No Hope for the Twisted

Managing bands full of posers like you makes it hard for an honest base head to rub out a dollar from the glass teat called "showbiz". I've had to take part time jobs at different massage parlors, bath houses, coke dens, drug warehouses, the trash can behind Amoeba Music, etc. You're thinking, "Why would anyone hire a smack-fiend who ties off over the nearest sink every 16 minutes?" One word: fucking skills!

Take my last job at the taco cart that I stole from some guy on Cienaga. Did you know that most fast food places have a secret menu? Take the white trash pill-head's den known to you fucks as In-N-Out Burger. Now, I had my own version: if you knew how to order (i.e. by using your mouth) you could get a coke-rolled churro, cup full of pure mescaline on ice, heroin-soaked taco, or a tortilla filled with various pills that I tried to pass off as a burrito. It was all part of my grand dream of mixing Mexican food with a cut-rate "dispensary" made out of my leavings from my latest bender--hey, it was big with grade schoolers (although not so big with that undercover cop).

Three months and 10 jugs of prison hooch later and I'm ready to go back to the honest life of promising burnouts 7 PM timeslots at the loading dock of Macy's in Culver City. Can't an honest entrepreneur foist his mind-altering chemicals on people without The Man getting all bent over it?!