My descent into drug-fueled inanity
It may surprise anyone who's read my column that I have never done illegal drugs. This probably also comes as a surprise to any neighbor who has seen me standing shirtless on my porch and screaming about aliens in my colon.
I've tried a recreational drug only once in my life, and it involved a drug that's currently still legal in Minnesota called salvia. Not to be confused with saliva, although I'm told there's a lot of drooling involved, at least if you do it right.
I, of course, could not do it right. Apparently, the best method of salvia ingestion is to smoke it. Unfortunately, I have a built-in defense against sucking down toxic smoke and that defense is what I affectionately call "the retchies."
However, I learned from the Most Trusted Name in News — i.e. a stoner's internet blog — that the drug could be taken orally. And I am not one to be put off by some silly writing on the bag that reads, "Warning: Not to be taken orally."
But oral consumption was also quickly ruled out, as tasting even a pinch of salvia is like licking the bottom of a dirty cat box. I had to lick the cat box several times to confirm this, so go ahead and take my word for it.
Finally, I read that it could be made into a tea. And it probably can, by somebody who is good at polishing horse droppings. For me, the tea tasted like battery acid that had been strained through Brett Favre's used sweat socks. Again, don't ask questions about my testing methods.
Anyway, I gave the drink my best shot, holding my nose while I drank it and trying not to gag. It's similar to the procedure I follow when I read the president's Twitter account.
Salvia is supposed to be a hallucinogen, but advocates of the drug swear it's "not for recreational purposes." Yeah, sure. It's just for those moments when you really, really need — strictly for medical purposes, mind you — to see flying turtles with the face of Jeff Goldblum.
So I drank as much of the tea as I could and then stared at the wall, awaiting some grand vision. Unfortunately, my grand vision was blocked by some leftover pizza that had been stuck to the wall since Thursday.
But then, at last, I saw things. Strange, wonderful things. I saw a can opener. A refrigerator. A copy of the latest issue of Hooters. Brett Favre's used sweat sock. Granted, these are things that are often found in my kitchen, but you get the idea.
And then the madness began. I quickly forced a woman to play fast jazz music, before I forced myself on her, shot her when she resisted and was sent away to a mental asylum for the rest of my life.
Wait. Sorry, that was the plot from the 1936 exploitation film, "Reefer Madness." In fact, all I got was a case of the retchies.
So my one attempt at achieving oneness with the universe ended in a strike-out. Now when I text the universe, "I love you," it just texts back, "'K."
Would I ever attempt harder drugs? Absolutely not. I may need extra painkillers to get through the Trump administration, but I'm not crazy. Besides, the aliens in my colon would never forgive me.