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They asked Faulkner what’s the best job for a writer, in order to maintain a flow of day to day money and still have the time for his prose. His answer was to manage a whore house, reason being that the writer would glean material from people coming to get drunk and act bad with loose women. Further, the whore house environment would stimulate the scribe and expose him to new vernacular, resulting in better writing than can be had sitting around in some coffee house.

Well, William, I’m here to tell you that, with my pocket full of white dust in gram baggies, I am my own whore house.

How did a white boy with all his teeth fall so low, you ask? Maybe I’m unemployable, maybe I’m delusional. Maybe this, maybe that. I don’t deal maybes, motherfucker, I deal cocaine. And maybe you will too, if you read this manual. If you hate jobs and bosses. If you speak a little Spanish and carry a little gun. If you have a connection and a safe. If you aren’t a chicken shit.

Because, every night, I am forced, by dint of economic necessity to hobnob with degenerate humanity of all walks: rock stars and teachers, lawyers, doctors, and hairdressers. And sooner or later the kabuki of cocaine forces them all to admit everything. Turns out that the other side of the clock is where the richest lode of material for a writer really lives. My clients, the loquacious losers of the Gack Pack, drawn to me like moths to a blacklite, have told me every story, excuse, and routine jarred loose by truth serum they stick in their faces. So much so that I’ve achieved negative enlightenment.

I do it for us, dear reader. We’re all tired of reading the contrivances of three named bourgeoisie bitches with creative writing degrees from some tweedy east coast college. Everything that comes out of that machine reads the same. Naw, we want the raw uncut ravings of a drunk maniac dictated into motorcycle helmet while splitting lanes in K town with a headful of dust and pocket full of felonies. And that’s just what you’re getting now.

You think I could write this beautiful prose you’re reading sipping a soy latte through a straw? Hell no. To write this good you need a quiet place where you can get high, babble, wack off and scream. If you try to do any of that at cafe or college they will call the cops, I’m here to tell you.

I can confess to these crimes freely, because no one reads anything past the title anymore. But, If you have read this far maybe you want to get gooder at writing. And I’ll tell you what they didn’t tell you at your expensive writing school. It costs even more money to get good enough to compete out here in the casino.

I can afford to write shit like this because my moonlighting job will never go away. I don’t give a fuck about cunty editors bitching about how I’m scaring the away advertisers with bad language and incorrect content and run on sentences. As an outlaw, I’m free of lackey capitalism. I get to tell the truth. Because no matter what any cop, military, or rehab does, the product I distribute is heading to you now in c 147 military transports, 18 wheelers, by mail, mules, through tunnels, in coffins, submarines, launched by trebuchets, stuffed in assholes and, if you know me, on a fast vintage motorcycle.

See how fun crime is? The bonus is, if you get caught, you get to go to jail, where you’ll be in the company of great writers like Voltaire, Thoreau, Cervantes, Dostoevsky, Jack London, Ken Kesey, Malcom X and Hitler. Consider Coleridge stealing zithers for scag or Robert Louis Stevenson robbing stagecoaches to skin pop. I quote this quatrain written by Yeats after robbing a grave to buy more chloroform:

Ezra Pound on down
Evidence is found,
eating hash in jail
is better than a
degree from

Think of O. Henry hanging paper to pay for tincture of horse tranquilizer. Or how Orwell was geeked up in Paris and London. Jack was Kerouacked on so many bennies that he typed a whole crappy book in one sitting. Aldous Huxley sold acid to children. Ayn Rand was a whore. Hemingway a “felo de se.” Sartre smoked fry. Phillip K. Dick was so spun out he thought he could write. Stephen King was the “Ayatollah of Crackola” when he wrote his good shit.

You want to know why all these great writers had to commit drugs and do crime, outside of the fact that it’s fun as shit? Because to put black marks on white paper in return for green money paper is as close to alchemy as modern life allows. And alchemy is the type of wizardry which requires the adept to be mounted by the spirit.

A real writer has to win and lose and fear and hate and stay up real late and get arrested in a lime green bra because he’s trying to pick a melted bar twix out of his hair while going seventy-four miles an hour on the wrong side of the road in a snowstorm. That’s a good story. But, unless you’re Native American or forgot to eat dinner, you’ll never drunk enough to act like that without drugs.

If you don’t have enough time, money and drugs to act like a complete degenerate then you can’t hope to compete as a professional noveler or writist. People aren’t going to pay a sane, sober writer to write, mainly because they don’t pay writers anyway, and what kind of fun is sobriety and sanity if you don’t have any money? I wouldn’t read it.

Naw, girl, you got to go the distance, because getting paid for writing is like competing to be an astronaut in the NASA of Judaism. You up against smart people with trust funds. It takes the Right Stuff, which is drugs. For example, I had to take an Adderall, get butt naked, hork up a face full of dust, drink three micheladas and smoke half a joint while playing with a tazer to transcribe the mellifluous prose you run your eyes over now. The clever title required a case of whippets. None of that shit is cheap. Imagine trying to write a book!

It’s impossible for honest writer to afford enough decent drugs to write that good on a writer’s salary. Nope. You are going to have to work, unless you sell drugs. See how that works? And, you got the crime thing out of the way, too. Crime is always interesting to the reading public, plus free drugs. That’s two for one. Let me tell you, If you are going to get into writing for a living, you better get used to looking for bargains.

Because this ain’t Europe, asshole. Over here we eat our young. There’s no safety net. In America the artist is an enemy. If you fail you will be on the street, or worse, back at your parent’s house writing poetry about how you were misunderstood.

If you got a little sand in your pussy about breaking the law then drop to your knees, pray to the lord, and go home to Kansas. But If you seek to rank with the Heroes of Literature, apply the knowledge I’ve accrued as a professional criminal and member of the Writers Guild. Follow this step by step guide to turn America’s drug problem into your writing solution.


The more the better. The cops in murder cities are worried about Hillside Stranglers and gang shootings, so they have less time to worry about why you are blaring Slayer at five in the morning with really skinny chicks who have a lot of earrings in weird places.


I want to clear up some misconceptions about drugs: First off, you can’t abuse a drug, they don’t have feelings, or lawyers.

Don’t listen to anyone trying to make inanimate shit have feelings. That’s called “formification” and though formification can be fun, people who suffer from it are crazy. Like, that time you drank a whole box of fortified wine and saw impossible shit like Jim Morrison on a donkey and the word “ole” written in the sky. That was your brain trying to tell you stop huffing glue on top of that parking garage in Tijuana.

What’s good about drug induced formication is that you’re not really crazy, you’re just on too many drugs. Which you can quit at any time. Not right now, though. Those dirty little kids with Jim Morrison will cut you with the razor blades they keep in their mouths if they think you’re a cop.


No. Wait. Don’t ever mix drugs. You have to pair them. Mellow the shrill shriek of cocaine with the bass of a yellow Vicodin. Pepper in hits of hash so the world sounds like a Big Muff pedal fed through a tin foil microphone. Garnish acid with whippets to achieve that “pissing on the electric fence” feeling.

The trick to not killing yourself on drugs is, depending on time zones, hormones and barometric factors, only one red pill with no more than two or three drinks every one to three hours. And blue pills are for whiskey, unless there’s beer.

Also, it’s good to have downers around because, remember, you are only three missed sleeps away from going insane.


Fuck that shit. Having a job fucks up your circadian rhythm.

If you don’t have to get up in the morning then technically you don’t have a hangover, because you’re asleep. If you don’t have a hangover, then, you’re not an alcoholic. What’s more important? Having a job or not being an alcoholic?


The only job worth getting for a prospective drug dealer is bartending because dealing drugs is the same thing as tending bar but without all the dishwashing.

Bartending is also great way to figure who is addicted to what, how often, and how much money they are used to spending on losing their minds. Plus, free drinks!

After a year working in any bar, anywhere, you will meet tons of drug fiends and connections. Consequently, your phone will become a gold mine. Take note of who hates The Man, because they will become your new customers


The Man is the guy that comes in and drinks a beer really fast. Talks to some people. Does a little hand to hand. Leaves.


A street name is necessary because you don’t want your mama reading your government name in a deposition.

Introduce yourself to The Man with the nickname you desire. Hopefully, it sticks. Or else they’ll call you by a descriptive name, like if you have a fat week when met you will be Gordo, forever, even if you work out three times a day and quit eating gluten. Even if you get manorexia, you will still be called “fat” in their language long after you know what it means because you looked it up on your phone.


Okay, this is the part that can get you killed. So, it’s important to get really drunk for it.

The trick is to get in a drinking contest with The Man, shot for shot. In the course of this contest tell him you want to learn Spanish. “Como se dice” or in English “how do you say.”

“Come se dice this is good gack, cabrone?” the Man will tell you “Tu perioco is muy bueno!” Then you say it to him in his language. This will create trust, plus, you’ll get more drugs.

People who work for cartels are like organic farmers with their product, they have pride in it, so be sure to inquire the provenance of the dust. (Ahh! Columbia! Muy Bueno!)

Then teach the Man how to do the “Bjorn Borg” The correct way to perform a “Bjorn Borg” is to do a line of coke, bite a lime, throw the lime in the air, drink the shot of tequila, and then swat the lime into the bar wall, screaming as if you were serving a tennis ball. The Man will love that shit, I guarantee.

That’s when you hit him with “Como se dice how much is an ounce of this fucking gack?” (Cuanto questo un zay para pinche cocaina aqui, deek?)

Pro tip: Never ask for a kilo straight away. You don’t have the infrastructure. To buy a kilo of cocaine is to admit that you have 28 grand laying around, which is not some shit you need to be telling gangsters unless you want to go for a ride in a trunk.

Relax, bitch. Selling drugs isn’t as scary as it was during the hot-blooded Scarface days. Every Paisa knows they will be dissolved in a barrel if they do anything wrong. The corporate structure of cartels have normalized the game so you don’t have to be in a gang or even tote a machine gun because you are the final node in the delivery process.

If you prove to be reliable you’ll live under the rubric of their gang structure, a benefit to you if you end up in jail or if you need someone killed for a thousand bucks.


Selling drugs to hipsters, punks and cunts is not as easy as it sounds. No one has ever taught these kids today anything. Not math, not science, not how to not get arrested. The relaxed marijuana laws have further drained all the rigor out of the game.

Kids today, despite whole governments getting hacked, despite every sign that we are being monitored, still think it’s okay to act like a public fiend. You’ll have to get naked and wave pistols at them when they come by your house at five in the morning asking for credit. You’ll have to beat their teeth in when they send you emojis of an eight ball and a skier. You’ll have to fuck their girlfriends when they get too drunk. That’s your job as a drug dealer.


Try to look Christian or cop. Don’t signify.


I learned this “Gay or Christian” rule from growing up in the south and it comes in handy when having to interface with profiling from law enforcement.

One night I was smuggling a hippy, a black person and a couple ounces of gack through West Texas. I got pulled over going 67 mph in a 65 mile an hour zone. The hippy and the black chick freaked out because they were right. We were done.

The cop was a big local yokel with baby blue eyes that he demanded I look into when he said, “now look in my eyes and tell me true, do you have any knives or xanax?” which were the two things I didn’t have. I did have a pistol at my waist and a half an ounce of hash, but he didn’t ask me about that so I looked him the eye and told him true.

Then he asked me when the last time I smoked weed was and I told him right before I went in the army and gave him my fathers unit: 134th Armored Brigade, Third Division, Fort Bragg.

He shined a bright sodium beam light on the hippy and the black chick, looking guilty as hell, staring straight ahead as if they were still driving in a car.

“What about them? Do they have any drugs?” is what the Cop asked, but the subtext was: “What’s a normal looking white man, with all his teeth, doing with these types if it wasn’t drugs?”

So, I laid this on him:

“No sir, we are Christians.” Because that is the only thing that we could have been.

Cops see different races hanging out together and they assume it’s drugs. To a cop there is no other reason to look freaky or misceganate other than drugs. Unless you are gay, Christian, retarded or into theater. Each one of these categories is so strange that a cop is afraid to interface with people who claim any of it.

Gay Christian thespians are no fun for a cop to bust at all. The existence of people who are any one of these is so foreign to big headed Texas cops that he didn’t even want to listen to us cry in the car on the way to jail.

See, to play on the cops fear of faggotry was my only option. This twist was enough to let us go with just a warning. Without the twist, we would have been searched and I would be writing this on toilet paper with a short pencil in a Texas jail.


Self-defense schools spend years training people how to kick people in the balls. I’m going to save you thousands of dollars and a lot of trouble by telling you how to poke eyes.

Eyes are the other balls. Even women have eyes.

When it comes time to perform the eye poke maneuver you got to do it slow and controlled like giving someone a pen. Take the time to not actually poke your finger through their eye into their brain or pull the eye out of it’s socket. You’re just trying to maim them a little. You don’t want to break the membrane of the eye and get vitreous humor in your drink.

The outrageousness of this act will drive the victim and all three of his fat headed friends away from you, gibbering and swearing. This is because you have violated the Geneva convention of dumbfucks, that says “no eye poking” and “boo hoo hoo.” Fuck that loser shit. You on the screet.

Helpful hint: I’ve noticed that opiates can allow me to get to the top level of general no fucks given attitude helpful when stirring around somebody’s front brain.


Fuck you pay me.

Never listen to some shithead who got better stuff in Peru, gassing about how it made their face numb. It’s like hippies talking about how acid was better back in the day. Everything was better before you started doing so many drugs and you weren’t so fucking stupid.


Oh! The chicks you’ll get…Sike! Never going to happen. Or not as much as a seventies blacklite poster would have you believe.

People act like cocaine is all sex and rock and roll but it’s really just a laxative. The way to make sure you get laid on cocaine is to run out of the shit early. If a potential partner thinks you have an ounce you’ll be trapped listening to confessions through the bathroom door until dawn.

What you’ll find out pretty fast is that Freud just gacked suckers up and then stood around going “um hum yeah uh huh.” Don’t waste your life listening to people blather. Tell them firmly that you are a predator and all information they give you will be relayed to your overlords in the motorcycle gang.


I learned the four o’clock rule in New York City from one of the kids from Kids. The idea is that upon inhaling an ounce of cocaine, cumulative, after four AM in the course of your life, you will turn gay. Because fuck it. You and your boy are both up and you’ll never get to sleep anyway. Might as well.

I’m not saying don’t do any blow after four in the morning, I’m just saying there a budget of heterosexuality that ends at the ingestion of an ounce of blow after four am, lifetime cumulative. The conversion to homosexuality occurs at the point of the last grain in the hetero ounce.

So, you have to budget your hetero ounce against how long you think you will live and how much you have done. Or just be gay.


Check your pockets really good on laundry day or you will have to face the fact that you lost six hundred dollars in the wash.


You need to plan to do some jail time and the best way to do that is to spoil yourself a little. For the memories.


Get a safe. And a motorcycle, and some Johnny Walker Blue because why not? Get all the cool shit now because the commissary in county has a severely limited selection of wares.


Fuck a friend. What you need is partner. Someone who understands your crimes.

Becoming an outlaw is a real thing. No one will have sympathy for you except your boy. You’ll need a partner to watch your back, confer and serve your customers when you have to leave town. Your partner will also get the shit out of the safe before your mom does when you die.


Face it man, riding a motorcycle torked out of your mind on an eightball and two yellow Vicodin is skilled labor. Highly skilled. So, thirty dollars is the minimum one can settle for as compensation for the commission of a skilled felony.

You are in a union now, so, no more felonies for fun. Remember every dollar you don’t make undersells the brotherhood of hoods, who are surprisingly sensitive to this matter. Think of it like this: every dollar you don’t make is not going to get thrown at a stripper, ergo, committing crimes for less than thirty bucks is to rob a single mother.

Follow these rules and you too can enjoy the sweet, sweet sanity that I enjoy as a writer with a stable income.