I wanna be a crack dealer when I grow up.
Random coffee induced thought of the night:
I should be a crack dealer. But not a creepy crack dealer, i wanna be a cooool crack dealer. I’ll be all laid back, smokin my crack, and I’ll be all like, “Hey kids. What it is? Stay in school, education is good for your brains and keeps the zombies away. They don’t like smart brains, which is why only the smart people ever survive in zombie movies. By the way, would you like some crack?”
I’ll even disguise the crack as candy disguised as crack disguised as candy, to throw off the cops.
And they’ll ask me why I’m selling crack disguised as candy disguised as crack to kids and I’ll say, “Because this is all I have left in life after your momma gave me AIDs.” And then they’ll have pity on me and I’ll get away with it.
And when I’m really old, I’ll retire from crack dealing, and buy a cabin out in the country, sit on my backporch and play a one-stringed banjo.
With my whiskey and my shotgun.
The end.
