[ibogaine] Purifying Heroin
ptpeet at nyc.rr.com
Wed Apr 3 13:54:12 EST 2002
>and then there was that scopalamine[spell?] laced dope the dominicans were
selling that nearly killed my wife...<
Most unpleastant those adulterants, eh?
For those interested, here's a little tale about adulterants.
She snatches the bundle from his hand without a thank you, then sits on her
bed to prepare a shot.
"Oh yeah. She said to be careful, that it's strong as hell. So do us both a
favor, and only do one to begin with, would you?" Though he'd blown it off
before, there's no reason for her not to be careful. She has a bunch of
bags. If one isn't enough, she can always do more.
She does the same thing he did and ignores the warning, telling him she
knows what she's doing while tearing open a second bag to dump in the
"No, seriously, just do one." She starts to pour it in. "At least put only
some of that one in there, OK?" For some reason she does as he asks,
stopping when it's half in the cooker.
As she cooks up, he does the same. He mixes all the dime of coke with most
of the bag of dope. His habit is different than her's. While he is heavily
strung-out, he will at times get so into coke bingeing he will leave himself
no money for a wake-up bag of heroin. He's completely into the psychosis of
cocaine, always needing More. The dope is a physical need, while the coke is
purely psychological. This time the fact that he shoots a speedball just may
save his girlfiend's life.
His girlfiend gets hers into her rig, and hence into her arm before he
does. She moves quickly, with a practiced ease, tying off, booting it
without a hitch. She loosens the scarf, sits back, then the day really goes
all to shit.
"It's no good, it's no good!" She wails at him, her eyes widening and her
face turning bright red. "Don't do it, Don't!" She lunges forward trying to
stop him from doing his, but he's already mixed all of his coke into it. He'
s unable to throw it away. Besides, she may be wrong. It could be fine, or
just weak. He can't help himself, and shoots his in.
Well, she's right, it's no good. He can immediately see and feel, even with
the effects of the coke rushing through him, that whatever it is he bought,
it most definitely is not heroin. He feels a buzzing, vibrating sensation
all over his body, from his head to his toes. His vision goes out of whack,
leaving him unable to bring his eyes into clear focus. It is not a
comfortable, clean high at all, and it isn't the coke. He instantly thinks
maybe they've shot some PCP, or something like it.
His girlfiend meanwhile is beginning to bug out. Repeating over and over
that it's no good, she starts to thrash around on her bed, as though she
could escape the effects of the drug by moving out of the way. Crawling one
way, then back, she grows more manic, then pukes everything in her stomach
out in one huge spray, coating the TV and all of her tape cassettes in a
thick, dripping film of vomit. Though it appears she should be empty after
this much effluence, it doesn't stop. She starts to retch and heave,
bringing up the most unhealthy green bile Thomas has ever seen. It gets in
her long, uncombed hair, on her clothes, and spread around in her sheets.
In this psychotic, drug-induced panic, she can't stop crying and shrieking,
working herself into a state of uncontrollable terror. This goes on. When he
tries to reach out and calm her with a hug, she freaks out completely at his
touch, punching him in the head, howling even louder as she kicks one of her
bookshelves off the wall while struggling to get away from him.
Then she changes gear, going utterly catatonic, sitting on the side of the
bed in the bile and debris staring off into space. He doesn't know what to
do. She's not in good shape, but he would rather not call the police. What's
he going to tell them? That he bought his girlfiend bad drugs? Who knows
what kind of charges they might think up to hit him with? He doesn't want to
Then again, she isn't responding other than to swing at him and shriek each
time he attempts to touch her and get her to communicate. Waving his hand in
front of her eyes gets no response. She looks like she's peering intently at
something a thousand yards through and behind him. There's no sign that she
is aware of him being there. Even when she struggles and freaks out at his
touch, she doesn't seem conscious of him. Having done his own little
portion, he isn't in great shape either, but the coke appears to have cut it
somehow, allowing him to cope better with the results.
After some serious torment and soul searching, Thomas finds the phone
underneath all the mess, and calls 911. He's crying, scared to death that he
's given his girlfiend some kind of poison, and that now she's screwed. Not
that she didn't already have her problems, but now she's really out there.
He doesn't know if she's going to come back. He's heard all kinds of stories
about people taking too much of one thing or another, and the results.
Thomas waits for the paramedics to show up with all these awful thoughts
running through his mind. She treats him like a dog, but he still cares
about her. If she's permanently fucked up, he'll never forgive himself.
Besides all his worries about her mental state, there's the problem of what
the police are going to say. He's not even supposed to be in the apartment.
He has been banned from the apartment by her room-mate. He sleeps at the top
of her stairwell some nights, keeping back out of sight, but if her roomie
knows that he's been inside the apartment she is going to throw a fit. Not
to mention the fact that the police and paramedics are on the way. The
owners of the building own a real estate office on the ground floor. It's
going to pretty obvious to them there's something going on in their building
when everyone shows up, lights going, sirens wailing. "Why is this happening
to me," he wonders. And what's he going to tell the paramedics when they get
He doesn't have a long wait. Thomas left the front door ajar so they could
come in when they arrive, and they do. Pushing open the door, first to enter
are two paramedics, a man and a woman, with a couple police officers close
"Tell us what happened. What'd she take?" The woman paramedic grills him.
"I don't know what it was, but she didn't do that much. It was supposed to
be heroin, but I can tell you, it's not." Thomas doesn't want to get charged
with anything, but he wants them to be able to help as well. So he tries to
be honest with her, without telling her or the others that he was the one
who scored the gear.
"Are you going to be able to do something for her? I don't want her to die.
Please help her."
"Is she violent?" The woman asks. "I'm not going to touch her if she is. I'
m not going to get bit or scratched by anyone, no way." Because his
girlfiend has been sitting stationary on the bed for the last fifteen
minutes or so without uttering a peep, Thomas thinks that maybe she's not
going to freak out anymore.
"No, I think she's OK now." He looks at the cops and paramedics standing
outside of the bedroom looking in at his girlfiend but making no move to
enter the room and examine her. "Come on, help her. She's fucked up.
Somebody do something for her already, please."
Turning back, he sees her reach out her hand, grasping her fingers at
something none but her can see. Her face is lit up, glowing red, with a tiny
smile on her lips, and that thousand yard stare. She looks possessed.
The two paramedics move past Thomas into the room. There's not a lot of
space in the room to maneuver, but they manage to get close enough for the
woman to crouch down next to the bed.
"Hey there sweetheart, how you doing? You OK?" Her voice soft and soothing,
the paramedic attempts to communicate with his girlfiend. "We're here to
help." The paramedic reaches out and touches her arm.
His girlfiend explodes in a flurry of fists and feet, throwing punches in
all directions, hollering a primal sound, high and piercing. The paramedic
jumps back after receiving a glancing blow to her forehead, and refuses to
go near again.
"Get those cops in here, we're going to have to subdue her. We can't touch
her like this." The two paramedics step back, giving the officers, by now
joined by two more, room to get into the bedroom. There's little space in
the tiny apartment, much less in the bedroom, but they all push forward,
eager to display their finesse at handling an unruly junkie. The first one
tries to enter the room past Thomas, who sees handcuffs in the cop's hand.
"Wait a minute, hold on." Thomas can't believe they're going to put cuffs
"Shut up boy, and step back." The cop towers over Thomas, trying to
intimidate him, and partially succeeds. "Hey girl, listen up!" The cop
thunders at Thomas's girlfiend in his best tough-cop voice. "You better
behave or I'm going to put these cuffs on you and drag you out of here by
your hair. Now shape up, and get a grip on yourself. We aren't playing a
Thomas stares at the cop uncomprehending. Did he really say all that just
now? The two paramedics are also staring at the cop, so Thomas suspects he
"You can't put her in cuffs, man." Thomas speaks up again, disgusted at the
officer's callousness. Thomas is having trouble keeping his balance, having
shot the poison as well, but he doesn't want them to know. "She's a hundred
pounds, and you guys are going to use cuffs? That's going to make her even
worse if you go in there all hostile and belligerent. Take it easy. Let me
try to get her calmed enough to at least get her into the kitchen, where
there's a little more room." He moves forward and stumbles, falling into
some clothing and boxes by the bedroom door. The woman paramedic helps him
up, trying to get a good look into his eyes.
"You're not looking so good yourself, kid. You seem like you could use some
medical attention too. Let me take a look at you, make sure you're alright."
She seems genuinely interested in helping, but he doesn't want that. He
wants to stay away from that, so he can take care of his girlfiend, and keep
track of what happens to her. He's going to have to lock up her place once
this is over, and make sure she gets some clothing because the stuff she has
on isn't going to cut it. She's vomited all over herself, and she's only
wearing a nightgown anyway.
The police manage to get her into the kitchen fairly easily, but once
there, the officers have to manhandle her to keep her still while they tie
her to a stretcher-chair so she can be carried down the stairs, which are
narrow, and steep.
"Help me! No! Get away from me! Help Me!" Squirming and pulling, trying to
throw herself out of their grasp, she lets loose with the most blood
curdling shrieks and screams Thomas has ever heard. Now he knows the meaning
of bloodcurdling scream. He can only watch helplessly as they finish tying
her tightly to the chair, then carry her out the door, all the while
wondering what nightmare is playing in her mind. He feels so terrible, and
sad. He watches them go out the door, then turns back to the bedroom,
grabbing the cleanest jeans and a T-shirt from the mess on the floor, a pair
of boots, and throws it all into his pack. Stepping back into the kitchen,
there stands the girlfiend's roomie.
. "What in the Hell are you doing in here?!" She really doesn't like him
what-so-ever, not the least little bit. She's fuming at the sight of him
standing in her apartment. What with all the cops streaming past her in the
stairs carrying his girlfiend, her room-mate, tied in a chair wailing at the
top of her lungs all the way down the six flights, and the landlord of the
building standing on the landing outside her door when she arrives home, it'
s no wonder she's mad. "Get the hell out of my apartment! Don't you ever
show your face here again, damn you!" She points her finger at him. He walks
around her trying to get to the street before they drive away with his
"I'll be right back." He says, then bolts down the stairs, three at a time.
He manages to get out the front door before they leave. They won't let him
go with her in the ambulance.
"No kid, you can't go. We're taking her to St. Vincent's, so if you want to
meet us there, that's fine. But you can't ride with us. Now let us work."
The paramedic sees the expression on his face, and tries to reassure him.
"Don't worry, she's going to be fine." He's glad to hear it, but instantly
thinks of the next most immediate problem. He still has to go back upstairs
and get his pack, which he put down by the door and forgot to pick back up
before his sprint downstairs.
After the ambulance drives away, he climbs upstairs, wondering how he's
going to survive this disaster of a day. The roomie and the landlord are
waiting for him with two of the officers. The four of them do not look happy
when he tops the stairs.
"Where are her keys?" The roomie starts first. "Huh? If you have them you'd
better give them to me right now." He does have them, planning on closing up
the apartment, not knowing the roomie would be arriving at such an
inopportune moment as she has. He walks into the bedroom, and picks up the
girlfiend's set of keys.
"Here, I wasn't going to do anything stupid. You can have them." He hands
them over, and she checks them.
"Where's the key to the front door?" Now she's really upset, more
accusatory. "Give it to me!"
"I don't have it. I thought it was on that key ring." He is adamant about
this. He doesn't want the key, and doesn't have it as far as he's concerned.
"No, it's not here. Officer, tell him he'd better give it to me." She looks
to one of the cops, the same one who'd threatened his girlfiend earlier.
"That's right boy. You'd better hand the key over if you have it, or I'm
going to have to search you. If I find it, I'm going to charge you with
attempted burglary. How's that grab you?" The cops hitches up his utility
belt, sucking in his gut as he cocks his chin up, glaring at Thomas who
feels quite alone.
"I'm telling you all, I don't have the damned key...," he trails off upon
reaching into his pocket. He feels a foreign object, and pulls it out with a
sheepish grin. "Well, what do you know. The key." Seeing their faces,
especially roomie's, Thomas again insists, "I didn't remember. Honestly." He
really doesn't remember grabbing the key at all, even now that he's found it
in his own pocket. The drug they shot must be screwing up his brain more
than he's aware, and it scares him. More than the landlord, who starts in on
"You have been told not to come around here again, yet you are always here.
The police have been called a couple of times in the last week about you,
but you've been gone by the time they arrived. Now I'm telling you to your
face. Don't come back, you or your junkie girlfiend! You understand me? I'll
have your ass in jail, both of you if anyone sees either of you here again."
He glowers at Thomas, who's aghast. This guy is evicting his girlfiend over
this. This is not good.
"You hear him, boy?" The cop has to put his two cents in, telling Thomas
that he'll personally take the call if it comes through, that he'll be glad
to lock him up right now if either of them want to press charges for
Thomas thinks for a moment that they might do it, but after a couple of
heart-stopping seconds, they both shake their heads. Reaching through the
door, Thomas grabs his pack off the floor, and heads downstairs, the roomie'
s voice following after.
"I'm serious, tell her she's out. She can get her stuff when she gives me
the money she owes me!"
Thomas feels drained, and wobbly. His skinny, undernourished body has
trouble going on. He feels like he could sleep for a week. But he's nowhere
near sleeping yet. He has to go to the hospital and check on his girlfiend,
but first has to return the poisoned dope, and tell the woman not to sell
anymore to anyone because she might kill them.
He walks unsteadily back to Twelfth and Ave. C, and calls up to the
dealer's apartment to tell her the news. She's a decent person, other than
for the fact she deals heroin, and sounds genuinely concerned.
"Bring back what you have left, and I'll replace it," she says. "Your girl
must have done more than one. I warned you."
"No, that's not it." He has to keep from raising his voice. "She has a high
tolerance to dope. She didn't do even two whole bags. The stuff is shit. It'
s poison. Call your connection and tell him that he's selling you fucking
PCP or something. Don't you do your own drugs?" He doesn't want to believe
she would sell him something she knew was bad, but in this business, at this
level, anything is possible.
She denies having tried the dope. He can't do anything but take her at her
word. She tells him he can bring it up right now, and she'll take care of
Shit, now he realizes he forgot it sitting in his girlfiend's bedroom.
"I don't have it right now. I'll have to bring it by later."
"OK, whenever, just call before you come up." Thomas hopes she means it,
and isn't just blowing him off.
Hanging up, he now has to get all the way across the city to St. Vincent's
Hospital at 7th Ave. At least an hour has passed since he started walking,
so his girlfiend is surely admitted into the hospital by now. Within a block
of Ave. C, Thomas sees a young guy getting into his car, and stops to ask if
he'd would be willing to give him a ride to St. Vincent's. The guy
hesitates, obviously checking out Thomas's dirty, disheveled appearance, so
Thomas comes right out and tells him why he has to get to the hospital.
"My girlfiend has been admitted for an overdose. I really need to get over
there as fast as possible. Please give me a ride. I'll give you a dollar
and...," reaching into his pocket, Thomas pulls out all the change he has,
"...and thirty-two cents. Please man, it's important."
"Alright, why not. I'm heading that way anyway. Jump in." The guy smiles.
Once in the car they drive straight across town. All the way over, the guy
regales Thomas with tales of his own mishaps and problems with drugs, asking
Thomas if he's ever thought about giving it all up.
"Sure I have, but it's impossible. There's no way I can do it. I say all
the time I hate how I'm living and how I really don't want to be doing this
anymore, but it doesn't help. I think I'm going to die a junkie. The only
way to get into treatment is getting arrested or having insurance. Besides,
it's what I do best."
The guy is quiet, letting Thomas speak, but when he's done, the guy
"I was really strung out too, but I've been clean four years now. I've
never gone back to it. It was difficult, but it wasn't impossible. I just
really wanted to quit. Have you ever tried meetings?"
Great, a born again drug abuser. To Thomas, these are the most infuriating.
They're always so understanding, and so goddamned happy. He hates them. He
always feels a complete failure whenever he meets someone who has
successfully kicked the habit. Seeing this guy's healthy, smiling face,
Thomas gets even more depressed. "Yeah, well, we'll see. Maybe someday."
Thomas has gone to meetings in the past, always fucked up or jonesing for
more drugs. Never has he felt he got anything out of a meeting other than
feelings of shame and despair at not fitting in, and repeated comments about
how sick everyone is, no matter how long they've stayed clean. That never
has made sense to Thomas.
"Well, here's my number. If you ever want to go with someone, or if you
just need to talk, feel free. Give me a call." He hands Thomas a business
card as they pull up to the hospital. "Here we are. Best of luck with
everything. I'll be praying for you and your girlfiend." Thomas looks at the
card, but can't read the printing. The drugs in his system are still
screwing up his vision, making it impossible for him to focus.
Thanking the guy, he climbs out of the car, and tries to give the guy the
dollar and change. The driver laughs it off. "No way man, you keep it. I'm
glad I could help you out. Take care, and give me a call sometime." He
"Excuse me, can you help me? I need to find someone who was admitted here
within the last hour or so. She came in by ambulance for an over-dose."
Thomas asks at the information desk, still off-balance from whatever it was
they shot up. The woman behind the desk tells him to go around the corner to
the emergency room where they will be able to help him.
In the emergency room, he's allowed to visit with his girlfiend for just a
minute or two. Then he has to sit in the waiting room until the next
visiting time. He spends the rest of the afternoon waiting in the lobby
area, then going back to the emergency room for ten minutes, then back out
to the lobby for another fifty minutes until the next ten minute visiting
The first time in to see her, she doesn't recognize him. She's still
staring off into space. The staff have tied her wrists and ankles to the
sides of the bed. Her face is still glowing red and shiny. Her eyes stare at
whatever it is only she can see. When Thomas asks the doctor what she shot,
he tells him they aren't sure, but that they think she shot some kind of
hallucinogen. That's no surprise.
"What kind of hallucinogen?" Thomas asks.
"Son, we don't know exactly. All I can tell you is we can't do much of
anything for her other than sit and wait for the effects to wear off. She'll
be here all day, I can tell you that. Now get out of my way. I've got some
other people to take care of, people who are really sick." The doctor turns
and walks away.
The third time Thomas goes in to see her, she gives him a big smile,
saying, "Hey, I know you. Don't I?" Still tied to the bed, her hands don't
stop moving, working at the ties holding her trapped. "Can you hand me those
"What bags, baby?" He doesn't know what she's talking about.
"They're in my purse, under my leg. I snuck them in with me. Come on, hurry
up. Before they come back." She tries to reach down alongside of her leg,
but he knows there's no purse there.
Seeing her in this state makes him feel even worse than before. Is she ever
going to be ok? This keeps running through his mind. Has he driven her crazy
for real? He can't stand the thought. When he sees a nurse he asks her.
"Well, we're going to have to just wait and see," she tell him. "There's no
way to tell yet, but I think she'll be fine, once the drugs wear off. Take
it easy, and go sit down. We'll let you know if there are any changes."
Back in the lobby of the emergency room, Thomas picks up a magazine,
attempting to read to kill time. Reading was his first drug ever. As a
child, he would read constantly. He's the only person he's ever known who
used to get into trouble for reading too much in school. Now though, he can'
t get his eyes to focus on the letters. It looks as though they are turned
around backwards, upside down, as well as being tripled, so the words and
letters are all jumbled together, making it impossible for him to read. If
he holds his hand out in front of his face, he can only begin to focus when
his hand is held out full length. Even then it doesn't come in completely
Fed up with trying to read, he goes outside to get something to munch on
with his dollar and change. Grabbing as many twenty-five cent cookies as he
can get, he goes back over to the hospital, and sits outside in the sun to
wait some more.
This has got to be the worst day he's had in weeks. Maybe it's time for him
to give up, admit that he can't take this kind of pain any longer. Always
having to justify his ripping people off. Forever having to scramble for the
next shot. Dodging dogmatic angry cops. Eating at soup kitchens and in
hand-out lines in the park. Wearing anything he can find lying out on the
sidewalk. Carrying all his worldly possessions in a plastic shopping bag.
After today, it just doesn't seem worth it anymore. Freezing at night, then
having too many clothes to lug around during the day. Scrimping and begging,
counting up the small change, only to get ripped off buying shit that's no
damn good. He's seen signs up on the wall at the needle exchange with brand
names of drugs that have killed people, things like KIA, 911, Silver Bullet,
but never has he come across one until today. At least the two of them aren'
t dead, which he supposes is a good thing, but neither of them have any
money for another bag, and they're both already sick. There's never a break.
He can't afford to give himself one.
Each day Thomas does something else he hates to get the drugs, commits some
crime risking arrest, and he hates it. There's a feeling inside him that he
crossed a line somewhere, and never even saw the thing. Now he has to pay
for all the fucked up things he does to get high, to punish himself. In
order for him to live with these feelings, he continues getting high. It's
the one sure way to kill the pain of living. This perpetuates the cycle,
always leaving him right back where he started. He doesn't feel deserving of
a break. He carries on in same old way, never giving himself the chance to
get away from it all, to step back and see clearly that the using drugs to
not deal with emotions and feelings of normal living is what's hurting him
It's a very self-centered kind of lifestyle, one that breeds deep,
harrowing loneliness. Wrapped up in his own sorrows, always feeling sorry
for himself, it's easy to get into the sort of relationship he's in now.
Yes, he's very worried about his girlfiend, and wants her to get better, but
then what? He doesn't love himself at the moment, so how can he presume to
try and love someone else?
Shaking his head to clear these thoughts of introspection and despair from
his mind, he gets to his feet and goes back inside to check on his girlfiend
She's almost completely recovered, telling the nurses that she has to go
now, that she has to go to work and can't hang out any longer. It's almost
funny hearing her angry, determined voice. He soon realizes she doesn't
remember any of the incident. She only knows that she was in her apartment,
then tied down to a hospital bed, and doesn't know how or why. He begins to
explain what happened, but she starts to cry. The nurses come chase him out,
telling him she'll be able to go in the next hour or so. He walks into the
waiting room to sit and wait some more.
Picking up a newspaper, he's pleased to find that if he holds the paper
slightly further away than he normally would to read he can focus. Enough to
make out the meaning of words if he tries very hard, squinting and peering
at the pages held out in front of him. It becomes a game in which he tries
to see how close he can get the paper to his face before his focus goes, and
the time passes quickly. Soon a nurse tells him his girlfiend is ready to
Jumping up, he hurries in to help her if she needs it, but she waves him
away. Until this moment, he hasn't told her much about what happened, other
than for briefly saying something about her going nuts in her bedroom. That'
s what made her cry before, the fact that she had to be carried out on a
stretcher had really frightened her. Now Thomas has to tell her the rest of
They leave the hospital.
"Uh, listen honey. I need to tell you something." She's walking slowly,
talking about trudging over to her place where she has some more cash,
copping a bag, then going on to work. "Your room-mate and the landlord took
your keys. They said you were out of the place, that they were evicting
you." He doesn't mention the threat of the police yet.
She goes ballistic.
"What do you mean," she cries out. "They can't do that, it's not fucking
legal! I pay my rent! I have all my stuff in there. Fucking bitch, I'll kill
her if she tries anything like that! She cannot lock me out of my own place!
Come on, lets go." She turns and starts to march off towards her apartment,
down 7th Ave.
. "Wait up! They said that they would call the cops if you or I showed up
there. Don't do it honey!" He yells after her. She stops for a second,
taking in what he's said.
"They can go ahead and call the fucking cops! It's my place, and I have the
receipts for my rent too. You, yes, they can arrest you, but me, they can't
fucking touch me! I'm going home." She turns and walks off, leaving him
"What the hell do you want me to do?" He calls to her. She yells back over
her shoulder without turning.
"Do whatever you want, I don't fucking care!" She keeps walking. "Don't
come by, and wait a few days to phone me. I'll see you later."
He stands there on the sidewalk, watching her walk away. She's amazingly
spry for having spent the day tied to a hospital bed completely out of her
head. She isn't at all concerned with that. All she can think about is going
and having it out with her room-mate, getting herself straight, and getting
to work so that she will have money to get straight tomorrow. This is what
both their lives have come down to. Getting fucked up, because they're so
miserable with their lives. To get away from that self-hatred, and to cope
with the frustration, they do more drugs. She doesn't thank him for staying
with her all day, nor does she get angry at him for bringing her bad dope.
She really doesn't care about much of anything anymore, and neither has he
for quite some time. The scare is over. Now he has to go and make himself a
score. No time to ponder the depressing ironies of it all, he walks into
what has become the night, to cop another bag.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Gamma" <gammalyte9000 at yahoo.com>
To: <ibogaine at mindvox.com>
Sent: Wednesday, April 03, 2002 1:17 PM
Subject: Re: [ibogaine] Purifying Heroin
> --- "Patrick K. Kroupa" <digital at mindvox.com> wrote:
> > On [Wed, Apr 03, 2002 at 12:55:41PM -0500], [dross] wrote:
> > | it's pretty obvious what's in black tar heroin once you've
> > | with smoking tootsie rolls, same rotting garbage smell, same sickly
> > | taste, same high (well, kind of the same, tootsie rolls are a bit
> > | 'floatier')
> > Uhm, otay. I'm willing to take your word on that, and not test it out
> > myself. Sounds, uhm, splendid n stuff.
> hmmm... never tried that one. but hey just imagine all the metals/oils
> smoked offa dat aluminum foil! bionic lungs!
> and then there was that scopalamine[spell?] laced dope the dominicans were
> selling that nearly killed my wife...
> Do You Yahoo!?
> Yahoo! Tax Center - online filing with TurboTax
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