Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 5

Check out Part 1Part 2Part 3, and Part 4.

This one’s a little short at just shy of 800 words, but there’s so many jokes it’s almost unreadable! <-That’s a good thing! Hope you enjoy!

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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I spotted Jessica on a park bench writing in her notebook. She looked pretty yet strong, like a girl they’d cast on Survivor. If this all ended with me killing her, I’d say “the tribe has spoken.” I didn’t plan on killing her, but why would I be carrying a gun if I didn’t plan on killing someone. Might as well have a back-up plan.

I watched her for a while, hoping I could catch her in the act, but then I feel asleep. I woke up and watched her some more, then slept some more. After getting some good rest and being mistake for a homeless woman, I was ready to approach her.

It was important that we start on the right foot, so I immediately threw a bucket of water on her. She sprang up and demanded to know why I did that. I told her it was because I needed to know if I could trust her.

“How does this help?” she asked, gesturing at her wet body.

“Are you wet right now?” I asked her.

“Yes!” she shouted.

There was a start. She was already telling the truth.

“I’ll tell you the exact same thing I told the police. I didn’t smoke,” she huffed.

I asked her what really happened, and added that she better tell me the truth or I’d punch her in the throat.  What she didn’t know was that I just might have punched her in the throat regardless.

She wanted to know why she should trust me, especially since I dress weird and smelled like gasoline. I told her about my skunk problem, but it didn’t help. Either way, she had started to settle down and dry enough to tell me her side of things.

She said she’d left the base to hang out with a friend. Just a friend. She kept stressing over and over how much he was just a friend. If she said it one more time I was going to start thinking he was more than a friend. She said it again, but I decided to still trust her. She was in the military after all. That should give her some trust points. Truth is, I wanted to believe her, so that I could stop working.

She said she needed to get off the base after all the stress from the military publicity, mixed with her regular army duties. The only person she knew was a friend, Rico, and again, stressed he was a friend, who wasn’t in the military. She barely knew him, but he had a car so he was her way out. She snuck off with him to clear her head in the forest, specifically Lover’s Point. She stressed that it’s not that kind of place. It’s just called that. I’d heard differently my entire life, but like I said, she was military and I trusted her.

While in the car, Rico lit up a joint. It made her uncomfortable, but she didn’t have much choice but to stay in the car. She feared that over time she had gotten contact high, something I’ve only ever heard about as a myth. That’s when some Military police came to surveil the area for trouble, since Lover’s Point is the type of place where people go to have anonymous sex. I mentioned how she’d said it wasn’t that type of place, but she replied with an exasperated sigh that made me feel bad, so I dropped it.

She said that if I couldn’t help her, it would shame her father’s military name. He was a great hero.

It was right then that I saw him standing behind Jessica.

“Was he tall?” I asked.

The tall ghost looked back at me.

“Yeah.”

“And broad shouldered?”

The tall, broad shouldered ghost looked at Jessica.

“Yeah.”

“And black?”

The black, tall, broad shouldered ghost walked away.

“No. He was white. Like me.”

Can’t win them all.

I assured Jessica I’d get to the bottom of this, then situated a pile of leaves to sleep in. Her phone rang and she excused herself, answering it with a whisper. She told the person on the other end that everything was all right and she didn’t want them to stress.

I couldn’t help but speak aloud, “What are you hiding, Jessica” I turned it into a song that knocked everyone’s socks off. After my standing ovation, it was time to go to the lab.


Let me know what you think in the comments! And make sure to check out my books on Amazon. 🙂

What’s Coming to Streaming in February – The Golden Stream

Fred Le and myself bring you what’s coming up on Netflix, Hulu, and Amazon streaming, as well as what’s leaving… with jokes!

Also make sure to check out Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, a new story I’m releasing week by week.

And sign up for my mailing list (CLICK HERE TO DO SO) and I’ll send you a copy of Scrote One: A Star Wars Parody!

Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 3

Check out Part 1, and Part 2.

A plucky PI users her unconventional methods to find out the truth after an army private gets caught under the influence of marijuana but claims she never smoked.

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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Part 3

I knew it was important that I talk to Jessica immediately, so I only spent three days in Vegas instead of four, and then it was off to her home.

She lived with her mother in a house I remembered from egging it way back five minutes before I knocked on the door. Her mother, Belda, answered. She looked like a Belda. You know, old and boring. She didn’t like when I said that. I told her I was just kidding. She said she didn’t find it very funny so I explained to her that it was funny because it was true. She didn’t like that either. Finally, I decided to shut up and urged her to let me in. She was starting to ask about the eggs and I had a feeling she wasn’t going to like the answer.

She left me alone in the living room while she finished something up in the kitchen. It gave me time to case the joint. I examined the knick-knacks on the mantle, pocketing a few. Nothing too valuable or incriminating. Just some elephant statues and an urn. The urn didn’t fit in my pocket so I put it back and just took the ashes.

Several pictures of Jessica were proudly on display, including some from her recent graduation from the military academy. It felt nostalgic for me. It reminded me of the time I thought about joining the military. You never forget about the times like that.

Belda came back in the room with a tray of drinks.

“What is that? Tea or something?” I said jokingly. She said it was. Neither of us found the situation very funny.

“You don’t understand how important this is to me and Jessica. Without her military salary, we can’t afford to keep this house. Not to mention our family name, tarnished,” said Belda, nibbling on a biscuit.

“Your family name?” I asked.

“Yes. The Rios family- “

“Rios?!” I interrupted, “that’s the name of the murdered girl I’m looking for!”

It took her seven minutes to explain to me that Jessica hadn’t been murdered, and that she was baffled why I was there if I hadn’t already known Jessica was her daughter. What she was saying made too much sense for me to doubt. Once I understood most of it, and could pretend that I understood the rest, I told her she had my full vote of confidence.

Once we were back on track she offered me some of the tea. I refused since it could have easily been weed tea. She told me it wasn’t, but I couldn’t be so sure. Her daughter had mysteriously gotten high without smoking, after all. She said that made sense, so I told her she owed me a dollar. It took me seven minutes to explain to her why she owed me a dollar before she finally gave in, or just got tired of guarding her purse so tightly.

To kill the whole tea issue, I knocked the teapot to the ground. You could tell she knew I meant business because she asked me to leave. This wasn’t going well, but it was going better than it usually does.

Belda continued to give me whatever information she had. “All she ever wanted was to be in the military. Like her father. She’s never smoked anything in her life. Drugs or otherwise.”

“So, you’re saying your daughter has never smoked anything? No joints, cigarettes… meats?”

She didn’t follow, so I slid her the smoking gun, pun intended: a folder with pictures of Jessica at a BBQ, smoking meats.

I put my hand on Belda’s shoulder to comfort her, and to discreetly wipe some gunk off on her blouse.

“Looks like your daughter hasn’t told you everything. The first thing you need to do is accept your daughter is a liar. I suggest we turn her in, or drown her to save face.”

She told me that it was just barbecue and that can’t possibly be what I meant. I told her she was right, but in court that wouldn’t matter.

“No offense, Ms. Raru, but you certainly don’t seem like you’re suited for this type of work. You hardly seem like you take investigating seriously, and you certainly don’t seem mentally equipped to carry a gun.”

I would have shot her face off right then and there for insulting me like that, but I’d forgotten all my bullets. She was right though. I told her that I’d never held a gun without fatally shooting someone.

She said, “accidents happen.” Yeah… accidents.

I knew she needed some assurance. I usually charge more for that, but she really needed it. “Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure I put every ounce of my being into this case. Except for poopoo and cah-cah because that would be gross.”

I got up to leave, but stopped to take note of a decrepit old ghost that had appeared behind Belda. Remember how I can see those?

“I think your house might be haunted?” I said.

“Why do you say that?”

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but there’s a ghost right next to you.”

She looked at the ghost.

“That’s my brother, William. And he’s not a ghost,” she said. William just shrugged. He must have felt dead, or something.

It was time to get serious and find out who murdered Jessica.


Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think in the comments!

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The Case of the Sticky Fingers, Part 2!

Read Part 1 Here (it’s very funny!)

If you’d like a copy of my Star Wars parody, Scrote One, sign up for my email list (just click here). If you read it and enjoy it, I’d love a review on Amazon.

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And now… here’s part two of Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers


It was my 20th time visiting the cemetery that month. You could say I go a lot. Go ahead. Say it.

Mom, dad. I still haven’t found out who killed you, or how you died, or who framed Roger Rabbit since I never saw that movie, but I promise I will. If you could just help me find the answers. I see so many ghosts, but I never see you… I miss you so much.

“Excuse me.” A man stood behind me with his young daughter beside him. She was cute. Cute enough to grow up to be a high-priced call-girl, or at the very least, a girl who drives a Jetta.

He asked me what I was doing. I wanted to respond with “Nunya. Nunya business,” but I’d been using that one too often and couldn’t think of a new one, so I told him the truth: the authorities never found my parent’s bodies, so they were never given a grave, plus graves are really expensive and not worth paying for if you don’t have a body to throw in there. I guess there are rules against digging them up too, which seems stupid if it’s your grave. I told him I’d been using that one as my mother’s. Then I stuck my finger out at him and asked him what are yooooooouuuuuu doing here?

“That’s my wife’s grave,” he said, upset for some reason. I told him it was beautiful, then shoved some old flowers off it and replaced them with my own, along with a note saying “I luv you, mom.” “Luv” was spelled incorrectly on purpose because my mom and I used to have this little inside joke where I didn’t know how to spell, which was also not a joke.

He tried to swat and shoo me away like I was some kind of pestering bee, so I stung him a couple of times and then decided to call it quits after he finally connected with a 911 operator.

I know how hard it can be to lose someone, so before I left I made sure to give him some comforting words:

“I can’t wait until you die, so one day I can put flowers on my father’s grave.” The words must have really touched his daughter, because she started crying instantly. Nothing a good handful of dirt didn’t stop though.

While the dad wrestled me away from putting dirt in his daughter’s mouth, my phone got a text message, which could only mean one thing: my phone service hadn’t been cut off yet.

I’VE GOT A CASE FOR YOU

***

My office is the last one in a long row of businesses.

-Pair-a-Normal Investigators, Rick Normal and Tobey Normal

-Sofia’s Unmeltable Ice-cream (Legal note: the ice-cream is not unmeltable, but is very tasty)

-Patrick Poogal, Private Investigator

And finally, mine: Riz Raru, Preyevit Investalligator. I have a CERTIFICATE OF EXCELLENCE taped to the door to show everyone how excellent I am at the hiding fist holes in the door (The certificate is for a Jiffy Lube somewhere in Sherman Oaks.)

My assistant, Ditch, was already waiting in my office for me. He’s really more of my sidekick, but the rates for sidekicks are much higher than assistants. I’m not made out of money.

He looks like someone plucked right out of a 40s-detective movie. He wears a trench coat and has a really big mustache that I make him wear. He tells me it’s very itchy and uncomfortable, but then I threaten him with violence and that always ends that argument. He’s very easy to get along with.

I sat in my chair looking at a picture he put on my desk. It was of a girl in military fatigues. I studied it for a while as Ditch leaned against my desk reading the accompanying file, then I stole his wallet while he wasn’t looking.

“You’re not going to believe this one, Riz,” he said with a chuckle.

“Hit me.”

He punched me in the face. I told him I meant the news, so he grabbed a rolled newspaper and hit me with that. I thanked him and asked him about the case.

“Her name’s Private First Class Jessica Rios. You may know her as the face of army recruitment.” I nodded, even though I didn’t, nor had I really been listening that well. He could tell I wasn’t listening because I’d been humming loudly, so he taped my mouth shut and explained that there were billboards for military recruitment all over the country with Private Rios’ picture. He told me the army had caught her off base.

I ripped the tape off and saved it for later. “Is there a crime against that?” I asked sassily. Looks like I’d solved the case before it even started.

He told me that yes, it was a major infraction for military personnel, especially the poster-child of the army.

I rhetorically asked him what the mystery was, knowing it must be murder.

He told me it wasn’t murder. “More like murdering brain cells, actually. She was high as a kite when the military police officer found her. As you can imagine, the military frowns on that sort of thing. It’s not like she was a male officer who sexually assaulted a female recruit. They couldn’t just look past this one.”

It sounded like an easy case. Just not for the defense. I told Ditch that I didn’t see anything worth investigating, then started throwing things at him.

He begged for me to stop, which I finally did once I ran out of things to throw. As he pulled my letter opener out of his thigh he told me the kicker; Private Rios swears she didn’t smoke, but refused to give a straight answer on what happened.

“The military wants to clear her name, but she’s stone walling all of their investigator. They think she might open up to an outside party,” he said, wrapping his leg wound in used tissues I told him were gauze.

“So they called the best,” I said proudly.

He said “bingo,” and a man came in, took a Bingo card from ditch and inspected it.

“We have a winner,” said the man, leaving immediately.

I told Ditch I’d think about it. As much as I needed a case, I also didn’t feel like working, so I wasn’t sure of the right thing to do.

“By the way, they’ve also asked Patrick Poogal to take the case,” he said on his way out the door.

My eye twitched at the sound of his name. Patrick Poogal was my biggest competitor and rival. At just shy of 6’5” he towered over all the other private investigators in the area. He also often stole my business.

I told Ditch I’d take the case. After all, it was the perfect case for me. I was used to tracking down and tattling on stoners in high school.

Ditch chuckled to himself and remarked, “Plucky teen, Riz. I can only imagine how you were in high school.”

“High school?” I asked him, “this was last week. But don’t worry. I’ll get her to open up to me. Even if it costs me her life.

Ditch left, leaving me alone to wonder how I was going to solve this case, and get drunk.


That’s it for now. Later this week I’ll be writing about how I went about writing my Star Wars parodies before the movies came out. If you want to read why I wrote them, check it out here.

Don’t forget to sign up for my mailing list so you can get your copy of Scrote One! (just click here)

Riz Raru in… The Case of the Sticky Fingers

Hello!

So many exciting things are happening right now with Scrote One, my Star Wars Parody, and my compilation of short stories (free on Amazon right now!), but I’m sick of promoting. It’s time I give an excerpt from something I’m working on.

It’s about a female private investigator named Riz Raru. It’s based off of a teleplay I wrote, but I think it works better like this because I was able to add a ton of more jokes. Let me know what you think!


It had been my first case in a long time where a civilian hadn’t ended up dead, and the first case in an even longer time where I hadn’t been the one to kill the civilian. Even that might not be true, since I tend to conveniently forget those types of details. It works really well for plausible deniability, but mostly I’m just forgetful.

My name’s Riz Raru. I’m a special cases private investigator, which means people all over the world hire me to help them investigate the cases no one else will take. Like cases about aliens, conspiracy theories, or ones that expose beloved celebrities as rapists. I’m just your typical gumshoe, and sometimes gumsandal in the Summer.

I can also see ghosts, so there’s that… but they can’t see me, and I can’t interact with them or anything, so some would say it’s not very important at all, or that it’s just a marketing tactic to make the cover look more interesting. I’m always told that if I didn’t lie so much about other things that they might actually believe me about the ghosts, but I tell them how much I like lying, which is often one of the only true things I say in the conversation.

I’ve always had a bit of a sixth sense… for justice. People may call me a little crazy, reckless, or a danger to society, but I’m just a normal girl who solves the unsolvable.

And sees ghosts.

And I’m also searching for the man who killed my parents.

RIZ RARU in…. The Case of the Sticky Fingers

It all started when I was born… but there’s a lot of boring stuff in between that and the interesting stuff, so I’ll just cut ahead.

The interesting stuff all started when I was tailing one John Drexel just outside the Japanese restaurant on 9th street, or it might have been 3rd street. Let’s split the difference and say… 3rd street. The restaurant was called Sushi Go, which isn’t important unless you want to order from there. I suggest the orange chicken.

Drexel delicately picked up his Shih-Tzu, cradling it in his arms, and then entered the restaurant. The dog must have felt like a baby does when it’s picked up like a dog.

I glared at him through my car window as he walked in, looking like the cockiest prick I’d ever seen. He looked so damn cocky I spent extra time glaring at him and ended up getting a parking ticket. After a couple minutes of trying to convince the parking attendant to take back the ticket, which resulted in a shouting match lasting several more tickets, I got out of my car and followed Drexel inside.

The restaurant smelled like a restaurant, so everything checked out there, but there was still the Drexel matter to take care of. I tiptoed through the lobby and shushed the hostess before she could speak. I shushed her again as she was trying to keep quiet, just because. I flashed her my badge and my gun. I thought about flashing her my boobs too, but it would have just muddled the message.

I told her to call the cops, then put in an order of orange chicken. I continued into the restaurant, palms sweaty, nervous about not ordering anything for me and the cops. It felt rude.

In a private room, Drexel ate his bowl of rice one grain at a time, like a real asshole, as I barged in with my gun pointed right between his eyes. If my investigative work was half as good as I thought it was, that’s where his brain would be, just like mine.

“Stop right there. I know what you did,” I said, fearless and brave, since I was the one with the gun and all.

He patted his lips with a napkin and smiled. “And you would be?”

I threw him my badge. He inspected it and smiled. “This is a toy.”

“You damn right it is,” I said, “I’m Riz Raru. Special cases investigator.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you, Ms. Private Investigator. You solve the unsolvable cases, don’t you? And here you’ve solved mine. Bravo. So, you’ve figured it all out, have you? How I’ve been diverting power from the city center to operate my secret underground factoring, manufacturing my own polysynthetic weapons, and selling them to the Russians for vast amounts of money. Good work- “

I cut him off and told him that what I was referring to was that he didn’t clean up after his dog. He questioned why I would pull my gun on him for that. I told him I’ve pulled it out on someone for a lot less.

His face turned as red as a baboon’s ass after a spanking, and before it too. He stood up quickly, “hah! Well, it doesn’t matter why you came here. Since I revealed my plan to you, you won’t be leaving with your life!”

He drew his gun on me and I was suddenly regretting not checking him for a gun, or not bringing a bigger gun, but it wasn’t long before he learned that you can’t pull a fast one on old Riz Raru. The cops burst in with their guns drawn, leaving Drexel wishing he would have pulled a slow one on me.

The chief of police asked what the hell was going on. I asked him who the hell he was. He said he was the chief of police. I told him that I thought the chief of police wore some sort of head dress. He said that was an Indian chief, and I told him “oh, right.” While this was happening, Drexel almost got away, but the other police officers (who were wearing head dresses) caught him.

I told the chief that Drexel had a secret underground factory for photosynthesis with Russians and weapons or something. I asked Drexel what it was again, since he was so good as explaining it, but he was too busy fuming. I told them that it would just be easier if they checked under the city center for the photocopiers, or whatever.

After a while they thanked me and told me that, “no, for the second time, you can’t shoot the dog.” I reminded them that the dog was technically a bad guy. They told me that just because someone’s a bad guy doesn’t mean you can execute them. I told them I knew a few bad guys who wished I would have known that a couple weeks ago.

The cops were starting to ask questions so I figured it was time to go. Since I didn’t get any money off the case, I was in desperate need for a new gig. Or just a big bag of money. I would have preferred that. I headed back to the office hoping there’d be a gig waiting for me, but not before I took one important stop.


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The Adventures of Young, Time Traveling Thomas Jefferson

Shot this sketch a month or so ago, and it was recently described as “A time traveling Thomas Jefferson has a debate about slavery with his black roommate,” which really makes it sound like more of a drama, but it’s totally not.

//www.funnyordie.com/embed/0de9d29b4a

Something In Your Teeth – Has this ever happened to you?

This is a short sketch I wrote and shot last Friday. It’s short and sweet and I made sure to only put ONE joke in it so that people didn’t watch and think “that’s too many jokes…”

//www.funnyordie.com/embed/cb8b9c529e

Meet Sam. The guy who thinks “intern” means “hooker”

Meet Sam. Sam is like every other 30 year old white male in America except for one thing. Due to an adolescent misunderstanding of the Clinton trial, he thinks that “intern” means “hooker.”

Sam sits down with a laptop. He’s frustrated and overworked. His wife, Julia, notices.

JULIA
Do you need a snack, honey?

SAM
No. I can’t eat right now. I have so much to do for the business.

JULIA
You’re so overworked. You need an intern.

SAM
Very funny.

JULIA
I’m serious. I think it would be really good for you.

SAM
Wait. What?

JULIA
Yeah. Having someone help you out would be good for you.

SAM
You wouldn’t want to do that stuff?

JULIA
Oh, god no. Are you kidding?

SAM
Wow, that kind of makes me really sad, but as long you’re letting me do this, that’s cool.

JULIA
What’s to be sad about? I’m your wife, not your slave.

SAM
When you put it like that, yeah. I mean, this is awesome. It’s just crazy.

JULIA
It’s not that crazy. I just want you to be less stressed.

SAM
I don’t even know where to start to find one.

JULIA
Look online.

SAM
Online? That makes sense. I was kind of worried we’d need to cruise around the streets and pick one off the street.

JULIA
Hah! What were you thinking? We’d go pick up one of those guys in front of Home Depot?

SAM
Jesus. No. A woman. Definitely a woman.

JULIA
A woman? She better not be pretty. I’ll get jealous.

SAM
I think we’re well past that.

JULIA
You know who you could ask? Our neighbor Stan’s daughter.

SAM
Oh, my god. Are you serious? She’s not even out of high school.

JULIA
I think she’d like the experience before she goes off to college.

SAM
That just doesn’t seem like the best way to get experience.

JULIA
Why? She interned for her father for a little while last Summer.

SAM
Jesus, I’m going to be sick.

JULIA
You’re such a drama queen.

Julia looks on the computer.

JULIA
Here’s a good one. Do you want to check out her resume? She’s been around. A lot of experience.

SAM
Not exactly a high selling point for me, but that’s to be expected. I guess let’s try her.

JULIA
Ok. I’ll tell her to come in for an interview.

SAM
You think I need to interview her?

JULIA
Yeah. You need to make sure you two get along. So what kind of things are you looking for them to do anyway? Scheduling? Filing?

SAM
Suck my dick.

Julia gets straight faced.

JULIA
I don’t think that’s very funny. I think it’s disrespectful.

SAM
We’re already talking about a dirty intern.

JULIA
Dirty intern? You know I was an intern at my work before I got hired.

SAM
What?! The whole company?!

JULIA
Yeah. Duh.

SAM
I just can’t process this.

JULIA
Why do you have to make this hard? I’m just trying to help you. If you don’t want an intern, don’t get a damn intern-

SAM
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (blurting out) I’ll take Stan’s daughter.

JULIA
Ok, great. I’ll call Stan and tell him to send her over tomorrow.

Julia leaves.

SAM
Holy shit. I’m getting an intern.

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week

Honest text to send at 11:40pm to the girl you’ve been seeing for a week:

“hey, just wanted some kind of validation that you like me that I can only get if you text me back instantly because I have nothing else going on in my life other than this, and anything other than you texting back within five seconds will be taken as some sort of concrete evidence, admissible in court, that you don’t like me, until tomorrow when you text me back something sweet and put me at ease until the next 24 hour period when I fall apart again. Also, it must include a smiley, or else that means you hate me.”

Crack isn’t Off the Table for Me Yet

There are some things you just know are off the table after a certain age. Like for me, I know I’m never going to ride a motorcycle. You won’t catch me dead on one of those things, especially after having a near-death experience on an ATV, and those things aren’t even as fast or dangerous as motorcycles. Put it this way, they have twice as many wheels, are half as slow and I still crashed one. What’s going to happen if I get on a motorcycle? I could spontaneously combust for all I know.

One thing that isn’t off the table at this point in my life is crack.

I’m not saying I’m going to do crack, or that I even want to do crack. It’s just something that isn’t completely off the table yet. Like if I were at a Hollywood party and Tom Cruise came up to me and said, “want to do some crack?” I’d do some crack.

Hell, if I was on a date with even a marginally attractive girl and she said, “want to do some crack and fuck around?” I’d do some crack.

Motorcycle? Hell no.

Crack? Where’s Tom at?

That’s not to say my body is a magnet for any and all drugs. I definitely wouldn’t do heroine. The whole needle things freaks me out. I hate needles so much I’d rather get AIDS than take an AIDS test.

That needle or some AIDS? Hook it up with a little bit of AIDS.

Obviously this isn’t the recipe for everyone, or even good life choices, but at least I know myself.