” That’s not my crack pipe, by the way.”
That comment was nonchalantly tossed into the stale, office air from the pursed lips of a 60 year old woman. That’s my new boss–think social worker type, with a dash of that distinct portland granola flair. And no, that really wasn’t her crack pipe. As she searched the employee schedule hunting for my first time slot, I fiddled with the (half full!) crackpipe.For such a mischievious little tool, the pipe looked harmless.To my suprise, it was almost…cute. As if the yellow sunflower emblem on the side of it’s base would miraculously make the crack-addict think, ‘Ah,I’m so tranquil. It’s like I’m engulfed in a meadow of yellow flowers in the springtime.’ If someone is hitting a crack pipe, that is a tell-tale sign that it may take a little more than folliage to arouse euphoria. Moreover, if someone was about to smoke some crack, common sense makes me doubt that a flower sticker could capture the attention of any addict with their fix to their lips. I admit: I am a crack virgin.And since I haven’t walked in an addict’s moccosin, or payless, boots, my 2 cents has about as much validity as Bush talking about the environment or black people. With that disclaimer, I’m going to come out and say it:
A flower sticker on a crackpipe is the most useless piece of ‘flair’ I can imagine. In this entire universe.
I challenge you to name one accsesory, one bumper sticker, one item from Skymall Magazine, that is more useless than the crackpipe psyudo-tatoo.Just one.
I even did some of the research for you and browsed through the Skymall Catalouge online.The sticker’s biggest competetor was (drumroll) A Flying Fucking Alarm Clock. Unbelievable….that actually exists…and sells. As worthless as flying alarm clock seems, I still think that it inadvertantly has more use than a crack sticker.
Hypothetically: Some millionaire douchebag will put the flying alarm clock on the nightstand next to his king size temperpedic water bed and designer sheets. Better yet, those 900 thread sheets would be drapping over an underage, under-the-influence brazillian model. The two hungover midlight lovers will notice eachothers presence and blush, simultaneously realizing that they both just played their strengths to their advantage to attain what the other had ( wealth, a sexpot). Now, under the judgement of the songbirds and sunshine, the girl’s cross tatoo on her lowerback would light up. And then that palpating hedache of his (accented by a morning aftertaste of merlot) would turn to pangs of guilt because her innocence was highlighted under the windowsill,a radical change from the night before. Those smokey, seductive eyes which had lured him to her like bait him were no longer outlined in black. They seemed naked, vulnerable, exposed. Once both regained their facilities, the silence between them in the room became noticable, loud, unberable. Then, suddenly, the flying alarm clock rose from the nightstand and broke the tension sweltering in the air…..the two laughed…and lived happily ever after. The fucking end.
See? in that situation, the flying clock is virtually necessary. As far out as that is, I can’t even imagine a Nora Roberts-esque story where the sunflowercrackpipe would ever, ever help.
I invite you to correct me if I’m wrong.
for a visual, check out the clock: