You're Never Too Young To Start Manufacturing Crack

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Yep. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, some elementary school students have been suspended for the manufacturing and distribution of "Happy Crack." What is "Happy Crack" you ask? Well, it's Kool-Aid crystals mixed with sugar by these enterprising junior Tony Montanas and distributed in plastic bags.

Wait a minute. What the fuck?

Kool-Aid crystals? Perfectly legal.

Granulated sugar? Perfectly legal.

Kool-Aid crystals And granulated sugar? Suspension material.

What the fuck?

Okay, sure, one could argue that meth is manufactured from a lot of perfectly legal components, but come the fuck on, Kool-Aid crystals and sugar? I could probably inject that shit raw into my veins and maybe, just maybe, I'll be a bit hyper for an hour.

What's the street value of that shit anyway? Maybe $0.50 for 30 lbs? I'm just guessing here, but this certainly is a very poor drug dealing operation at best.

And I know that you're probably thinking that I'm admonishing the educational system for suspending students for this. But you know what? I'm all for the suspensions.

You have to teach kids right and "Happy Crack" just isn't going to ween addicts off of their other joneses. It's a slap in the face for the education system when they can't even get their students to start a profitable drug distribution ring. You have to suspend those little bastards so that next time they'll get it right.

Classic Michael Appleby

Broccoli Farts
“Starting a poem ‘Love is’
seems just so…so…so…
unoriginal,”
I say.

“Stop worrying about it and
just do it. Who gives a fuck?
You’re the artist, it’s your art.
Do what you want,”
She replies.

I love it when she swears,
but I haven’t told her that before.

And she lets one rip,
long and loud, thick like I can see it,
a fart with dreams of world domination,
a war trumpet of the intestinal tract.
Giggles, then starts to billow the sheets
‘til we’re bathed in methane.

And really, I’m not reminded of dinner.

I’m imagining the scents of jasmine and lavender.
Detections of red rose,
white oleander.

Okay, maybe not.

But I abide. I don’t care.
I’m used to her scent by now.

And I let one roar of my own,
deep like a foghorn,
cutting through bedding
like an ocean liner through the mist.

She groans
and I reciprocate
by billowing the sheets some more.

“Take that,”
I quip.

And before I know it
I’ve rolled over to turn on the bedside lamp,
letting me scratch in my notebook:

Love is the broccoli farts
we feel wash over our skin
as welcomed matching
one piece footy pajamas
and we don’t care.
We’ll wear them with pride.

-Michael Appleby
October, 2004