Book Excerpt: Paul Krassner's Psychedelic Trips for the Mind, by Paul Krassner, published 2001 by High Times Press (Paperback Edition), New York
(Original Title: Pot Stories for the Soul, published 1999 by Trans-High Corporation)
Page 103-105, Bummers:
A square, a square-inch of paper, dipped into a mixture of rat poison and anything else a fucked-up acid manufacturer wants to throw in. Me, a well-educated high school student knowing well that if I placed this piece of paper in my mouth, it would be either the most tremendous explosion of brain-cell flying psychedelic visions not unlike those of the prophets of Israel in the desert of Sinai (false prophets, that is), or a suicidal death bringing paranoia. There I sat on my bed staring at the members of Devo Dance, an electric jigaloo on MTV. What kind of freak makes these videos, anyway?
I leaned back against my stuffed Bob Dobbs that I made in Home Ec class in 7th grade. I looked at him, his handsome face, his eloquent pipe. Who really was this guy, anyway? I own every book I can find on Bob and the Church of the SubGenius. I've paid my dues. I've passed on a well-watered-down but informative, unexplainable phenomenon to fellow Conspiracy haters, and I still only have a small inkling as to the personality of my superdupersavior.
Maybe that's the attraction -- you know this guy, he's your savior, you like him, you do and believe what he says, but you don't really know who he is and you want to. But I guess if he was giving out his address to everybody, people would be busting down his door and kissing ass. And I don't like ass-kissing. I like respect. I'd rather just share a brew with him or shoot him, something like that.
I glanced at the acid in my palm and popped it in my mouth. I felt it dissolve on my tongue. It's better to regret something you have done than to regret something you haven't done. I lay there for 40 minutes, wondering what it would be like, if I'd lose my shit and scrape my eyeballs out with a toothbrush or not.
It came on slow at first. Lights seemed bright and I felt kinda funky. Then boom! I was screwed. My body caved in and became a puddle of flesh on my bed. I grinned a perma-smile and thought, this is nice. I put on some tunes, quiet, hands shaking. The volume knob was on 1, but the music pounded away in my head.
The Velvet Underground, slammin' away on the guitar, Lou Reed, singin' in his usual dire tone. I knew every word, pulled out the air Stratocaster and jammed with Lou and the band. I was there on stage, people were cheerin', I was dancin' all over the place. All right, these shenanigans lasted for three hours and when I was done, let me tell you, I was plumb tuckered out, 2 o'clock in the morning, time to crash and crash hard.
I curled up in my warm comforter and closed my eyes. Why can't I sleep? I flipped and flopped. What if I trip forever? Never come down. What if my parents find out? Fuck my parents. That's kind of trivial compared to an eternal existence of strange paranoid delusions. The minutes that I awaited slumber seemed like hours. I ran to the bathroom. My face looked all wet and distorted in the mirror.
Down the stairs into the hallway of my parents' room, the pictures on the wall were talking: "You're gonna burn, die, die, die -- Bob can't help, you know, asshole!" Tears dripped from my eyes. I slipped into my parents' bed. I grabbed my dad's back in fear. He shrugged me off, as in saying, "I don't care if you're wiggin' out, I gotta go to work tomorrow." The pictures were right. I am gonna die.
I went up the stairs to my room. When would it end? Patterns and patterns flew over my head. I turned on the TV. It was Dave Letterman, my late-night friend. Make me laugh, Dave. Please be a show on how to relax on scary LSD trips. No such luck.
"Tonight's guest is Gene Shanagelman, horror effects specialist."
"Hello, Dave," Gene said.
"So, Gene, what are you gonna do for us first?"
"Well, I thought I'd show you the exploding head of Arnold Palmer from The Night of the Bleeding Head."
I don't need this. I turned off the tube and leaned back. Goodbye, cruel world, I'm leaving you today, good bye, goodbye. I reached for anything sharp to slit my wrists. Darkness engulfed me. Fear reached its ultimate intensity, and that's when I smelled it, an aroma, I've smelled it before in my dreams, not marijuana, not tobacco, something strange. A thin pipe parted my lips, its flavor perked my senses, a euphoric feeling came over me. My vision blurred, but a face smiled warmly at me, something gripped between its teeth, its strong hand on my shoulder.
"Bob, is that you?"
"Sshhh, go to sleep now. I hope you've learned your lesson, my friend. Slack be with you!" My eyes became heavy. I heard a loud thud -- "Ow, shit!" -- and he disappeared into the void of my room.
"Goodnight, Bob."
With that I drifted into happy slumber. I awoke the next morning sore all over. Was it all a drugged-out hallucination, or did I really smoke a bowl with Bob? I never dropped acid again. I recommend a much better drug, that will get you just as high. Get addicted to Bob. It's the greatest thing you'll ever try.