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A R T S    &    C U L T U R E
Fun With Dairy Products
The Dormouse • November 1993

I woke up, hung over, around 1 p.m. on a Saturday morning, experiencing an acute case of nicotine withdrawal. But when I reached over for my Reds, the memory of smoking that magical last cigarette the night before came rushing back. So there I was, short on smokes, but, of course, long on bud. So I figured: Wake and Bake! Why not? After all it was the weekend, not as if it would have ultimately made much of a difference.

Looking over at Richard III, noted sovereign lord and king of the British Isles, and sweet glass bong, fond memories of rallying around his battle standard pushed through the remnant of my waking dreams, beckoning me forward. It just so happened that a couple of buddies of mine dropped by, ready to engage in another round of degeneracy. How could I refuse? Tubes and cable TV, two vices that go great together.

So there we were, packing bowls like the stuff was going to dematerialize any second. Richard dispensed the King’s Justice and yes, we were found guilty of smoking—with neither the speed nor the volume befitting a subject of such an august monarch. Our sentence: smoke till you drop, and we complied. Ah, how the chamber fills. The thick white smoke coalescing, beginning its not so long trek to my bloodstream. So smooth, so swift, so apocalyptic…

Well folks, I got power baked. There are those that would say, “But Mr. Dormouse, what’s so special about that?” Well I guess it’s time to impart Dormouse Tidbit #1: Don’t get hella baked when suffering nicotine withdrawal. Bad scene. You see, cigarettes give you something to do, and when you’re without them there is nothing to do but eat. Rummaging through the fridge, I found my housemate’s pound block of gourmet Swiss cheese. Dormouse Tidbit #2: Bud, dairy products, and an empty stomach don’t mix.

So I settled into a comfy chair, block of cheese in one hand, knife in the other, to watch a great flick, King Ralph. I macked that cheese like it was my job, and minutes later there was no more cheese. Then it began…

For some reason I was thinking of the opening line to Battle Star Galactica, you remember: “There are those that believe that life down here began out there, far away amongst the stars…”

I began to think that hey, maybe I’m one of those who believe… I knew at that point that something was seriously wrong. The movie took on three-dimensional proportions, John Goodman’s fat fuckin’ face was in mine. That was enough to get my stomach rumbling. Dormouse Tidbit #3: Bud, dairy products, and fat folk don’t mix. My vision began to deteriorate, the bitter taste of bile was in my mouth, and my old friend, the couch, started to pontificate on the virtues of medieval philosophy. With the speed of an Ethiopian chicken, I ran from the fat man to the bathroom, just in time to make an offering on the porcelain altar. Dormouse Tidbit #4: Try to get everything into its intended receptacle.

Folks, it was Technicolor yawn in Dolby Surround Sound. Chunks of Swiss cheese shot out of my mouth into the basin, as I pondered fluid dynamics and the average air speed velocity of a laden swallow. I heaved and heaved until I could heave no more. My back was arching and I was pulling on the toilet like I was trying to steal it. It took me a while to get all the porcelain out from under my fingernails.

Amid this horror, I thought that God was punishing me for taking my housemate’s “gourmet” Swiss cheese, but at that moment I was mercifully visited by my good friends, anesthesia, bliss, and unconsciousness. And when I awoke starving at 2:30 p.m., I figured that it would be a good time to flush the toilet, pull a couple tubes, and get some lunch.

—The Dormouse is the YFP correspondent to the underworld.

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