The Jeffrey Plane Incident

Sometimes no matter how well you plan something, things just don’t go your way. Like no matter what you do, everything goes tits up. I had planned to fly to Brisbane for a friends 30th birthday shindig and catch up with some old faces for a boogie at a day party on Saturday, maybe go out for some fancy high falutin brunch on Sunday sometime and then fly home Sunday night. My strategy was totally tight butthole, what could possibly go wrong?

Get to the club, hmm day party vibe. I immediately run into a mate who takes me out to see a bunch of other mates, next thing you know all of the old mates are there! Mate. I am fucking awesome. The sun is shining and the music is grooving, I may go get a Long Island Iced Tea to quench my thirst in this welcoming but sweaty tropical oasis…

Goddamn these LIIT’s are going down a treat and this is a fuckin TUNE *sashay, sashay, 360 spin fist pump, accidentally glass the busboy* Ooops somebody call a waaahmbulance.

Why am I so hot? Fuck Queensland, humid little shit crevice. I’m getting another LIIT, how many have I had now, like 4 or 5? Fuck they’re good. Not as good as me though, I’m a fuckin MADLAD.

Faaark, I need to get out of here and go to the birthday party! Those fuckin LIIT’s have crept up on me the sneaky cunts. What’s that ladies, all three of you wanna come with me to this party? Sure, whatever I just gotta get outta here before I drink another LIIT and pass out in the corner…

Get to the birthday party, hmm this is more formal then I thought. I only vaguely sense the three chicks following me in, my bladder isn’t the best when it’s filled with booze. Where is that pissssserrrr? No you can’t piss in that pot plant, even if it is completely logical and urine has nitrogen in it that plants crave. Sorry what’s that, I have to leave? But I wasnt even gonna piss in the pot plant, I’m sound I promise! What chicks are totally soused and can barely stand up? I came with chicks? Oh yeah. Meh, can’t I just tell them to leave, I’m sound, safe as houses I am. Fuckin women who cant handle their shit are the worst. Two of the chicks who were fucked up hail a taxi and leave, the third more sober girl looks at me and says we can call her friend Cindy and get some stuff. Stuff sounds like a plan as this thing just went pear-shaped.

I’m in an apartment somewhere and the bird I’m with says to look alive in case anything goes down. What? Arent we just getting some stuff and then going to yours to do the stuff? Turns out Cindy can get some stuff because she’s a whore. Like literally a whore. She is getting the stuff off one of her johns that has taken a real liking to her by going full Mark Wahlberg in Fear and giving her the odd touch up if she does something out of line like not showing him her phone upon command and giving other johns bareback blowjobs. Why would you be possessive of a prostitute? That’s weird.

The atmosphere seems pretty tense, but I feel kinda nonchalant still from all the highball glasses of hard liquor. Like, even if this cracked out Patrick Bateman did start hitting Cindy the Whore, I’d pretty calmly bottle the cunt, take all of his stuff and then tell Cindy she needs to reconsider her life before leaving. And I’d be a fuckin hero and at the very least see her titties and maybe get her to put those titties on the glass.

Methfase Marky Mark seem to be put at ease by my devil-may-care attitude, although it could also have been my general vibe of wanting to be away from there and obvious distaste for him and his whore. The transaction goes ahead after some wheedling with this beady eyed serial killer in training and after making a hasty exit my posse has increased back to three people. Cindy the Whore has wisely decided to grab whatever possessions she could carry and flee with us before the psycho she’s seeing decides he can no longer share her various orifices with the greater Brisbane populace and he’ll keep her chained up in the en suite bathroom so she behaves and puts the lotion on her skin before she gets the hose again.

Cindy the Whore announces she is leaving to go see a john. Shortly after, the last of my harem discovers that Cindy the Whore has stolen everything from her jewellery case and I get the impression this isn’t the first time this has happened. OK that’s real. I totally would’ve flipped the effervescent and delightful Cindy the Whore a twenty spot for a nifty wristy in the laundry if I knew she was that hard up for cash. Oh well, is there anymore stuff left? There is? OK cover me I’m going in…

Bueller…..Bueller…..Bueller…..I’m cold and have just spent the last 12 hours chewing my fase off and entertaining all kinds of bizarre machinations. All my smokes are gone and there is no stuff of any shape or form in the house. I’m going back to my friend’s place to have lunch and maybe a nice little nap before I fly home. Bye Felicia, tell Cindy the Whore to bless her thieving, whoring, crystal meth smoking little socks and I hope she never changes.

I am safely ensconced on my friends couch. It’s a humid Sunday afternoon and I’m feeling irritable and discontent; like a kid whose mouth was watering at the thought of the chocolate ice cream he’d be eating for dessert after his dinner of orphan grade gruel, only to find out mum had forgotten to buy more ice cream but there was plenty more gruel if he was still hungry.

You’re a deadbeat mum and I hate you.

What makes it even worse is I’m away for the weekend, so I can’t even smoke a bong load the size of Mount Tambora and crawl into bed and decompress by gently masturbating myself to sleep like I normally would after such a unsatisfying turn of events. There was still another seven hours until my flight home and I needed something to take that edge off, some lovely Persian rugs to whisk me off to another place and anaesthetise myself from the aggravating sensation of boredom and restlessness…

The Hoofer. Of course, The Hoofer! I think to myself I am sure to write about this experience in the first person sometime in the near future and if I change perspectives halfway through the blog post it’ll fuck up the styling so I should think about what The Hoofer is now so what’s about to happen next makes sense to the thousands of people who will assuredly read my article. What insight and forethought, fuck I’m clever. And awesome.

The Hoofer is a glass pipe with an end that is bulbed to create a seal in your nostril and another end that is fluted to make it more efficient when insufflating various materials. For some reason most people seem confused as to which end is which but I’m not sure why, it would seem patently obvious to me even if it wasnt my instrument. People are stupid.

The Hoofer had seen some action. The inside of it was like a wall that had been painted over many times, with the last coating having a distinct pinkish hue from some pills I had bought from a lovely chap in England. But within those layers of narcotic duco was a cornucopia of class A chemicals that would send me on a freight train from hell to flavour country and I knew it. There was MDMA, MDA, MXE, Cocaine, Crystal Meth, Ketamine and god knows what else in this fucker.

Snoochy boochies.

I ask my friend Kat for something to clean The Hoofer out with and she produces a bobby pin that I get to work with, painstakingly scraping the narco-paint out onto a plate. You know when you’re a kid and you’re playing with paint and you mix all the colours together you always get brown? Well apparently when the paint is made of drugs you get grey.

Immediately I am presented with a problem. This stuff was of a clay consistency and clearly not fit for insufflating. Being the Gordon Ramsay of drugs I am, somehow I equate the overly moist grey narco-paint with pizza dough that’s too wet. I need some flour to dry this up a bit so I can form some lines I think to myself. Then I remembered the eightball of MXE I still had in my bag (in case of emergencies such as this) and thought “that’ll do”.

For those who aren’t aware of what MXE is, it’s a dissociative like Ketamine (if you dont know what that is it could be bad for the community that you’re even reading this but you’ve come this far so let’s press on). While Ketamine has a cold, clinical energy to it, MXE is like logs on the fire at Christmas time. It’s delicious and warm, it’s lovely stuff. But it is quite a bit stronger than Ketamine in terms of dosage and rather than lasting forty-five minutes to an hour, once you get on this horsey you are riding him for a good five to six hours – maybe longer depending on how many carrots you feed the cunt.

As I form four reasonable sized piles it occurs to me what this drug Neapolitan is. It was Jeffrey! Why the fuck is it called Jeffrey? Because who could be scared of a Jeffrey, Jeffrey’s just this nice bloke from down the road isn’t he? Being the magnanimous young scholar I am I ask the two friends I was staying with if they would also like some Jeffrey. Well apparently people can be scared of a Jeffrey because both of them recoil in horror at the sight of these little grey piles of goodness. “Are you sure JC? I don’t want you to like OD or anything” Kat exclaims with a look of distinct concern, while my mate Ben seems mildly amused. “Yeah it’ll be fine, Jeffrey’s a lovely fellow” I reply before hoofing up the lot in front of their eyes.

At first everything is fine. But then the Matrix started to flicker, like someone had poured water into one of the servers and it was shorting out. Reality slowly begins to tilt…
It’s hard to articulate what takes place over the next six or so hours. I can’t move and I’m watching TV but the stories are going off on all kinds of tangents which then branch off into other tangents until eventually it feels like I’ve been sucked into a 3D comic book with dozens of storylines simultaneously intersecting, yet somehow ultimately making sense. I get the distinct impression I am seeing between the layers of what we perceive to be real, almost like if you looked closely enough at the white snow you get on the television when the channel isnt tuned in properly you’d see there was in fact a program playing. The white snow show is actually way better than the garbage airing on the tuned in channels but everyone skips right passed it, content in their belief there is nothing to see there.

After several hours of this mind bending daytime serial I finally regain cognizance of where I am. A strange dude who wasnt there before is sitting across from me and while my intuition is telling me that he’s not a hallucination, after the crazy shit I’ve just seen I should probably get third-party confirmation. I lean across to Kat and whisper in her ear “who’s old mate?” My whispering skills fail me and clearly I’ve been heard on the mainland because Kat, Old Mate and several other people in the room burst out laughing. Apparently Old Mate has been there for quite a while, well isn’t there egg on my face.

Old Mate seems to have been around the block a few times and beams at me “Been a rough week mate?” “Mate you’ve got no idea.” We have a chuckle and I drift off to La La Land once more…

“JC don’t you have to leave for your flight soon?” I snap back to reality. Kat is standing above me and she still has that concerned look on her face, I respond with what I feel is the appropriate answer. “Haaarmmff blommmfff. Arrrgghh choopahmen aahh bweybosen maahaalaahmaahoto. Totos aah mez impalaah mendos” The look of concern deepens. “It’s in like 45 minutes isnt it and it takes 20 minutes to get to the airport!” Fuck. I roll off the couch and hit the floor with a thud. It’s go time! Except it’s not because my fine motor control is somehat akin to Leonardo DiCaprio trying to drive that Lamborghini in The Wolf of Wall Street after he’s necked too many Quaaludes. I gamely start wobbling towards my bag and try to start putting clothes in it but my arms flop around like epileptic eels mocking me. I can feel myself becoming engulfed in the fog of Jeffrey again, must keep it together man! But Jeffrey will not be denied and we fly away together…

“JC we’re at the airport mate.” I wake up in the back of Ben’s car and we are indeed at the airport, it feels like I teleported. Cooool. I hear my voice like it’s in the distance and has been slowed down to quarter speed. “Thaaaannnnkksssss guuuuuyyyyyyssssss, soooorrrrryyyyy I’mmmm looooooossseee” I open the car door and roll out of the car this time hitting the concrete with a thud. Owww. I think. My friends screech off, I think they probably felt like they were Tom Cruise in Rainman except I probably made less sense than Dustin Hoffman and definitely couldn’t be used for counting cards at the casino.

I survey my surroundings. OK I need to get my bearings here, which direction is the Tiger terminal, think, THINK! I look around and everything seems blurry and distant, yet at the same time surrealistically sharp and right inside my field of vision. Well this is just fucking great, I’m here pretty much on time for my flight but I’m still gonna miss it because I can’t see 3 feet in front of me.

Thanks alot Jeffrey you asshole.

I shuffle into the baggage return area and dump my bag down, struggling to maintain my composure. I crouch down, sweating like a paedophile on a prison ship and unzip the side compartment to get my boarding pass out. My trusty Adidas gym bag instantly becomes a maze of MC Escher painting proportions. Surely it can’t be that hard to find a piece of paper within such a small space, but the infinitely twisting artefacts make this simple task quite the physical challenge. As I begin to get paranoid that the other people milling around baggage claim know that I’m messed up, I hear what sounds like my name being called over the intercom urging me to get to the gate as they’re at final call. Somehow I shove my hand down the correct Labyrinthian stairwell in my bag and pull the boarding pass out, then get to my feet and take off through the terminal.

I get to the gate just as they’re about to close the doors. I flash my boarding pass at the girl at the desk and approach the steward in the plane’s entrance. He looks me up and down and boy I must’ve been a sight. My face is red, I’m sweating bullets and as I found out later when I got home and looked in the mirror my pupils were the size of tea saucers which must’ve looked like I was perpetually terrified as the steward asks if I’m alright.

I manage to stammer that I’m OK but he wasnt convinced as he then asks if I was afraid to fly. I make some split second calculations and think to myself “Just go with this, just go with this, that’s a way better news story than I’m off my fuckin head and still carrying a bag of drugs with me onto the plane” and say to him “Yeah mate I’ve only been on a plane once before and I’m afraid to fly”. DING DING DING we have a winner. His demeanour instantly changes to one of sympathy and he says “Oh don’t worry, we’ll look after you” and then sits me next to a couple of Chinese Tiger execs who apparently fly all the time and will show me the ropes.


The guy sitting next to me speaks good English but I feel somewhat calmed by his gentle countenance and slight language barrier because my responses to his questions must’ve given the distinct impression I was retarded. “Myyyyyyy friiiieeeennnnddd issss a piiiiilllooott and he says that the pppppiiiiilllloooottttss at Tiiiiigggggerrrr are verrrrryyy well traaaaaaiiinnneed”. “Yes they are quite experienced, in fact we had a retirement party for one of the Captains last week who had been flying for fifty years”. At this point I feel somewhat embarrassed by old mate’s command of the English language being much better than mine so I decide to recuse myself from the conversation and put in my headphones.


The jet turbines rev up and the plane begins to lurch forward, I’m safe! As it takes off I close my eyes and relax into Jeffrey’s warm embrace one last time.


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