Lack of Drugs Poorly Timed
 Just
last week, the news broke that federal indictments were about
to be handed down against the Rigas family. It was news of
paramount importance to all of us citizens of Buffalo, and
yet, even in light of this news, the question remained: why
are there no drugs in the BEAST offices?
As far as the BEAST is concerned, we are having no luck whatsoever
in finding drugs of any kind. There are no little paper packets
stashed with powder hidden in the most obvious of hiding-places,
like our desk drawers; we are no longer suffering, as we have
for most of our adult lives, bouts of impotence, heart palpitations,
or sweats so uncontrollable that we have to wear wool ski
hats to keep it all in, and keep bandanas in our pockets for
mopping our foreheads; nor have we been able to pump out consistently
subpar work while being absolutely sure, on the other hand,
that the marks of genius are present on every un-spell-checked,
poorly researched page of our hideous newspaper. Without drugs,
the truth is laid bare, and what's our consolation? Beer?
Jesus Christ!
In short, there are no drugs anywhere. Wads of money in hand
and ready to buy at any price, we have been ripped off here,
promised the world, morally chastised, offered beer instead,
offered more beer, given leads that went nowhere, and most
offensive of all, given advice on where to find a good dentist
to correct the cosmetic damage to our faces caused by the
many binge periods we've gone through over the years.
It makes no sense: here we are, in a border city, a place
where, if you believe police, the price of heroin is plummeting
to unprecedented lows, yet we, the most solvent, polite, punctual,
compliant buyers a drug dealer could ever want, cannot score.
This is embarrassing, like being a gay man in 1970s San Francisco
unable to procure even for money so much as a hand-job in
a public bathhouse.
On the surface, it may seem as though this has nothing to
do with the collapse of the Adelphia empire, and the telling
news of the imminent arrest of the Rigases. And of course,
this is true—there is no real connection. But that does
not prevent us from insisting that the whole thing really
is connected, that this city's petty dealer network's repeated
failure to obtain drugs for BEAST employees is but one symptom
of a widespread societal malaise that even SEC Chairman Harvey
Pitt—a well-known speed freak, incidentally—could
not fail to recognize.
The recent spate of forest fires that raged across the American
Southwest was yet another result of the failure to keep a
steady flow of drugs into this office. On the night when an
8,600-acre fire approached the California-Nevada border, inching
close to homes in sleepy Topaz Lake, Nevada , we thought we
had a deal set to buy 20 grams of speed from some junkie out
in Cheektowaga. The punk never showed. The next day, there
was this news that the fires had pulled back just short of
residential properties.
We at the BEAST are certain that if we'd had all the speed
we needed that night, we could have done nothing to assist
in fighting those fires. In fact, even if we'd been at the
very fire site, with our fingers just inches way from a button
which, when pressed, could have extinguished every last flicker,
we would have been too stupid and too busy chatting and wired
to figure it out. But we would at the very least been up all
night talking to each other. Then, the next morning, when
we learned that the fires had advanced, we would have said,
"Gosh, what a bummer."
But we didn't say that. What we said when we woke up was,
"That little asshole. He PROMISED! He PROMISED!" You see,
our social consciences are now seriously impaired, which means
trouble for everyone. When the youth of this nation lose their
sense of idealism, it is not long before the whole country
follows suit. And then where will we be? We ask you, then
where will we be?
If everyone would just work a little harder to get us the
drugs we need, then we would, finally, have all the drugs
we need. That's the real issue here.
This editorial led off with something about Adelphia, so in
closing, let us just say, forget about Adelphia, find some
drugs, and call us. Seriously, this is getting ridiculous.
What are we, lepers? We've got money, for Christ's sake. The
number's listed right here in the paper. Call us anytime.
And, damn it, hurry.
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