably travel with a grip of bodyguards in a fleet of bulletproof Mercedes sedans.

Also, you should avoid having a phone number that is so easy for people to remember (or perhaps take a page out of Stringer Bell's book and avoid phones altogether); aren't you supposed to be minting money in the shadows?

And, while you're at it, what with those crafty Russians and their penchant for poisons, you should probably hire a food taster. May I recommend a voicebox-less Carrot Top? I'd love for somebody to take that asshole off our hands...

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Coffee, Booze, or Benzedrine?

I guess it depends on what you're writing, what kind of chemistry you got goin' on in your body naturally--but what is most interesting about the list below is how unsurprising it is that so many writers depend/ed on some kind of drug in order to be productive.

Believe me, I can relate--if you knew how many horse tranquilizers I was snorting every day, your puny little unenlightened mind would explode.

(courtesy Lapham's Quarterly)

Most of these associations are not terribly surprising, but Elizabeth Barrett Browning on laudanum? That one caught me off guard.

Good for her.

Bad for us:

Until the 20th century, laudanum was available over-the-counter, despite the fact that it contains opium, morphine, and codeine. Today, only infants born to heroin addicts or people with Guinness-record diarrhea can get permission to have a taste of that bitter delight.

Even more reason to try that muy picante salsa...


Dessert:
Much like laudanum, Benzedrine sounds like it was a whole lotta fun as long as you didn't know what it was doing to you in the long run...

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Fateful Urination

I think there are more pictures of cats on the internet than naked women.
Anybody want to count for me?

Once upon a time, back when I was living with my friend Pierre, I was chasing a girl named Cat.

Pierre and I were supposed to meet up with Cat and her friend Robin (yes, they are a superhero team) at a Sigur Ros show at the Riviera Theater in Chicago, not long after I met Cat while working on a McDonald's Diner commercial shoot in the southern tip of Indiana (aka Fattown, where all the fast-food companies test-market new products).

I got back from work later than expected that evening, Pierre and I pounded some drinks, and we took off for the show. We were running late, had trouble finding parking, quickly took some puffs from Pierre's trusty inhaler, and speed-walked toward the theater.

After only a few blocks, Pierre and I both had to piss so badly that we didn't feel we could make it the remaining two blocks, much less wait in any line that might have formed at the theater. We noticed a dark alleyway nearby and did our business.


Well, it wasn't exactly an alley, more like a dead-end sort-of alley in between a couple buildings that formed a U-shape. That's an important detail because, as soon as I zipped up, a car came barreling into this 'alley' and trapped us, temporarily blinding us with its headlights.

It was the cops.

'Shit,' I thought. 'Am I gonna get a ticket for public urination? Nah...they don't really do that...'

The two cops leaped out of the car as I, for some reason, tried to casually squeeze past the passenger door as it opened, as if they were there for somebody else.

"Where do you think you're going?"
"We're late for a show..."
"Not so fast. What are you guys doing back here?"
"Pissing."
"You know I could give you a ticket for that."

I just looked at him, as if to say, 'I bet you won't.' His partner spoke up.

"Alright, hands on the hood."

Pierre and I put our hands on the hood of the idling cruiser and I got really freaked out because Pierre had a bag of weed and a one-hitter on him.


The driver shined a flashlight on us as his partner frisked me and found nothing. He searched Pierre and found...nothing.

Huh?

As if reading my mind, the cops shared a confused look.

"Alright, stay right there. I'm gonna run your IDs."

He ran them and nothing came up. Layers of confusion.

"You know this alley is the number one spot in the city for dealing heroin."
"No, I didn't..."
"Well, now you do."
"You're free to go, but use a toilet next time or we'll write you up."
"Okay."

The disappointed cops climbed back inside their car and peeled away. Our hearts dropped back into place and we hauled-ass around the corner and down the street.

"Shit, that was scary."
"Yeah."
"I thought you had the weed on you that whole time. Where'd you put it?"
"In your glovebox."
"Damn, man--thank God. I was freakin' out."
"I don't think I'm high anymore."
"I sure am. I can't believe I tried to walk away from them..."

We laughed and headed into the theater, where the show had not only started, but Sigur Ros were already onstage.

The crowd was exactly what you would imagine--indie hipsters in their 20s and 30s--but instead of milling about and chugging beers, they were staring unblinkingly into the void, hands at their sides, entranced by the lead singer's lyrical made-up language, Hopelandic.


As we made our way through the sardine-packed, standing-room-only crowd and I searched the dark room for Cat--a girl I had only seen in person a few times before--I felt like an intruder at a funeral for the King of Sweden or something.

The annoyed glares from audience members may have been withering, and the search may have taken way longer than it should have, but at least we had a killer story to help break the ice with a coupla foxes when we finally found them.

The night certainly could have turned out far worse...

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Okay, I think that's enough now, chicos...

You've all heard about the escalating drug-related violence down in Mexico the past couple years, but do you have any idea how bad it really is these days? Last year, there were over 6,500 murders; the other day, 69 people were killed in Mexico.

It gets worse:

Last week a victim's face was peeled from his skull and sewn onto a soccer ball. On Monday, prosecutors in Culiacan identified the remains of 41-year-old former police officer divided into two separate ice chests.

(courtesy HuffPo)

What?! They sewed his face to a soccer ball?!!

I think it's high time we send Steven Seagal and Chuck Norris down Mexico-way to redeem themselves by fighting the good fight against these megalomaniacal asshole drug lords.

And if they don't make it out alive? I'm okay with that.

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Why Is Cameron Douglas So Ugly?

You know you're really something special when your freaky father or 92 year-old walking corpse of a grandfather are easier on the eyes.

No wonder the guy fell into the notoriously dead-end world of bath salts...

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The Education of Goodtime Charlie

For those of you concerned about the accuracy of your Old World period-pieces:

1492----Rodrigo de Jerez and Luis de Torres, in Cuba searching for the Khan of Cathay (China), are credited with first observing smoking. They reported that the natives wrapped dried tobacco leaves in palm or maize "in the manner of a musket formed of paper." After lighting one end, they commenced "drinking" the smoke through the other. Jerez became a confirmed smoker, and is thought to be the first outside of the Americas. He brought the habit back to his hometown, but the smoke billowing from his mouth and nose so frightened his neighbors he was imprisoned by the holy inquisitors for 7 years. By the time he was released, smoking was a Spanish craze. (source: The Tobacco Timeline)

So please don't show any medieval knights smoking cheroots, Roman soldiers huffing opium, etc.


Incidentally, not only was the tobacco plant only native to the Americas, but so was the idea of smoking.

Although opium was a huge trade in the ancient Western world, its devotees chewed it or drank the juice of the poppy seed, rather than smoking it.

Marijuana was also harvested and either chewed or used for clothing/rope. Only one group of people, the Scythians--known for their gratuitous use of scythes and penchant for steam baths--actually burned marijuana and inhaled it.

Nobody thought of smoking opium--a far more addictive manner of ingestion--or marijuana until Spanish sailors brought a New World pipe to China.

Huh. Thanks, Internet!

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Whatever Happened to A Fifth Chance?

Redmond O'Neal is just a victim. Why is everybody always so up on his shit? Can't we just leave him alone and let him do whatever stupid shit he wants to do? God!

Poor kid never had a chance in life...

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That's A Lot of Drugs

As part of the federal and (certain) state governments' ongoing, futile, and fantastically financially wasteful assault on soft drug use in the United States, 194 Phish fans were arrested this past weekend at one of the initial shows of their reunion tour.

$1.2 million worth of drugs were seized, along with $68,000 in cash.

I can't even imagine how 194 people were carrying $1.2 million worth of drugs on them, especially considering most people were probably only buying/selling weed and mushrooms (or do people snort cocaine at Phish shows now, for some strange reason?)

Something tells me the police the Hampton Police Department is going to have the best party in the county this weekend...

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"Cuz I'm Afraid of WORMS, Roxanne! Worms!"

How badly do you want to lose that gut, Mr./Ms?
Feeling adventurous?

(courtesy of Harper's)

And here is a link to the original website FAQ page where the excerpt came from.
Enjoy!
And don't do anything I wouldn't do...

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Will the Real Michael Phelps Story Please Stand Up?

We've all heard by now about Michael Phelps smoking weed. We've all heard the speculation about whether or not he would lose his endorsements, how Kellogg's ultimately dropped him as a sponsor, how USA Swimming suspended him for three worthless months, etc.

But who really gives a shit about that? I'm sure Michael Phelps doesn't even give a shit--he's already a multi-millionaire, he's hands-down the greatest swimmer in history, he's famous, and he could probably sweep the next Olympics if he feels like it.

I find it alarming that all the news outlets are missing the real story here, the fascinating story: who the hell took that picture of him kissing a bong?

Michael Phelps is a pretty dumb kid. I mean, he is hardly able to string a sentence together in every interview I've ever seen with him. He guffaws. He smiles blankly. He might as well be some sort of retarded swimming savant (probably is). But not even Michael Phelps is so dumb as to smoke weed in front of a bunch of strangers.

Which implies that whomever took that picture and then sold it was probably a friend of his, or a friend of a friend, who was probably one of four or five people in the room that night.

Why is this greedy chump not exposed? Who is hiding him? The honorable British tabloid that purchased the photo? Phelps? How much did the tabloid pay for the photo?

This seems a much more interesting story than whether or not a millionaire will lose a few future millions. Why is nobody covering this angle? And why is marijuana use so much more serious in the eyes of journalists than his underage DUI after the last Olympics?

Breaker: New Development in the Case -- Rogue Sheriff is on the loose.

Is it really possible to arrest somebody for drug use without actually catching the person doing it/holding it/buying it? Is South Carolina run by the Taliban?

So many questions, so few answers...

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