Are you people on drugs?
Dear Anonymous Coward,
The short answer to your query is: Yes. Some of us are on drugs. Rob partakes of the marijuana—though at a greatly reduced rate compared to previous fiscal years, which one presumes must indicate a general decrease in the severity of his presuméd glaucoma and Fong disease. Devo, my mechanic and engineer, is on an experimental medication that will rid him of pinworms and plantar warts. Molly, my Gal Friday, is on "the pill," though she refuses to elaborate as to exactly which pill this is. Judging by the whispered tone and use of the articular the it can be assumed this pill veritably explodes with notoriety, that its name should drip from one's tongue, that the name of this pill should fill my mind like a hand into a glove, but alas I do not know which pill she refers to. Googling "pill" gives far, far too many results. Based on statistically significant recurrence among these google listings, one presumes the pill must be the "VI@GRA!!1!"
My personal theory is that it is treatment for flatulence.
My CPA, Leeks, is on blood thinners and hypertension medication. A thick pulpy blood the consistency of molasses is apparently a common ailment that befalls accountants, money counters, coin mumblers, and number jugglers like our Mr. Leeks.
Jarwaun takes chewable children's vitamins and asthma medications delivered via inhaler. Meanwhile Claude—our best francophonic chimpanzee—is on a potent cocktail of anti-psychotics, anti-convulsives, pro-depressants, and a poultice that keeps kuru at bay.
I am on no less than seven medications for a variety of ailments that are associated with a benthic creature like myself spending his life in confinement in artificial conditions, eating an excess of terriers and pączki. These ailments include, but are not limited to: Swimmer's Tentacle, Drowsy Beak, Walker's Tentacle, Restless Beak Syndrome, Scarny, Dockworker's Shinbone, and Ploppers Lament.
I became aware of the medicines my staff and associates consume prior to a freelance assignment I partook of this week. You see, dear readers, times have been tough at the compound. Our revenue streams have become trickles, and many are technically now creeks, as they are highly seasonal. Under cover of night I have instructed Leeks to quietly sell off the assets we no longer need: Toilet seats, shoe leather, chairs, Jarwaun's forgotten compact discuses and textbooks, Molly's abandoned socks—which have fetched fair prices on the Japanese vending market—et cetera. But it has not been enough. I have been forced to take up work outside of the "box," as they say, my box being both broad and deep, and largely comprising Advice and Works Editorial, Writing and Insurrections.
On the Craigs' List—so called, I assume—because it was original limited to users named Craig—I found work writing and editing the labels and literature associated with medicines for a man named "Craig Mbutu Johnson, Esq." of "Official Federal Drug Manufactory USA 100%, LLC." As an aside, Craig is also looking for representatives to help him in the transfer of a large sum of US dollars which came into his possession upon the demise of a relative of mine, my heretofore long-lost aunt Matilda Squid. I will, of course, keep my readers informred and abreast of developments in this most fortunate turn of fiduciary developments.
In any event, to the work at hand: Based on my long experience as an advice columnist with a valid checking account, I was invited to meet for a job interview. Under the light of the Supermoon I sauntered forth in my velocitating mechano-suit and met a man who smelled of almonds and cummin in the parking lot of the Meijer Super Store at 13 Mile and Little Mac road. We met at aisle L, stall 45, beside a miniature van with the Insane Clown Posse painted on the side in a dramatic mural reminiscent of The Last Supper, albeit a Last Supper in a Universe in which the Savior is one Violent J, his entire platoon of disciples iterations of Shaggy 2 Dope, and where-in the Christ is to be executed via electric chair while eating a live orphan girl. The man smelling of nuts and spices handed me a slip of paper with a number and letter upon it. These indicated another parking spot in the Meijer's vast sea of autos. In this spot I discovered a late model Ford Explorer with no tires, in the rear seat of which rested a hard-sided powder-blue suitcase containing my source materials for the writing.
Why such an elaborate procedure? I do not know. When I looked about, my new employer's representatives had fled for other appointments.
The job itself involved taking the findings of sun-dried scientists and dissolute doctors—a mishmash of studies and theories and case files—and boiling the data like so much fruit until only a thick jam of helpful consumer information remained as the precipitate. My wonderful and complex mind was to be loaned out as a block box, crunching hundreds of pages of notes from human trials in Botswana, Delhi, rural British Colombia, and Baltimore.
I found the work description-defyingly dull. It was as if a madman had entered every room afore me and painted it gray and filled it with the odor of a rental car establishment entirely staffed by very uninteresting people obliged, for unclear reasons, to scrupulously describe their boredom in brief sentences without metaphor, simile, or undue use of modifiers. In my boredom I grew churlish and lashed out. Below please find three labels I did write for medicinal prescriptions. I have changed the name of the drugs to preserve myself from lawsuit and legal squabble.
Talk to your doctor about the risks of taking Farkodropsamide.
Consult your physician before taking Happy Orange Pill.
Ask your doctor if Mercilessly Beating a Captive is right for you.
Having learned what goes into making drugs, Dear Readers, I can assure you with all my varied hearts that I will stay off them for the rest of my days—apart from my seven pills, Xanax, non-scheduled synthetic cannabinoids, and the delicious blood of a virginal, orphanaed terrier-filled pączki.
The Giant Squid
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