7 May 2006
... the improvement of mankind rests upon nothing so essentially as upon the habitual practice of candour, frankness and sincerity.
I had the good fortune to have my sister Kitty for a neighbour for a couple years. That was in the days she was married to the laziest motherfucker on Earth. His name was Beer too. I liked Beer; it is not my nature but there are so many lazy motherfuckers on this planet of the doomed it must be a virtuous state to sit around watching cartoons all day dreaming up scams to make money with the least effort possible.
Beer always had some great hash on hand. In the days before Dope City started growing the world's best marijuana, having a neighbour with a good hash connection was convenient as knowing a wood chipper salesman if you are Willie Picton.
Beer would phone me up sometimes. "Hey Beer you got to come over and see this."
Next door on his pool table would be a pound of Afghan hash, black as a pint of Guinness, every bit as tasty and powerful as a warlord. The gold stamp of the Afghan Rebels was like a quality guarantee from Sears. It is too bad religion has screwed with the brains of the mountain rebels so badly. Those guys know their dope inside out.
My neice was a pre-schooler in those days. The sparkly stamp of the Afghan Rebels looked like Christmas to her. She was such a great little kid; always ready to socialize when Beer and Kitty had people over. When she grew up she had no taste for dope - not like the children brought up sheltered and lied to and given every motherfucking thing they want.
One day Beer came home with a couple of dogs. They were full grown. I never asked where he got them. Beer kept them under his small porch because the yard was not fenced. He fed them cat food. It was very sad. One of the dogs was named Strangler. I told Sonja, "That motherfucking Beer knows nothing about dogs." Strangler escaped her pen a time or two but Beer found her and brought her back. I told Sonja, "The next time Strangler breaks out I'm going to find her and keep her here."
When she next escaped I jumped into the ripped fabric of my beater's driver's seat and went looking for her. I opened the back door of my car and told her, "Get in Strangler you poor thing." That's how I got Strangler. I think Beer had intended to sell her but I think Kitty told him I would bust him up if he put up a fuss.
Lots of people over the years stopped me and accused me of walking a dog they had stolen from them. They were always very aggressive questioning me about Strangler. "That's my fucking dog asshole." Purebred dogs look very much alike. I asked them the circumstances of their dog being stolen. None of their stories came close to matching the time when Beer brought Strangler to his place so I never did give her up.
Kitty eventually dumped Beer and hooked up with Hunky Z. Hunky never has any fucking hash but his collection of ska and Ukrainian folk songs made for some fun parties.