My meth-making business died before it truly lived

Devon and I just started watching "Breaking Bad" because we enjoy being way, way behind on all the latest trends, and I realized I would be a terrible meth dealer. Not just because I suck at chemistry and would blow my face off, which seems obvious and not the kind of thing I need to go into tremendous detail about. I would overlook the little things that make or break or a good meth-selling business. Like, it would never occur to me that trying to dissolve my former business partner's dead body in a bathtub would dissolve the bathtub and force me to clean up the remains of my colleague with a bucket. I'm not a forward thinker like that. Also, cleaning up cat vomit triggers my gag reflex, so Devon would have to clean up the liquified organs, and I suspect that's where he would draw the line.

When I asked him about it, he said the idea made him uncomfortable, because he's no fun at all. He worried about having to check me into a drug clinic, but I assured him I wouldn't actually use the stuff. It's like making sammiches. I don't eat the sammiches I make because by the time I've made 30 of them, I just want a yogurt parfait.

I could probably handle the marketing and PR end of it, though. I could set up Facebook and Twitter accounts for people who like meth -- the ones who haven't hocked their computers already, I mean. And I could arrange for dental insurance and bail bonding and lawyers to work with child protective services. It's important to let your customers know you care, even when you don't.

In case anyone from the DEA is reading this, I would never sell meth. Pot is so much easier to grow and distribute and far less likely to send chunks of me, Devon and my cats into the apartment next door. Also, meth is the reason I can't get cough medicine that fucking works and why I have to buy lye in bulk to make soap. Screw meth.

In case the DEA is still reading this, I would also never grow pot, because I am the Grim Reaper of flora. See my other posts for proof.

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This shit's cool. Trust me:

Why do the Norwegians need all that butter? But he was a ronery, ronery man.  Jesus has style.