I did do speed a couple times.  Only time I ever threw up in the shower thinking, “Where can I get some more of that?”

     Trying to roll a joint when you’re fucked-up on that shit is funny. Nigh impossible, as grandpappy used to say.

     Quit doing speed, though, after I nearly ran over a motorcycle cop with ten grams of crystal methamphetamine tucked neatly in my shirt pocket.  He didn’t pull me over, but he must have wondered why my eyes were so wide open.

     Would you believe I had to look up amphetamine‘s proper spelling in the dictionary?  What kind of Texas electrician am I?  Hell, it’s written right there on the back of my license.

     Speed made me feel like I was real competent at stuff I knew nothing about.  You would not want me working at your home or motel whilst going too fast.  I would lose every tool and part within the first five minutes, and spend the next two hours crawling around on the floor looking for the forever gone items.

     That sort of performance reassures the customer.  It lets he or she know you really care about that worthless screw you dropped an eternity ago.  To the tune of one hundred-fifty dollars an hour.  

     The prospect of a felony conviction and serious Texas prison time shaped me right up.  Now I just smoke weed.  Weed never got anyone arrested in Texas, right?

     The worst decisions in my life have been made while I was either drunk or totally sober.  I’ve never made a bad decision after smoking weed.  Because I think about things.  Like, do cats fart?

     Got fired once ’cause a builder said he thought I was stoned.  That was strange, because I haven’t been stoned in twenty years.  I try like hell every day, though.

     People are such lightweights when it comes to weed.  My five favorite words in the English language are, “I don’t want anymore.”  ‘Cause that means I get the rest.

     Wait, that’s four words.  (If you were high you’d get it).

     And I never believe it when I hear, “You can only take two tokes of this,” presumably the third toke leading to some kind of nirvana.  I’ve heard the same thing about liquor, “You can only take two drinks of this.”  It’s like, “Dude, give me the bag, give me the fucking bottle.”  No, I don’t need a glass.

     Have you heard the pot-pie joke?  Dig forever in those bastards, and you won’t find a lick of pot.  Same with potholes.  Ditto potpourri.

     It’s funny when you get people weed as a favor, and they pull out their little scales to weigh it.  My good friend, the shit is illegal.  Take what you fucking get.

     Used to grow weed in my walk-in closet.  I’d sit in there with my plants and clean my Uzi .45 caliber Semi-Auto Carbine.  Stopped doing that, because I figured, if the cops walked in,  there might be a misunderstanding.

     Had a break-in one time and called the cops.  Forgot about the weed growing in the closet.  Only snapped after burning one waiting for them to arrive.  You think speed made me move fast.  Ripped it up and threw it in the truck.  They show up and there’s potting soil and dirty buckets all over the front porch.  They didn’t even bother to fill out a report.

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