Editor’s note: Here is the first of the satirical pieces by the Front Porch Talker. For background, see “My life with a sociopath,” posted yesterday. The name of the county has been changed.
By The Front Porch Talker (A.K.A. Professor Smarty-pants)
Well, I guess you have to use that word: desperate. After all, this is a Reality Show, right? And, I am a ”˜desperate Meth-lab operator’ who is from Some Special County, Washington. We are filming on-location from inside of my Meth-lab trailer, which is actually a double-wide—there’s a difference. In my double-wide is where I actually operate my Meth-lab business. And, for all intents and purposes, I am an operator. It is all authentic and Reality Show Central, as far as I am concerned.
Except for one small detail: I do have a problem with that word, ”˜desperate.’ That is, for a Reality show, ”˜desperate’ fits the concept you are going for. But, it doesn’t really fit for me. I am not a ”˜desperate’ anything. I’d prefer to call myself a highly-trained professional who operates a business, in the home, as part of the drug sales private service sector, which just also happens to be “illegal.”
That is a far cry from “desperate meth-lab operator,’ right? I would use the word: confident. As in, “Confident Meth-lab Operators,” but then why have a ”˜Reality Show’ at all, then?
I have full confidence that the drug operators like myself, in this rapidly growing industry, will eventually—I hope–be recognized and legalized along with the other “so-called” Vice Trades that enjoy those rights. That way, we do not need to be desperate at all. We could just be confident and rich, and, well, legal operators. Pardon me, but don’t we deserve this much, at least? I know that this ”˜Reality Show’ is not some intellectual discussion about: right or wrong; legal or illegal. I’ll grant you that much. But, a desperate operator I am not.
Desperate implies (or infers?) that I need this show for my self-esteem, which I don’t.
No. I have been working at this profession for more years than I care to mention. I’ve had three husbands, two grown-kids, and even a grown grandchild whom I just adore. Whenever things go awry, I just get married again, and change my name again. I use your social-security number and even your license, if you are a female, and the authorities are never, ever suspicious. I even dye my hair blond, if necessary to look more the part.
“Does that sound desperate to you? Have I mentioned that I test more average than a Midwest housewife on those ”˜personality tests?’” That is hardly what I would call desperate.
“What did you do before you were involved in the illegal drug business? Did you have a real profession to help raise the kids?”
Yes; (close-up sincere look here) actually, I earned a good living in the Beauty and Hair industry.
You mean “Beautician School?”
Well, technically you could say that I also have a trade. I do have my ”˜Operator’s License’ in ”˜Beautician School,’ which includes ”˜Hair,” and in my case, “Fashion-nails.”
For many years, both inside and outside of the Women’s Penitentiary—where I was professionally-trained—I practiced my life-skill set in the “Fashion Industry.” In fact, I could still do your hair. Sometimes, I trim my parole officer’s hair, just to keep up appearances, so to speak.
“So, don’t you want to be legal? I mean, for your children’s sakes? Aren’t you afraid of going back to prison?” That’s a pretty heavy price to pay for manufacturing and selling highly-addictive substances—in your case, Crystal Meth, a highly toxic drug made with ingredients such as ”˜Draino,”˜ WOULD YOU WANT YOUR OWN CHILDREN ADDICTED TO SUCH SUBSTANCES? WOULDN’T BEING LEGAL BE SO MUCH EASIER FOR ALL CONCERNED?”
Again, I could but, why would I? Wouldn’t that make me ”˜desperate?’ I think I have already established that I am NOT desperate.
But, why would I? Reality Shows so much more lucrative when you’re on the traveling a circuit: I am a mega-star of the Reality Show gambit: “Desperate Meth-Lab Operators of Some Special County, Washington.”
Let me begin this interview again. My brain-cell count is not what I would wish. So, like I say, after my stint in that institution of higher-learning, prison, I then went on to work in the “specialty “sales industry. You could say that I was self-employed in this specialty sales field: the pharmaceutical drug field, with a minor in illegal drug-manufacturing. I had my own office, a handy, double-wide trailer with all the amenities of home: a stove, raw materials for cooking certain recipes, let us say, which not unlike that German sour-dough starter that’s about a thousand years’ old, my recipes are “protected,” under lock-and-key.
I also have a very old dog, who permanently resides under my trailer.
Nobody, not even my local police department, in Some Special City, Washington has even an inkling of this special recipe of mine. They do, however, wear those fancy-schmancy special germ-free one-piece white suits, the ones with the oxygen masks. And, Law Enforcement, such as they are, have special, trained attack-dogs that can “sniff-out-crime from a hundred-paces,” should they ever suspect a crime that is in progress, which it never is. Most of my employees work the night-shift.
This is, to coin a phrase: REALITY. And this is, to coin another phrase: A REALITY SHOW. Here is: THE REALITY HEADQUARTERS (where I make the mega-millions and employ many people). These are: MY REALITY RELATIVES AND FRIENDS, one of which we will have to vote out of the trailer, after tonight’s show. Here is: MY REALITY DOG, who lives under my trailer, permanently. I use only: ORGANIC MATERIALS, MADE IN AMERICA, in my manufacturing process.
More to the point is my inability to focus here, so let me begin again. I have a degree in “Fashion-Nails,” and am presently self-employed in the drug-manufacturing business. I employ all of my relatives and friends, and even have accounts with Visa and Master Card. And, it is really true what they say about American Express, or whichever one of those darned credit cards that you “shouldn’t leave home without.”
“Tell the home audience a story that illustrates this point.”
One of my best Operators tells this great story. True Story. This Operator—let’s just call her ”˜M.’ She’s the one who gave me my best ideas: changing my hair and marital status, and therefore my Identity. Anywho, “M” had a dear friend for about ten years”¦I think she was a teacher or a professor—One of those “smarty-pants,” at any rate. ”˜M’ never went to college, but she was smarter than the professor.
How Socatric of you to ask me that question. ”˜M’ took this teacher for all she was worth. Her retirement account, her house, her car. Everything she had.
“Didn’t that make ”˜M’ feel guilty? Or at least a little bad for the professor? How could she live with herself.”
Well, ”˜M’ wasn’t desperate, if you’re still riding that dead horse. All along, the professor—being in that Ivory Tower; I think she taught at a private Liberal Arts’ College, not unlike ”˜Beautician School.’ Anyway, the professor lost all her confidence. ”˜M’ signs-over the professor’s retirement fund, the house, the car, etc.
“How could ”˜M’ get away with that? Didn’t the police care? Identity Theft and Forgery are Major Crimes.”
Only if you get caught. Otherwise, they are simply “opportunities,” as we in the drug industry like to say. In fact, the professor freaked-out, and had panic-attacks over this thing, and she still didn’t get it that ”˜M’ was behind the whole thing. She thought ”˜M’s’ tacky family and friends were behind it. That’s a professor for you. Always thinking that people are good and have good consciences. Too many philosophy courses and not enough life!
“So, what happened to the professor, then?”
Well, the private Liberal Arts College Dean, or whatever, already has a problem with the professor because she—the professor—insists on teaching these hard books, and thinking, instead of remembering the bottom-line, TUITION, which the Dean was thinking about. So, the college Dean, seeing the professor having these panic-attacks, oh yes, and the professor had also been in a car accident because she was so upset about losing her house. So, get this: the College Dean sends the professor off on permanent disability!
“How could they get away with that? Didn’t the professor find an attorney and sue the college?
True story, I swear. So get this: the professor is on Social Security Disability now. How is she going to afford to hire an attorney? Besides, there’s more. The professor has even more panic-attacks, so a friend of hers has her committed to a Mental Hospital, because she thinks that the professor is probably Manic-Depressive. She, the friend, even goes to court to testify that the professor is a harm to herself. The professor, meanwhile, spends two weeks in the Mental Hospital. And, get this: The Psychiatrist won’t let her out of the Mental Hospital until the professor “admits” that she is Manic-depressive.
“So, does the professor admit it, so she could get out of the Mental Hospital? And what about ”˜M.’ What is ”˜M’ doing all this time?
I’ll get back to ”˜M’ in a minute. No, the professor doesn’t confess. Instead, these friends of hers from one of those anonymous twelve-step programs spring the professor from the hospital, after two weeks of this, going on a possible three-month stay in the State Mental Hospital. Is that perfect, or what?
“What is the professor doing now? Is she okay?”
“Well, it’s been almost a year since that ”˜mental hospital’ thing happened. The professor is still unemployed, still on social-security disability, and still living with the friend who committed her to the hospital in the first place. I guess she’s putting her life back together now, or whatever.’
“What about ”˜M?’ What is ”˜M’ doing now?”
”˜M’? She’s moved-on now. She tried to get married a few times, so she could change her name. She’s using the professor’s social-security card and her license. She dyes her hair blond and looks for new opportunities. And get this: she keeps changing the professor’s address back to Some Special City, Washington so she can steal the mail. She has asked the Some Special City Police Department for all of the professor’s police reports, so that when the professor requests them the police say they have already been sent. Have I mentioned that ”˜M’s’ mother was a state regulator and had access to private records?
“That sounds more like fiction to me. How could that all be true? ”˜M’ sounds pretty desperate to me.”
It’s all true, so help me God. And, like I say, desperate is not a word I would use. The professor might use that word, but you can see why. She trusted somebody who turned out to be a ”˜Meth-house Operator,’ and didn’t even know it. But that is the only desperate thing about this.
As they say: ”˜Truth is Stranger than Fiction.’ I couldn’t make-up this story, even if I tried.