SUNDAY BREAKFAST

It’s been quite a while since I had cocaine for breakfast, and never with the kind of de luxe utensils pictured here – implements from those lost days when pissing away all of one’s substance on coke was the ultimate display of wholly irresponsible affluence and temporary success, and could lead to mindless and anonymous fucking, endless bouts of babbling dementia, and elaborately paranoid theorizing. I mean, shit, it was rough back in those terrible times when the razors scraped the glass in nightclub toilets and the western world and it’s culture could only survive on cocaine, Mandrax, and maybe the odd valium if a boy needed a nap. We were forced to tolerate movies like The Godfather, records like Exile On Main Street, comedians like Richard Pryor, and writers like Hunter Thompson. Thank the lord we have put all that behind us so we can comport ourselves with sober dignity and content ourselves with Coldplay and Smurfs the Movie.

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The secret word is Escobar