Im Not Your French Connection

Illustration by Bob AulHey, frat boy! Thanks for practically hanging around my neck a sign that reads "WILL SELL POT!" Walking up to me in broad daylight like that—in front of two bicycle cops on the beach—and asking me in that concert-arena whisper of yours if you can "score," I've gotta wonder: Are you stupid or a narc? Are you high? So, look, I sold you a joint once. Once. That doesn't make us friends. It doesn't even give us a business relationship. There's a certain etiquette involved in the world of illegal substances, and it goes like this: don't act like we live in Amsterdam. We don't. We live in a nutty country where cops who should be worried about terrorists or white-collar criminals ripping off old ladies are basically looking for guys like me who get high occasionally. So stop acting like a stalker and stay the hell away from me.

Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at letters@ocweekly.com.

 
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