The Fur Flies In Jupiter — Popehat
“That’s it!” My Campaign Manager screamed, “But first, we’ll need the supplies.” Yes! The supplies. And so we gassed up the helicopter and zoomed off like a pair of Martians on steroids, frenziedly gathering all of the dangerous drugs we’d need to make it to the White House: six keys of Colombia’s finest; a pharmacist’s hernia-load of reds, blues, and yellowjackets; twenty pounds of Panamanian Red; the whitest heroin from the Harz Mountains of Germany; a gallon jug of angel dust; two briefcases loaded with mescaline; twelve blotters of Florida sunshine acid; and an aquarium full of Bolivian arrow toads. Plus a hogshead of Budweiser and a big inheritance from our Old Granddad.