B.A. all the WAY

Pot. Acid. Blow. It's 2008, and this is what innocent little teenagers, the precious babies of parents across the globe, the lights of the lives of married couples everywhere, the same kids who used to be those pudgy little babies who were breast-fed until they were four, the same chubby tykes who rode a trike with a seat that opened up to put secret treasures like dead cicadas in, are into. High school doesn't just open up a world of oppurtunities, but a world of things to put your Little Cotton Candy Buns under the influence. So what do we non-conformers do when everyone else is "puffin' the magic dragon"and "takin a trip to Narnia?" We use our above-the-influence-imaginations and think of alternate resources so we too can go around for hours saying, "I'm sooooo fucked uuuuup, maaaannnnn." to someone who will reply with, "Maaaannnnnn, I'MMMMM sooooo fucked uuuuuup." and then WE can rebuttle with, "We are BOTH soooooo fucked uuuuuuup." So what do we do, you ask? You ponder? You bite your fingernails and get down on your knees begging to know? We chug some cream.

There's three parts to a pre-party "get-fucked-up-fest." Steal, chug, and smack. It all starts at whatever gas station looks to be the most crowded on that promising Saturday night. You go in. You don't make eye contact with ANYONE. You just maintain that furrowed brow like you're REALLY looking for something, something you've been searching for for hours now at every gas station across the nation, and all you're thinking is, "It must be here somewhere. It must be here somewhere." You may even mutter a little to yourself, "Somewhere...must be..." but don't be too loud or you'll look crazy and crazy people in gas stations are always sketch. Then you go behind the coffee bar, which is always conveniently located on the opposite end from the cashier, grab the goods, and don't BOLT, but slowly walk out, then turn around and take one last glance-over, maintaing that furrowed brow, as if you're thinking, "One last look...I just can't believe they couldn't have it..." then shake your head in despair, you may even throw your hands up in the air in complete defeat, but not too high or you'll look like someone is pointing a gun at you and saying, "HANDS UP!" and then you'll freak everyone out and really draw attention to yourself, and leave. So you're in the car, and you pull out the choices. Amaretto. Bailey's Irish Cream. Chocolate Caramel. Hey, maybe good ol' fashioned Vanilla does it for you. And no, I'm not talking about the big containers. Please. As if you'd EVER get away with THAT in your pocket. I'm talking about those itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny creamers that us coffee-drinkers have become so addicted to. (It starts with one, "oh I'll just give it a try" then two, "one more and it will be perfect," then three, "one more can't possibly hurt...i'm already doin two" then four, "three just doesn't do it for me anymore, I NEED MORE" and by the time you reach five little flavored creamers in your coffee it's more cream than coffee and you're pretty much a goner.) So you choose your preference. You chug it. And NO, that's NOT the non-alcoholic-get-fucked-up-secret. Come ON. You think a dose of vanilla is gonna get you feelin' loose? HERE'S what people don't know about those little gas station coffee bars. Located next to the creamers are the Stoks. That's right, Stoks. They look like cream. They taste like shit. And THEY, my friends, are what get us folks who have grown rather fond of our brain cells over the years, "fucked uuuuup maaaannnnn." It's what we call "BLACK Cream" with a WARNING label that states "18 AND UP" and "LIMIT TO ONE PER DAY." That's right. Talk about BAD. ASS. Heroin? PLEASE. Anyone can stick a needle in their arm. My doctor does it a few times a year. Try chugging concentrated caffeine. Now THAT'S something to brag about. Follow it up with one more cream (Amaretto this time, perhaps? A house favorite.) and smack your lips. THEN...prepare to get STOKED.

"Hey! Where are you guys?"

"We'll be there in a minute. We need to pick up some stuff."

"What stuff? You mean..."

"We're gettin Stoks."

"Stoks? I've never even HEARD of those...are they new?"

"Relatively. Just be ready. We are gonna be stoked UP."

"Be careful driving! Don't take too many."

"I've chugged them plenty of times before. I'll be fine."

"CHUGGED? Natasha, please be careful. PLEASE. I don't want you to get caught."

"I've never been caught. I nab these things every weekend."

"Stealing STOKS? Natasha! You could go to JAIL!"

"Look we're here."

"Hold on. Natasha is doing Stoks tonight!"
"What are Stoks?"
"They get you stoked up and she has to steal them!"
"Woah! I've never even HEARD of those!"
"That's what I said!"
"That means they must be REALLY dangerous!"
"Natasha is SO B.A. Okay I'm back. Hurry! And be careful, okay? Dont' let the cops see you!"

"There's actually a cop in there right now."

"WHAT? Where ARE you?!"

"Gotta go. No time to explain. I'm gettin' gas and then the stoks and I'll be there."

"Okay, bye! She's getting stoks and she said she's gettin GAS. Probably some other drug we haven't heard about..."

"B.A. all the WAY!"

So you know my secret. The secret I have shared with oh-so-few lucky individuals. As Gandoff would say, "Keep it secret. Keep it safe." For, as you will see the next time you stop at the On the Run Tigermart, STOKS come in few quantities. There's two containers: SWEET and UNSWEET. (Get the Sweet. It still tastes like shit, but more like shit with splenda.) And you'll want to grab a few for your buddies, because everyone knows it's not as fun to be the ONLY fucked-up one. So the next time everyone is chokin' and tokin'...you'll be STOKIN.'