Communist Radio, Weed Balm, and the Homeless Hotel

I got nothing. Absolutely nothing. What am I going to write about?! I don't fucking know!! I was going to write about my Chinese radio station. What about it? I've unknowingly been listening to communist propaganda, and the English lessons are fucking ridiculous. There's one, where this guy is training for a race and talks to his wife. He's a complete dick to his wife, demanding that she be at his race. Why is that dick-ish? Because, have you ever sat and watched a race in the summer? That shit is miserable! You sit there, in the sun, and you sweat. And the story was about a marathon. That means the wife is going to sit there for three or four hours, and have nothing to show for it except heat-stroke. And guess what? At the end of that story, the guy fell across the finish line and died. Okay, he didn't die. But he wanted to. And so did the wife.

Then I was going to write about my friend Pierre. I was talking to Pierre yesterday, and we were discussing marijuana. Why weed? Because the man is a poster-child for medical marijuana. It cures him of his seizures, PTSD, pain, etc. Unfortunately, he does not live in a state where weed is legal. As a result, Pierre found a nifty little site that allows for delivery. Next thing I know, Pierre is talking about marijuana lip balm.

Now, that was a lot of set up to tell the story that came to my mind. While Pierre is rambling about marijuana items, I started fixating on the lip balm. Why? Because I think it would be funny as hell to have an advertisement: "You may have dry mouth, but you'll have moist lips." But then I started taking it further. There are so many people who borrow each others' lip balm. That had me imagining a young woman with a purse, and her grandmother asks to borrow some lip balm. The woman says, "Of course, grandma." Little does grandma know that the woman likes to get high, and has marijuana lip balm. The woman, of course, forgets that she left that particular balm in her purse. Next thing you know, the woman is sitting with grandma on the couch, watching Nickelodeon and eating Doritos. 

Of course, Pierre got way to serious about the story and started talking about how "it's just weed, not hardcore drugs." And in my mind, I am trying to figure out where he got the notion that my imagination would be at all rational? I mean seriously, I plan on riding a goddamn velociraptor to work someday. And he expects me to pay attention to the details of a drug type? C'mon, son!

Though on the subject of drugs, I always had a backup plan for if I ended up homeless. My plan was to steal the cardboard boxes from stores and friends and put them together to create a "housing complex" under a bridge. I would then charge the other homeless people to stay in the boxes. They could pay me with their drugs. I would then take the drugs and sell them back to the gangbangers for cheap. Suddenly I have myself an enterprise. I called it, "The Homeless Hotel". Then I got a job and said fuck it. 

That's it. Moral of the stories: There is no moral to the story. I have inadvertently listened to Communist propaganda at work, imagined a grandmother getting high and eating Doritos, and shared my idea for the Homeless Hotel. If you find a moral with those stories, tell me. Then seek help.