Sucrose: The New Cocain
I'm sitting alone, baby-sitting two satellite-fed radio stations on a nasty hell-fire Sunday afternoon, cooking cheap scag sugar on a bent spoon over a Zippo lighter, trying to make caramel. Good sugar is a hard item to come by in this fetid scum vat of a coast town. It's even harder this time of year, especially with no references. The war on drugs has gone too far and the populaces here are taking it way too seriously.
Everywhere I go its Lite this, Low-cal that, Nutrasweet, saccharin, and stepped-on corn sweeteners. I have a genuine NEED for the real shit, dammit. It's time, to come out of retirement and self-imposed exile in this pseudo-Aryan-homeland, take a large trawler (if not by guile then by brutal savagery) and make a high speed run over to the islands. Diesel turbines screaming in overdrive, driving that wallowing seventy-footer like a rabid manta, straight for the nearest cane field. I'll beach that fucker on the rocks like a spent, wasted whale and be over the high side with a sharp knife, cutting and consuming the blessed elixir to the point of my teeth rotting out of my head, adrenaline rushes twitching and my spasti-babbling self all the way to paradise.
No. No going back. This will definitely be a one-way gig. There is no possible way a person can recover from an ordeal like this. The only thing that can happen is a merciful bullet to your head. You can't be prosecuted because a man that far gone in the depths of a raw uncut sugar binge can't be subdued, tolerated or reasoned with. After Nirvana, what's next? Video religion? I hardly think that the good people of America are ready for an extremely nervous twitching monster on their televisions, preaching from the Bronner's label, begging for mercy, cash, and pure maple syrup, while openly weeping, slapping at BUGS and promising salvation.
I know I couldn't witness that horrible spectacle without feeling some mild form of discomfort. The bile rises just at the mental picture. JESUS. It's fucking scary. But really, what are the alternatives? Can I repent? I have tried several times. Slowly forsaking all others for Cap'n Crunch and Frosted Flakes, only four heaping spoonfuls in each cup of coffee. I make it as far as I can, but then THEY come back. Flies as big as buzzards perched on the ceiling, rubbing their arms together. Then the eyeballs. Everywhere. Watching. Not blinking. I hate them. Usually, the shaking starts when the sweating stops. At that point, I have no choice but to mainline raw clover honey. No easy feat either: the needle's too small. I have to use a converted grease gun and jab right into the jugular. Thank god for turtle-neck shirts.
I shut down the station feeling utterly depressed. I'm jonesing for a Wendy's Frosty with sweet tune of “Candy Man” echoing in my head.
Everywhere I go its Lite this, Low-cal that, Nutrasweet, saccharin, and stepped-on corn sweeteners. I have a genuine NEED for the real shit, dammit. It's time, to come out of retirement and self-imposed exile in this pseudo-Aryan-homeland, take a large trawler (if not by guile then by brutal savagery) and make a high speed run over to the islands. Diesel turbines screaming in overdrive, driving that wallowing seventy-footer like a rabid manta, straight for the nearest cane field. I'll beach that fucker on the rocks like a spent, wasted whale and be over the high side with a sharp knife, cutting and consuming the blessed elixir to the point of my teeth rotting out of my head, adrenaline rushes twitching and my spasti-babbling self all the way to paradise.
No. No going back. This will definitely be a one-way gig. There is no possible way a person can recover from an ordeal like this. The only thing that can happen is a merciful bullet to your head. You can't be prosecuted because a man that far gone in the depths of a raw uncut sugar binge can't be subdued, tolerated or reasoned with. After Nirvana, what's next? Video religion? I hardly think that the good people of America are ready for an extremely nervous twitching monster on their televisions, preaching from the Bronner's label, begging for mercy, cash, and pure maple syrup, while openly weeping, slapping at BUGS and promising salvation.
I know I couldn't witness that horrible spectacle without feeling some mild form of discomfort. The bile rises just at the mental picture. JESUS. It's fucking scary. But really, what are the alternatives? Can I repent? I have tried several times. Slowly forsaking all others for Cap'n Crunch and Frosted Flakes, only four heaping spoonfuls in each cup of coffee. I make it as far as I can, but then THEY come back. Flies as big as buzzards perched on the ceiling, rubbing their arms together. Then the eyeballs. Everywhere. Watching. Not blinking. I hate them. Usually, the shaking starts when the sweating stops. At that point, I have no choice but to mainline raw clover honey. No easy feat either: the needle's too small. I have to use a converted grease gun and jab right into the jugular. Thank god for turtle-neck shirts.
I shut down the station feeling utterly depressed. I'm jonesing for a Wendy's Frosty with sweet tune of “Candy Man” echoing in my head.