To all producers, traffickers, and users of methamphetamine,
I’ve been feeling a bit crummy these past few days. The medicines I have around the house just haven’t been cutting it, and Irish Woman is growing tired of listening to me cough through the night. On the way home with Boo tonight, I decided to visit my local pharmacy to get something to help the situation. I looked through the shelves of ‘alternatives’ to pseudoephedrine, and eventually found the card for the medicine I wanted. Like a good sheep, I took one of them, grabbed some cough drops, and headed over to the pharmacists service window.
After presenting the young man behind the counter with the card, my driver’s license, birth certificate (not Hawaiian), blood and hair sample, fingerprint, and retinal eye scan, I then signed a pledge to not turn my cold medicine into your intoxicant of choice, paid for my purchase, and headed out of the store. I noticed that the item I bought was on sale, and would have stocked up for the upcoming cold and flu season, but didn’t because I didn’t know if doing so was going to bring black clad men with guns to my door at inopportune times.
Basically, what should have been a 30 second transaction turned into a 10 minute exercise in “spot the methhead” for the pharmacist and an exercise in being suspected of being a criminal for me.
So to all of you tweaking bastards out there, let me say this:
If I ever get my hands on any of you snivelling pieces of dirt, I am going to lock you in a running cement mixer filled with thumb tacks and rubbing alcohol. Then I’m going to smother you to death in a bag full of my used tissues and throw your body in the septic tank of the local chili restaurant. I would consider feeding your worthless carcass to some pigs, but I have too much respect for the swine and their sty to do that.
I’ve been using pseudoephedrine responsibly as a cold medicine since I was a teenager, and you all have ruined that for me. Now, I have to be treated like a suspect in order to not have a runny nose and a nagging cough. I hope you’re happy, you worthless, in-bred, bucktoothed wastes of good gametes. I hope that your lives and deaths are nasty, brutish, and protracted. I hope that as you die, the last thing your hear in this world is the sound of your mother coughing and sneezing because you had to get high and she can’t get good medicine over the counter anymore.
Respectfully and congestedly yours,
DaddyBear













