— What are you, stoned?
— Generally, yeah.
— What happened to you?
— Life.
— You're out on the town. Yeah, you're partying hearty. You're knocking boots with the chicky babes. Oh, who's this? It's the tax man. And he's looking at you. Now, what does he see? He sees a young fellow with a big fancy house... unlimited cash supply and no job. Now, what is the conclusion the tax man makes?
— I'm a drug dealer.
— Wrong. Million times worse. You're a tax cheat.
'Cause smack is the great controller. Keeps the people stupid... when they could be smart.
— How do you celebrate without heroin?
— Uh, with cake mostly.
— Then let's score some cake.
I can see that. A plate of brownies told me a limerick.
Take your best orgasm, multiply the feeling by twenty, and you're still fuckin miles off the pace.