Crack-tease
If the crusty vagabond who lives around the corner from me swiped your morning paper, too, you might’ve missed this amusing headline in today’s Times-Picayune: Drug dealer suspect nabbed on toilet! It was all a tease, though, ’cause the first sentence explains that “Federal agents found a drug suspect hiding in the bathroom of the Central City house that locals said was a neighborhood crack cocaine parlor.” Which isn’t funny at all.
Arresting a crack dealer while he’s taking a shit would be a scream, like the totally NSFW Alexyss K. Tylor (who should be recuited for syndication on New Orleans Public Access, IMHO). But hiding from the cops in the can is merely sad, like Rich Little (who should be thrown under a speeding steamroller). Very, very sad.
On a side note, though, I’m happy to hear that crack dealers in New Orleans are doing well enough to upgrade from mere crack houses to the far-swankier crack parlors.
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I like the idea of a ‘crack parlor,’ and I think it could be part of the tourism renaissance.
Who wants to buy crack from some skank when you could go to Miz Mona’s Olde-Tyme Cracke Parloure and relax in her salon while a “piano perfesser” entertains and a muttonchopped fellow brings out the “Catch o’ the Day” so you can select the very freshest rock?
Throw in some double-headed crack pipes, which shy young couples could share like they were sipping a soda together, and you’d have a gold mine.
Crack Salon.
Craquateria.
Crack Bistro.
Maison Crack.
Cracktoria.
The possibilities are endless.