When You Think Your Neighbor is Running an Elaborate Methamphetamine Operation

First of all, don’t panic. Go over.

Watch a Thunder game on their big ass flat screen. Enjoy Salt & Vinegar potato chips—your favorite. It’s 4:00 in the afternoon on a weekday, and you ain’t got shit to do.

In the dining room there is a pool table. Play a game. Play two. Because you are already drunk—it is, in fact, why you knocked on the door—accept the offer of a drink.

“Here’s the trick,” your host says. “Here’s the secret.” He taps a tube of Crystal Light 10-calorie grape flavor powder into a rocks glass of vodka. He hands it to you. Drink it, you psycho. Drink two.

Maybe you mention the great hamburger you had the other day on lunch, at work, from a nearby local  business. You mostly love the onion rings, but you don’t mention this detail. By now,  you’re hearing from your neighbor how we run that place, we own it, that’s one of our places, we got a rent house out there. And you whiff your shot and drink your drink.

After pool, he offers to show you the basement—so you go into the basement, if only to confirm that there is no obvious meth lab here. Maybe it’s at the hamburger place, if it exists at all. Maybe they don’t make meth.

So you sort of allude back to the hamburger place on an unrelated basis as you leave the basement, alive. And then you hear how one week prior this boy’s uncle there who ran the place at the hamburger joint got shot. Shot at work, shot to death. That place has good onion rings. That place’s boss was shot to death. But you’ve been there, since. Postmortem. Didn’t catch a single hint. But damn if that place doesn’t still have some good onion rings.

Pickup trucks come by day and night. There are interlawn collusions with the neighbor one door over.

“My neighbor, I own his house,” you’ve heard, you recall. “He lives there because of me. He owes me.”

There’s a pause for stink-eye.

“Big time.”

When you think your neighbor is running an elaborate methamphetamine operation, say nothing. Do nothing. Inquire about and involve yourself in nothing. When the time comes, shriek “I knew it!!”

And then go steal that flat screen. Put the billiards table on a truck.

America’s New Hottest Programming Block

If there’s one thing I love about Hoarders, it’s all the people on it who are fundamentally broken. And if there’s one thing I love about Intervention, then there’s a million things I love about Intervention, because that is a perfect show.

I’ve got a pretty good idea for another perfect show. See, I’m not so down on Hoarders, relative to other shows like this, because I’m not particularly into gross-out porn. We’re all unbelievably disgusting. The inside of everybody’s house is gross. To be honest, we really do all just exist together on a mundane sliding scale of How Gross Can You Go, and the answer is an unsurprising “Infinitely.”

I’m not saying the shit isn’t gnarly—oh, it is, it all is—but black holes of human filth aren’t that different from how black holes work in space (truly). Things start to get pretty similar as you approach the event horizon. Given the choice between the two, I will always pick an Intervention. But shit, sometimes you’re at the doctor’s office waiting room, and A&E’s got a marathon of Hoarders on, so what’re you gonna do? Walk in nature? Not watch?

There’s a decent wrench in Hoarders, though, that gives the show a leg up on its rival, and that’s that a good bulk of the show involves the Hoarder in their Hoard during De-Hoarding, playing an active role in the process, often as a saboteur, or straight antagonist. This is compelling. This they got that Intervention ain’t. Because I’m pretty sure that there are only, like, five episodes of Intervention that end in a home team loss (i.e., no rehab, addict wins), at a certain point in the show, you can start to feel momentum flag. The last five minutes are always more a coda, a brief breather before you dive into the next pit of hell.

Anyway, my show pitch. We know that the production’s gotta get these kids on airplanes; the whole point of the rehab is that it isn’t local, around any triggering environments or people. Sometimes we get a glimpse about how hard this can be. Sometimes these fools cause drama. And isn’t drama why we’re here? That, and the (awesome, hilarious, cringey) plights of our fellow men? We oughta have a show that’s just about the transit. An Intervention: After Hours. I call it Get This Bitch to Rehab.

Think of the escape attempts! The clawing, the scratching! The spectacle of a man in Dockers pulling full-stop dad-strength bear-hugs to restrain his tweaked-out daughter! Sign me up or sign me out. World needs this in 2016.

Biddings on the franchise start today. Email me at getthisbitch@rehab.me to talk dollars. We can change this fucking world, man—that I do truly believe.

shards of ice and crystal at the tina turner concert.

so my boy at work today walked up and was like “sarah, you like blueberry?” Which, yes, obviously, so then he handed me a blue can of Red Bull, which was a pretty sweet left turn. “I don’t like the blue ones,” he said. “I usually just grab them from the fridge without looking.”

“Awesome,” I said. “Thank you.” I waited til the end of the day to drink it, walking out into the parking lot, all woo hoo, look who’s on her own time sway and swagger, just slamming it. Just an open throat pour, closed eyes, let my feet fall where they may. Because after work, I mean, you gotta work off some steam, right? You gotta sweat it out a little! Time to fucking work out, you know? It’s time to hit the fuckin’ pavement at a dead sprint, bitchit’s time to shove a little word called MOTIVATION up your ass and set it on fire. GET YOU JUMPING. GET MOVING MOTHER FUCKER.

Anyway. Went home, had an okay workout, felt like shit! Not usual. Usually I feel all seratonin’d up. Real floaty, foot loose, fancy-free. This felt like dark memories of methy comedowns, fevered shivers… night terrors—the Full Vietnam.

So there was like, 35 grams of sugar in that can, right? And I don’t typically drink my sugars. I’m team Diet Shasta. Coke Zero. Just not sugar-drink habitual, unless you count rum, which you should, but don’t. And this was it, I knew it: the Crash…

So. Following this workout I had a pleasant dinner with friends, at which I was absurdly wired, wired to the point of methy. That’s two uses of the word “methy” tonight, describing me, and things I do. What can I say? I dunno. So sue me! It’s on my mind! And in my body. I’m so full of meth right now. My lungs, my veins, the chewed up pieces in my teeth—that’s the only explanation. That’s the only thing that must’ve happened. Otherwise you’re telling me that my bodily defenses and metabolism are chickenshit enough at this point to get their fucking asses kicked willy-nilly all to shit by no more than the meager force of a single can of blue fruity non-diet regular-ass Red Bull.

I used to fucking shoot rocket fuel

youtube rabbit hole: bar fights