How to become the next-of-kin, drug dealer, and deep-fried Mars Bar chef to every pub brawler in the world: today's TERRIBLE advice

Every few months, I get a wave of phone calls from the local jail, from a guy that keeps getting himself arrested. I have no idea who this guy is, but apparently my phone number used to belong to his girlfriend. I tell him or the guard, whoever I speak to, that he's got the wrong number, but he (or the jail) keeps calling me every time he gets arrested.

What do?

Isn't it obvious?

One-up these bastards. Every single cop or guard in the entire jail. Drown each of them in counter-calls forever. I'll step you through how.

Travel the world. Jump from city to city. Each time, locate that city's grimiest, toughest, wildest pub, in the baddest part of town. Saunter in the front doors. ID the toughest and gnarliest bastard on the premises. Flounce straight up to him. Then spend the entire evening buying him drink after drink.

Then other drugs, depending on local availability. Ideally speedy-upper-type drugs. Whatever you can get your mitts on. Coke, meth, Adderall, even, dare I say it, a deep-fried Mars Bar if you deem yourself extra-badass. Basically, anything and everything to make your latest vast pal feel he's the most invincible goddamn gladiator in the entire goddamn universe.

Stroke his ego. Fan his ambitions. Bolster him up into the kind of unstoppable Warrior-King most men once fantasised being as wee lads or teens. Reactivate his Dormant Ambitions. And do get the ambience just right: if you can, blackmail the bartender into changing the pub's TV channel to showing the stupidest action scenes from assorted particularly silly action movies. Whatever most fires up your aggro dudebro goodboye.

Now, redouble your ego-stroking. Dude! It's not too late! He could totally be that one-man army! He could totally slug-to-bits all lesser-dweebs who dare thwart his latent dreams. He could finally make all those adolescent fantasies of his come gloriously true. He could become The Ultimate Gigachad.

But brawling his way to the top of society could take years and years. It could involve hundreds of fights. Does he accept that price? Yeah? That commitment? ... Here, have another line of coke. ... Nah, it's on the house. Great. Now answer me! Does he accept? 'Course he does! He's a goddamn Gigachad. Attaboy!

Oh look out the bar window. A group of cops! There is no grander first step to Gigachad Heaven than to take them all on at once. Make the Filth FEAR him. Right? ... Here, have another line of coke. And this T jab. And now another. He's feeling strong, yeah? Good! Now kick their asses!

But first! Prior to his first giant leap to glory everlasting! Here: accept this business card. With this phone number. I'll reveal whose in a minute. For when the world at last bows to him, and oh good gumdrops it surely shall; when all inferior-wannabe-Chads quiver prostrate before him, in terror and in submission, and ohhhyes they surely shall; and they shall plead for his mercy and his benevolence ... could His Giga-Majesty possibly find it within his conscience to communicate to these miserable masses his original impoetus? His phone-a-friend? Let's face it: his friendly neighbourhood drug dealer?

You've just dangled before His Giga-Majesty a chemical taste of volcanic gigachad glory. First taste's free! Might he desire more? Further influxes of mega-octane strength-fuel? Yeah? Then he must holler to high heaven that it's you who supplies them. You are the Dr. Theo Morell to His Giga-Majesty's Adolf Hitler. Spread this phone number far and wide. Does he accept that price?

... Oh here, have yet another E. Bam.

Oh he accepts? Great! Here's another thousand business cards. He needs to spread 'em and scatter 'em like he's a Las Vegas card-sharp. All with the same phone number.

This phone number? Naturally it belongs to one of the staff at your local jail.

Shove His Giga-Majesty out the pub door and stumbling in the direction of all those nearby cops. Now run like hell and never come back. If you've played your cards right, he'll be far too blitzed to even remember your face.

But he and his newest thousand mates all have your contact details. Or they think they do!

Now repeat this cunning scheme. Worldwide. Hundreds of times, in hundreds of shitty cities. Visit the roughest dive-bar you can find, butter-up the local hulking Neanderthal with every upper-drug in the universe, convince him that riches and glory will flow everlasting unto him via thousands of colossal fights and brawls and riots, then slip him further thousands of contact-deets cards, with yet another local-jail-personnel phone number. Thirst for neurochemical glory? Call call call!

In this manner, your local jail's staff will be bombarded, submerged, with thousands and millions of texts and phone calls. For years. Every call, every message, will be from some schmuck determined to purchase whatever chemical super-cocktail you'd whipped up for that town's Giga-Caveman. They'll think your local plods must be a gang of super-DUPER Pablo Escobars. They'll go insane!

Long story short: your local jailers will never possess the energy or the free time to call you ever again, let alone re-arrest this original dickhead your question is bitching about. Peace at last!

Original: https://mikeyclarke.co.nz/blog/2022/12/how-to-become-the-next-of-kin-drug-dealer-and-deep-fried-mars-bar-chef-to-every-pub-brawler-in-the-world-todays-terrible-advice

Dude! Thanks so much for reading my unconscionable Bullshit. I hope you loved reading it as much as I loved writing it. Which is shitloads. You put yummy in my tummy, you know that?

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