I Smoke crack Video

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I’m sure you remember that, on this exact date last year, I helped our nation celebrate its independence with an American-as-apple-pie tale about my years spent hopelessly addicted to over-the-counter cough syrup.

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It’s a psychologically terrifying party in a box!

As we all know, summer is the season for sequels, and who am I to disappoint? Of course, a completely faithful sequel to last year’s triumph of projectile vomiting and passing out in bathrooms would require a renewed addiction to dextromethorphan, which I don’t currently have the stomach or available public restroom space at work to accommodate. Instead, you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. Let’s talk about what it’s like to smoke crack.

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I touch on that very subject on this week’s Unpopular Opinion podcast .

. where I’m joined by comic Greg Santos, one half of the adorable comedy duo Tunguska Yacht Club; and Brett Rader, the Mayor of Podcast City and frequent attendee of drug-fueled jam band orgies in the woods of Tennessee. We tackle one of the bigger myths first.

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I’m sure the main detail on everyone’s mind is how, exactly, I ended up smoking crack in the first place. I mean, this is the kind of drug that requires a trip to the Rob Ford side of town, right? Unless you live there, avoiding open air crack dens can be quite simple. The story starts, like so many others, at a shitty job.

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Specifically, I was working overnights at a grocery store, smashing boxes in a human-sized trash compactor. Easily the most boring job I ever loved. Anyone who gripes about making a living throwing boxes in a machine that eats them isn’t living life at all.

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Well, I was indoors, so .

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Sure, I was broke, but the work was easy and the co-workers at any overnight job are always good for expert-level people watching, if nothing else. My kooky journey into retail foodstuffs went awry when I met Neil, which is probably not his real name, but no one’s ever gonna know for sure outside of myself and Neil, huh?

Anyway, I lived in Madison, Wisconsin at the time. A quirky town notable for having the most problematically named automatic teller machines in the nation.

I’d recently relocated there from my hometown of Peoria, Illinois, which is about a three-hour drive from Madison. It was a culture shock only in that their main college had a football team and ours did not.

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But we had Hersey Hawkins, motherfuckers!

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For Neil, it was a different story. He moved from somewhere in Connecticut, and not small town Connecticut. Nor was it A Haunting In Connecticut Connecticut, and certainly not A Haunting In Connecticut 2 Connecticut, because that Connecticut was actually Georgia.

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No, he moved from the part of Connecticut that sometimes pops up in episodes of The Wire or Sopranos, because out-of-state killings are the «sitcom family takes a road trip to Six Flags» of gritty crime dramas.

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So, that’s where Neil lived before relocating — not to Madison, but to a tiny town about 30 minutes away that will remain nameless. It was there that poor Neil promptly lost his mind. Don’t get me wrong, there wasn’t much to lose in the first place. Neil was a character. He was Italian. Very Italian. Famous video game franchise Italian. Or Saturday Night Fever if everyone dressed sloppy and no one could dance. I’m doing a lot of painting here, I hope it’s doing something for you. Jersey Shore without the abs. Can we move on?

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Chef Boyardee if he never sold out.

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Neil moved to Wisconsin for love. He met a girl who, for reasons we’ll probably never understand, was vacationing in the very shithole section of Connecticut he called home when, inexplicably, the two hit it off. In short order, he picked up his belongings and moved to Wisconsin and in with her family. It’s at this point that Neil realized something unsettling. His new wife’s family was religious. Super religious. Not church-every-Sunday religious; church-every-day religious. Neil, as you might have already gathered, was not. As a result, he treated his 40 hours per week away from home more like a prisoner on work release than anything.

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«Dude, this floor is softer than my bunk!»

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He loved being at work, because it meant he was free of the shackles of faith. Also, working overnights in a grocery store with a vast, empty parking lot attached to it allows for plenty of opportunities to get away with shit, and by that I mean smoke drugs. Marijuana, actually, back in the days when doing that in public in the Midwest was neither more nor less frowned upon than smash and grab jewelry store robbery.

Because Neil treated every Sunday as an excuse to cook his borderline-Quaker family a gigantic Italian feast, I’d often accompany him to church, always stoned. One week, the sermon was about drugs. I got saved the next week. It was a nondenominational church that believes that once you’re saved, nothing can undo it. So I’m going to heaven, and I’m killing every one of you motherfuckers that disagrees with me. «It’s in the book,» as the church would say, not knowing that Neil and I would use that same answer when one asked the other if they’d like to go smoke a cigarette.

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«C’mon, we’ll be doing God’s work!»

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It didn’t take long for this tale of bromance, like so many others, to get really fucking weird. One morning after work, instead of driving home, Neil asked if I’d like to come hang out at a motel with him. Call it a product of my upbringing, but this did not trigger a single rape alarm in my head, because I knew Neil meant something else entirely. Neil wanted to smoke crack. I didn’t, but Neil didn’t want to be alone and offered to buy breakfast and weed. The motel room having cable was a bonus as well, which is an unspeakably sad thing to have to say, no matter what the decade.

Wikipedia

Especially this one.

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So, I went along, solely as moral support. If you’ve kept up with my output here at Cracked, you won’t be at all surprised to know that curiosity got the better of me. I was soon inquiring as to how I could be a part of the festivities. The federal government should find a way to plaster Neil’s initial response on the side of every crack vial in the nation:

«I wouldn’t even be your bro if I shared this with you, bro.»

Of course, people with the power to resist suggestion and people who smoke crack don’t tend to run in the same circles, so soon enough I copped to a plea deal where Neil sprinkled a little bit of crack into a joint (that’s a doobie to you, kids) for me. Neil, for the record, smoked his out of the empty carcass of an Absolut vodka mini bottle, outfitted with an aluminum foil screen.

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This doesn’t seem important, but it will be later. For now, let’s get to what you really want to know: How did it feel?

To put it bluntly . it felt great? That question mark is there because a lot of things in this world feel great, but crack is supposed to feel the greatest. It didn’t, and as it turned out, that was because of how I smoked it. Discriminating crack smokers turn up their noses at such sophomoric tomfoolery. I’ll get into this in a bit more detail shortly, but for now, let’s circle back to a very important point.

As stated earlier, smoking crack for the first time still felt great. It’s hard to put a sensation into words, but this might at least give you an idea of what I was dealing with.

Remember I said Neil bought food? I ordered a burger. We got to the room, Neil immediately set to preparing his crack machine, but only after hastily preparing my power joint and tossing it my way. Not wanting to be the only person not high on crack in the room, I immediately lit up. Again, I cannot put into words how good it felt. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was good, and that emphasis is there for a reason.

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At least this good, but probably times ten.