Huffing: The Sport of Kings
I remember being a kid getting high on model glue. I had a Daisy Duke C-10 Jeep Eagle that I was assembling in a little laundry room in the basement of my Aunt and Uncle’s house in Colorado. I was down there all day inhaling that shit. I squeezed out line after line on the inside of the model box and held my head over it and breathed as deep as I could. That was the life. Then I pulled out the Playboy I found and got lost in the teats and beavers and bungholes and then the run would wear off and I had a massive headache. The only thing that could cure it was another line of model glue.
Things aren’t much different today. I can say that I have graduated from model glue now, though I was hooked on it for many years. Now, for me, the big huff is octane booster. There are many fine brands on the market, I prefer The Outlaw. I can get it for about four bucks at the local auto parts store and it lasts a long time. One of the most economical highs I have ever achieved. The other brands are just as good but The Outlaw was my first huff.
My pal King Waldorf introduced me to huffing octane booster. He called it poncho or concho, or something like that. We were chilling out, smoking buds in his great room, watching Hollywood High. His butler came in with a couple of drinks and some sandwiches. I scarfed mine down and then reached for the bong.
“Hold off on the weed for a second bro,” said King Waldorf.
“What do you mean hold off? A mans gotta smoke what a mans gotta smoke.”
He reached under his lay-z-boy, pulled out a bottle and tossed it over to me. “Try this on for size,” he said.
“I ain’t drinkin this shit.”
“Crack the top and take a good breath.”
“Oh. It’s for huffin.” I exhaled and then took a nice deep breath of the fumes. My brain started spinning inside my skull. “Hey. That ain’t half shitty.”
“Yeah. It’s the newest thing. Kids everywhere are huffin the fuk out of it.”
“Can I get a sandwich bag or a clean sock? Something I can really soak.”
King Waldorf rang a bell and the butler brought a new pair of socks. I drenched a sock, put it over my nose and kicked the lay-z-boy back into launch position. The fumes tore into my lungs and I was blasted into space. The ceiling looked like an Egyptian turkey dick aimed at my eye. I screamed and everything went blurry.
The next thing I remember, I was running through a narrow canyon with a two handed sword. The water was splashing up to my knees. I was quickly out of breath but I had to keep running. There was the shadow of something very large chasing me. I ran into a dead end and turned around to wait for the shadow beast. Finally it showed up. A puffed out balding guy in a wetsuit pushing a hot dog cart.
“Sylvie! What the fuk are you doing in my dream. I’m high as fuk on Octane Booster!”
“Yeah. I was gonna ask you if you needed your VCR repaired?”
“Actually I do, but maybe when we get back to reality. I’ll give you a call. What’s in that hot dog cart anyway?”
“Remember all those rabbits fukin up a storm in my backyard?”
“Barbequed rabbit dicks. You want to try one?”
“You got that spicy mustard?”
I finished my rabbit dick and Sylvie crawled into his cart and shot off into space. A hole appeared where his rockets had been so I dropped down into the ground. I walked along a tunnel for a while. It opened into a small room. Some voles and earthworms were hanging out playing a board game.
“Am I too late to get in?” I asked.
“No way. If you’re cool being the surgeon?” said the vole with the eye patch.
I sat down and waited for my turn. It was a game similar to Monopoly except every game piece was moving. It looked like a topographic map of Phoenix. Each player zoomed into their property and controlled a number of different people. It was my turn. I pressed a button on the edge of the game board and it zoomed into a mansion. And there I was passed out in a Lay-z-boy with a sock over my nose. I stood on my chair and stepped into the board game.
Suddenly I woke up and shifted my chair back to the upright position. King Waldorf was hanging out giggling like a kid.
“Hell of a trip,” he said.
“Yeah. That was fukkin Tits-O-Riffic!”
I ended up huffin a couple more times that night, and then spent the whole next day huffin, and then the next week, and then I finally quit cold turkey. A day doesn’t go by though that I don’t think about getting me some octane booster. Just to take the edge off.
Huffing: The Sport of Kings