Greeted By a Vicodin Junkie


"Vicodin," Weird Al began, "has turned me into the rough equivalent of a drug-addled Scottish barfly known to frequent Jekyll & Hyde's in Edinburgh, incapable of completeing one-syllable words, incapable of cognizent conversation after gulping Vicodin down at a rate of twelve a day for the past seven days.
"I have, however, come up with a better system than the federal government for measuring hurricanes. By looking at the speeds of Floridians doing wind-induced cartwheels down the streets of Miami, I can detect categories and wind forces accurate to ten decimal places on the Beaufort scale.
"As the drug half-life of Vicodin reduces toxicity levels in my body, I'll become correspondingly more intelligent and hence worthy of cult members. Indeed, now they've arrested polygamist leader Warren Jeffs on the FBI's most wanted list, there's a power vacuum out there and I'm acccepting applications. Potential cult members need to submit their annual salaries and vacation homes in the south of France, Switzerland and the Gold Coast. A short essay must be submitted listing my intelligence, good looks, wisdom and above all modesty. Current estimations of the size of my projected cult range from zero to one. The one being me. I am the one, the godhead, universal consciousness, Krishna, Ram Dass and all that."
"Indeed," I said.
"By the way, how are you and your celly getting along?"
"He's a smoker. But you know how it is. Even with the best-matched celly in the world, nothing beats your own cell."
"Yes, even if Mother Teresa were my celly, I'd gut punch her after three months. But there's an especially dark cloud hanging over your blood-splattered cell. The scene of a violent encounter between two men whom, depsite repeated attempts, failed to kill one another. It's a karmic part of your black aura. As is being assigned a cellmate who smokes like an 1800s woodburing train, transmitting his cancerous tumours to your body while you sleep by his simple exhalations.
Now that you've finally made it to Yard 1, I'll immediately set about working up anti-British sentiment with the local population, into a frenzy of further bloodletting. There'll soon be British blood all over your cell."
"It actually seems mellower here. Perhaps because I don't know too many people."
"Your life won't be mellow for very long."
"You look like you've gained ten to twenty pounds, Al."
"Yes, I've turned into a wallowing pig who wakes up with popcorn in his asscrack. I've been eating food in amounts that make Slingblade look like a caloristic piker."
"I've certainly missed your sense of humour."