I was driving to work the other day and there was a big-assed bee in the car. I usually go in sort of early with not much traffic and it’s a good thing because I was all over the road. It’s buzzing me like that plane in North by Northwest and I’m still half asleep and it’s just really scary to me. I totally get why this is.


I’ve been stung by a bee lots of times and it hurts like a bitch. I’ve been in a few car wrecks and have never gotten hurt in the least. So, if you go by my completely dumbass logic, getting stung by a bee is far worse than having a car accident, like way worse. I suppose it’s even scarier if you combine the possibility of both, but still, the bee is way scarier to me.

Anyway, I pulled over and got out of the car, but the bee just landed on the dashboard. It was apparently under the assumption that it had commandeered my vehicle and it was pretty much correct. I finally sucked it up and started waving a towel until it flew out the window. Whatever, like it could drive with those little bee arms anyway. Let’s get it on.

FINDING A NICHE, THE METHOD TO MY METH

If you want to sell something these days, it has to be sort of special, or at least give the illusion that it is special. I’d like to pretend I’m better than everyone else when it comes to this, but sadly I am not. Here’s an example. I’m a guy who really enjoys a fine Scotch, not all the time, but enough to probably be labeled a problem drinker by some people.

In all honesty, I’m perfectly fine drinking Johnnie Walker Red or even Dewar’s, but that doesn’t keep me from buying a more expensive bottle of single malt Scotch on a pretty regular basis. This single malt doesn’t necessarily get me drunker than the regular Scotch, but for some reason I think I enjoy it far more than I actually do. Yes, the first few sips are just magnificent, but by the time I manage to knock back three or four glasses I’m fairly sure I couldn’t tell much of a difference. That’s not really saying that much since oftentimes when I’m about to be finished drinking I couldn’t tell the difference between Ed Asner and Kate Upton, but still.

Either way, it’s nice to have something that seems special, even if the difference eventually becomes somewhat negligible. I know a lot of folks out there are the same way with bourbons. They prefer the “small batch” method of distilling and often become very brand loyal. This leads us to my newest venture.

I’ve put 2 and 2 together and came up with 9. That’s why I’m proud to announce that I plan to begin making “small batch” meth in my garage sometime in the next month or so. Why would I focus on making meth when so many others already seem to have the market cornered? Well, let me tell you. My meth isn’t going to be for the habitual user who is just looking for a quick fix. Judging by the lack of teeth in the small towns I occasionally visit, that market appears to be pretty saturated as it is.

My new brand of meth, which will be called, “Meth-OD to the Madness,” will be a high quality form of methamphetamine with a smoky, barley-like aftertaste that will linger on your palate long after you’ve scratched all the skin off your forearms and cleaned your shower drain with a toothbrush. It’s a classy kind of meth. You won’t want to drive around town in a ’72 Impala drinking tall boys and looking for things to steal. Instead, my meth will make you want to sit down and finally read War and Peace … really, really fucking fast.

I will also add vitamins and minerals to my refining process, so I can promise the healthiest meth available south of Canada and north of South America. Yes, you will still lose your teeth, but those teeth will be guaranteed to be packed with calcium when they fall from your mouth. I also plan to introduce a version made with 5-Hour Energy for those mornings when you need just a bit more of a boost.

Yes, Meth-OD to the Madness will cost a little more, but it will be well worth it. Will you still think people are coming to kill you? Of course. It’s just that with my meth you will think the people coming to kill you are investment bankers and artisans instead of junkies with names like Cletus and Bobby Ray. The biggest adjustment to my high-class meth will be getting used to telling your butler to clean everything instead of just cleaning it yourself.

I promise that each batch will be small, special, and guaranteed to get you hooked faster than a pit bull on a pork chop. Once my business is going, I will be adding seasonal flavors to special versions of my meth. In the fall, you will notice the faint smell of burning leaves, while in the spring there will be a hint of dandelion and fresh mint in every batch.

Yes, it’s a meth so good you’ll be proud to be a junkie. Sure you’ll want to get hooked on it right away, but take your time and slowly develop the madness and addiction. There’s no reason to rush with Meth-OD to the Madness because we promise we will get you there in the classiest way possible. Look for Meth-OD to the Madness behind every Casey’s General Store in the trunk of a very nice sedan very soon. You won’t regret it … until you really regret it … and by then it’s probably too late.

A ROYAL PAIN IN THE ASS

Hey there’s a new Royal baby. What the piss? Why does anyone care in the least? The last Royal baby I cared about was George Brett. I mean, I don’t think they should take it out back and shoot it or anything, but it’s not like he’s fucking magical either. I’m sure all that “having a king” shit was cool at one time, you know, when common people really enjoyed being peasants and starving and getting all sorts of diseases, but now we live in a more refined time when common people pretend they are also rich and eat lots of terrible food and get all sorts of diseases.

EXTRAS

If I were that Marco Rubio guy, I’d be kissing Phil Collins’ ass starting right now. If he could get Phil to change the words from “Sussudio” to “Marco Rubio” for his campaign song, that would pretty much guarantee a victory. You know, because voters are so fucking smart.

It’s weird. I want to like Justin Timberlake and yet I keep stopping myself.

I have a weird feeling our Netflix queue knows what my wife likes better than I ever will.

Buona sera, senorina, kiss me goodnight.