For too long, crack has been ghettoized. It’s about time someone let the crumbling white cat out of the bag: Crack was never just the “street drug” its opponents said it was. It’s actually tailor-made for white guys—many of the fat, pasty, pink-faced, quote-unquote “fiscally conservative” variety. Why do you think it’s rumored that the CIA went to such trouble to set “Freeway” Rick Ross up in business and get the whole “bolo” thing off the ground back in the day? Don’t believe that guff about selling cocaine to pay for the Contras? Are you kidding? Team Reagan just wanted to get their paws on some rocks, all pre-cooked and good to go, so they had a direct line without having to shop on the down-low or figure out how to put coke in a pot with baking soda and get it to cake up on their own. (You ever try it? One wrong move and you’ve $300 bucks worth of cocaine grits. Might as well go full Paula Deen and just dump in butter and serve the shit with fritters.)
Rob Ford is some freak Canadian thing, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t representative of his closeted pipe-sucking brothers to the south.
Sidenote: Drug warriors have long maintained that Nancy Reagan was misquoted in her famous imprecations to curious teens: What she really said was “Just say snow.” But I digress.
I know what you’re muttering: When we think of American mayors on crack, we think Marion Berry. Rob Ford is just some Freak Canadian Thing. Well, you’re half right. He is some freak Canadian thing, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t representative of his closeted pipe-sucking brothers to the south. Ford’s claim to fame is fiscal hawkdom. His slogan is “I watch every dollar” – and I know this from watching his talk show, which he started with his brother immediately after being stripped of power by those blue-noses in the Toronto City Council.
Ford Nation lasted exactly one episode – but kudos to Sun Media for putting it on the air. Obviously, the forward-looking bigwigs at Sun thought the public was ready for “Crack Chat,” a whole genre of its own—and not a new one, either. Have you watched Meet The Press Lately? David Gregory’s questions pack the same whiff of ass-kissy desperation as an up-for-a-week pipehead telling you he likes your hair before hitting you up for a twenty. (To quote Jonathan Swift, “climbing is performed in the same position as crawling.”) Young Dave needs Access—or “Crack-cess,” as the wags in the NBC makeup parlor like to snicker. Where’s a butane torch when you need one?
Speaking of butane, I’m not the only one to notice the “torch tan.” A certain prominent politician is working from the neck up. I mean, I hate rumors as much as the next guy, but let’s just say it takes more than a tanning booth to get that not-found-in-nature chemical orange. Spend a few thousand nights sucking fun-fumes from a scalding hot stem, and your face will change colors too. (You’ll also weep a lot. Nerves get raw on the Devil’s Dandruff.) I knew a white guy in the Tenderloin whose face turned baboon-butt pink after a bad rock run. It even seeped a little, which the free clinic volunteer said was from flame-based excito-toxins.
The right lighter is important for your crack professional. As for dark tales of high-end firestarters, stamped with the Congressional Seal—perfect for late-night Iowa caucus confabs—who knows? It may be urban legend. But I did once sit next to a famously right-wing Texas legislator on a DC shuttle who ogled a catalogue, reciting the specs for a Colibri Coleman Flexion. I can still hear his voice, in a gently accented Rick Perry purr: “Black. Soft flame. Single-action ignition. Extendable, flexible goose-neck nozzle.”
At “goose-neck nozzle,” I’m nauseous to relate, the man actually moaned, in a Ron Jeremy kind of way, and I don’t even want to speculate what went on south of his seatbelt. Which takes us back to Mayor Ford, who actually requires a manly two seatbelts, Chris Christie-style. For the husky Ford—who proudly told Matt Lauer he had no need for any kind of drug of alcohol rehabilitation—smoking crack does not say “addict.” It says “Man of the People.” Let your fancy-pants Congressmen like Florida’s Trey “Drug Tests for Food-Stamp Leeches” Radell buy the sniffy stuff, so he can sit around with deep-pockets donor climate-deniers and snort ColombianDrano. Big Rob doesn’t play that.
His Honor does what he says and he says what he does. For that I love him, people. Whether he’s got a glass dick in his mouth or not, he’s not afraid to say “I suck.”