Coke Marketing

If I were a drug dealer (which I'm not), I would engage in a big of drug marketing. Why, you say? Drugs market themselves. There'll always be a market, and there's no reason to get silly about it. Well yes, this is technically true, to a certain extent. But at some point--at the point at which all drugs are "even"--the purveyor needs something to make his product more attractive. And that's where I come in. The drug marketer.

Holidays are the best time of year to make the most out of your drug marketing. Want a bag of blow on Valentines day? Sure, no problem. But who are you gonna get it from, the guy who sells $50 bags of cut Nicaraguan, or the guy who sells Hallmark cards lined with pink blow with those little heart shaped marshmallows in it? I think I know who you're gonna be calling.

Want some pot on Hanukah? Well, you can either buy it from the Roots and Chicken guy on a bicycle--that is, if you're a fucking four-year old--or you can buy it from my guy, who'll be dressed as Judah Macabee, selling sacks suffed into the candle holes of the Menorah, or whatever the kids are calling them nowadays. Is it really that tought a choice? Lord knows I take a free candelabra over a plastic baggie any day of the week and never look back.

Want a bag on St. Patties day? If grandpa's old cough medicine isn't doing the trick for you this day, do what I would do, and treat yourself to a ball. But once you decide to get one, then you have to ask--what kind of ball, and where from? Sure, you could get the the typical 3.5 from a thugged out gangsta in an maroon Escalade, or you could get it from my client, who'll be dressed as a lepraucan, selling his green-died bags of blow out of a fake treasure chest. If you're a bored, sorry sack like me, for the same price, why not go with the dealer who'll at least put on a show. If you were given this choice, we all know who you'd be calling, and it wouldn't be Tyrone, if you know what I mean--much to the disappoinment of Erika Badduh.

Where do I come up with this stuff, you ask? Well, what else am I supposed to do with my time but think of inane, drug related shit. After all, I am Edgar Winter. Yup, another year, and another Valentines day spent alone in my apartment, my face permanently transfixed on a plate covered in the dinner I pulled from my pocket a few hours ago, and nothing but another day at the office tomorrow. Oh well, at least I have a few more hours to kill, and a few more lines to blow before reality sets in again, and I'm forced to count the minutes until my next session.