Dear Ms. Human Resources...

Dear Ms. Human Resources:

Upon further review of my consent for urine drug screening in anticipation of potential employment, I noticed that I may have mistakingly answered question 13-c incorrectly. As you are aware, question 13-c asks the applicant if he/she is taking any prescription or over-the counter medications on a regular basis, and if they are, to list those medications. I mistakingly answered "no," but in reality, the correct answer to this question is "yes."

I'm on at least 4 different psych meds. Depakote is a mood-stabilizer they are giving me because I go up-and-down and up-and-down due to bipolar disorder. Then there's Risperdal, which is an anti-psychotic for hearing voices and stuff. I have some unwanted thoughts. I'm on generic Prozac. I also take one milligram of Klonopin a night to help calm me down. Apparently, if I didn't take these meds, I'd be in trouble, and so would the Marble Slab Creamery. Risperdal helps me to not think in psychotic ways. Like ripping the lips off of a colleague when they do not shut the fuck up. I hope you guys are not upset with me. I'm not really going to kill anybody - you can go to hell for that, you know.... Last night, I had a "little" meltdown. I was watching The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show from September 12, 1965, on a DVD, and I was looking at John Lennon, and I just lost it. I was yelling, "You mother-fucker - you lip-syncing mother fucker!!!" I mean, where the hell did THAT come from? So I looked up to him in heaven and said, "John, please forgive me; I don't know where those thoughts come from." John is NOT a mother-fucker, and I love him dearly and I love The Beatles dearly. So, I apologize to John. I'm on other psych meds as well. Clozaril is another anti-depressant. I take both 50 and 100 milligram pills of it. I'm also on Topamax. This anti-psych drug is for my mania. Once, I was in the rec-room with a bottle of multi-colored sand, and I sat down with a nail file and started separating the grains of sand by color. They added the Topamax when the nurse caught me with the sand, and I jabbed a pencil in her ear. I should have had neither the nail file nor the pencil.....

I'm also on Lipitor, for my cholesterol.

Psychiatry is only a 100 year old science, and we're just starting to understand the brain. Call me deluded, but I think that things are just a little too new. I'm quite sure that I have been misdiagnosed, and I've told my Psythiatrist this on numerous occasions, only to have Trilpetal and Manecdal (I think they are mood stabilizers) add to my drug regimen.

As you can plainly see, my missing this important item on your questionaire is an obvious and honest mistake.

Thank you for your consideration,

Captain Sharky

The Prophet, and Other Reasons that Peyote Should be Outlawed (wow, and now I understand that it is outlawed!)

It all started innocently enough. Feeling gainful employment to be imminent, I decided that maybe it was time to dry out. I brought my English Bulldog, Jake, to the beach with me for use as a chick-magnet.

I met a homeless man who told me a sad and tragic saga of his pathetic and miserable life. I've come to know this man only as "the Prophet." He is wiser than I, despite the fact that he only has a third grade education. Jake and I eat peyote buttons with the prophet, and have visions like you wouldn't believe. Jake has tripped the fuck out and shit all over the fucking place, and the Prophet is singing a "No Doubt" tune, but his lips arent moving. He can do that, because he is the Prophet - I know because he told me so (and his lips weren't moving then, either). He was the guy who played "Jesus" in "Jesus Christ - Superstar" in the 70's. He fell on hard times when "Cats" hit it big in the early 80's, lost it all in a wild, drunken night in vegas at the craps table, then hitchhiked to Galveston with a group of runaway lesbian nuns. Now he begs on the streetcorners and spends his spare change on chocolate slimfast shakes and stale, cheap cans of Copenhagen dip.

I light up a Pal Mal for Jake and myself, and we listen to the Prophet rap. That's right - rap. About being a slimfast-head and representin' at the Galveston County Health District Methadone Clinic, and telling stories about a handfull of lustful liaisons with Mama Cass Elliott (of the Mamas and Papas fame) back in the early 70's - before she choked on the ham sandwich. Insane fucking shit. I poured Jake a drink from my flask, and he soon was asleep and snoring at the feet of the Prophet.

I dropped another tab of acid and woke up to the sound of the Manager of the Commodore Motel, banging on the door again. Jake is going nuts. I asked the Prophet to answer the door, and I realize that he was never there at all. What a fucking trip. The Motel room is a fucking mess; everything is broken.

.....I hope the folks at the Hospital don't catch wind of this unfortunate turn of events..........

FEED YOUR HEAD!!

One pill makes you larger
And one pill makes you small
And the ones that mother gives you
Don't do anything at all
Go ask AliceWhen she's ten feet tall.......

That Grace Slick, she speaks to me through her lyrics. Then again a small rat and I discussed the general merits of Carbon Dioxide reduction in the Amazon Rainforest this morning as well.

And if you go chasing rabbits
And you know you're going to fall
Tell 'em a hookah smoking caterpillar
Has given you the call
Recall Alice
When she was just small........

I know what you're thinking - Grace Slick is old as hell and has been rode hard and hung up wet. I don't care; I'd do her.

When men on the chessboard
Get up and tell you where to go
And you've just had some kind of mushroom
And your mind is moving low
Go ask Alice
I think she'll know........

Thinking of doing Grace Slick reminds me of the time I took too much blotter acid and swore I saw Jesus Christ in a big loogie I hacked up after smoking one too many Pal Mal's. Too many bad memories and barely enough Vodka and Valium to make it all just go away.....

When logic and proportion
Have fallen sloppy dead
And the White Knight is talking backwards
And the Red Queen's "off with her head!"
Remember what the dormouse said:
"FEED your head - FEED your head"

That's right, Grace - FEED YOUR HEAD. You are a rock goddess. An old, shriveled up rock goddess, but a rock goddess nonetheless.

Back to my reality and today's pre-employment drug test..... Fortunately for me, I was able to purchase a fine quantity of fresh, drug-free urine from a technician in the lab today, so I'm pretty certain that a paycheck is just around the corner. This is a good thing, because I only have 4 cigarettes left and no alcohol. I do still have a handfull of pills, but I have no idea what they are, and I'm sure you all know how scary THAT shit can be.....

Being Captain Sharky

I've come down off of a 4 day drunk to see if the world has changed, and I've found myself in the company of a Vietnamese hooker here on the Strand who claims to be an Italian Pentacostal Jew, keeps calling me "El Diablo" (which I understand to be Mexican sounding and meaning something to the effect of 'Large, Round Man'), and singing "Run Dabe at a Fine, Sleet Jesus." (I think this is something to the effect of "One Day at a Time, Sweet Jesus, but how the hell should I know - I'm drunk.....). I'm not sure how I ended up in the company of this woman, but she has apparently been feeding me and washing my clothes, but all of my credit cards are missing and I suddenly have pierced nipples. I am somewhat ashamed at myself for letting this happen to me, but at the same time, she has found me employ at the local hospital - doing what, I don't know, because the last thing I remember, I was a captain on a dive boat..... Anyhoo, I'm kind of looking forward to this gig, as my vietnamese hooker-woman keeps talking about the financial executive at this hospital being into 8 balls. Any woman who can both count money and snort an 8 ball is allright with me.

I had the most bizarre dream sometime over the last 4 days - more like a hallucination. A thousand vultures with the faces of Brittney Spears (the one with the bad tattoo and bald head) were swooping down air-raid style on me as I lay naked in the bathtub of the Italian-Pentecostal-Jew-Vietnamese-Hooker. They would swoop down and try to shit on me, and I was shooting them double birds as they flew by, and was able to knock one of them out of the sky with a bottle of Tequila. As I looked into it's bloody humanoid face, I realized it was my own face, but an eyeball was missing. In a tree just outside her apartment here on the Strand (Postoffice Street to be exact), were two vultures, with the faces of Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, and they were fighting, biting eagerly at each others tongues and eating the last of my eyeball. Maybe I should run this one past my Therapist - she's bound to know what the fuck that is all about, because it's freaking my shit out.

I'm feeling surprisingly well, considering the massive amount of toxic substances I have ingested over the past few days. In retrospect, this probably has not been the smartest thing, because I'm starting this new gig, and I'm sure they will be making me pee in a cup, if I'm able to escape the clutches of this hideous woman of ill repute. Perhaps I could purchase some urine from you?

I've started smoking again, apparently. I came to earlier today with a Pal Mal between my teeth, burning the filter. I nearly burned my hooker friend's apartment down, and she's kind of pissed, so I'd better get off her computer.