FBI meth bust has dramatic consequences for island stoners…
Last month a fed led investigation resulted in the arrest of five men on meth distribution charges in the little town I live in on Kauai.
As far as I was concerned, that was just great. Fuck meth. It’s a dirty drug, the bane of communities worldwide.
While most dope makes you want to chill, or fuck, or ramble on for hours about things that seem brilliant but are dumb as fuck come the light of day, meth is the only one that makes you want to leave the house and go do shit.
So, yeah, fuck tweakers. Lock ’em up, throw away the key. Don’t bring me some bullshit about rehabilitation. Nothing ruins lives quite as often as that damn drug. Except for alcohol, I guess.
Like steal, or fight, or freak out at the only public bathroom in Kapa’a and make my wife too uncomfortable to use it when she really, really, really needs to pee.
So, yeah, fuck tweakers. Lock ’em up, throw away the key. Don’t bring me some bullshit about rehabilitation. Nothing ruins lives quite as often as that damn drug. Except for alcohol, I guess.
Unforeseen consequences, though. Don’t life just love to toss ’em at ya?
I’ve gotta get fit and a big part of that requires I get off the sauce for a bit. Nothing packs on the pounds like sucking down six-to-eight beers a day, and in their absence, with minimal dietary adjustment and normal fun amounts of exercise, the pounds are just melting off. Yay for me! My boardshorts fit again!
But sobriety… that sucks.
I’m not trying to be some teetotaler judgment queen looking down my nose at all the chumps who need an altered state to be happy. Sure, I like to get high on life. But I love to get high on drugs.
So I smoke copious amounts of marijuana. I’ve never been much for uppers, and my dalliance with post-surgical opiates has taught me that I need to stay away from those fuckers. They’re just too good.
Which is why I met my hookup at a local happy hour last night. I’m out of pot.
Because I’m an adult, and because I can afford it, I’m over buying in small quantities several times a week. Much better to buy a big ol’ sack of weed every month or so, toss a handful in a mason jar, stick the balance in a dark place somewhere house guests won’t accidentally stumble onto it.
It’s a great system, people who sell drugs as adults are usually either kind of weird or outright sketchy, and I don’t like having them over to hang out. It’s a weird business deal where you have to pretend you’re friends and I’ve never really cared for it. And I’m not about to try and score from some fourteen year old at the local skatepark. Though, I’ll admit, when I first moved here and hadn’t made any connections yet I gave the idea some thought.
Which leads to the point I’ve been slowly rambling toward.
Last night, as I drank water and picked at shitty bar food and my connection sucked down half-price mixed drinks I got the bad news. The island is dry. Or, rather, not dry, but no one is selling. Especially not in quantity.
Turns out that the guys who got popped were proper businessmen, were well diversified. Thumbs in every pie, from weed to pills to so stepped on it’s been trampled coke to the garbage that passes for molly out here.
And, since all five are looking at life sentences, they’re rolling over like well-trained retrievers.
The drug world is in turmoil. Stashes are being stashed, dudes are going underground, the crafty ones are getting the hell out of Dodge and bouncing off island. Smart on their part, inconvenient on mine.
“What really sucks,” my connection said, “is that they had the local cops paid off. But it’s the FBI so they’ve gotta hide now.”
