Texts from local man reveal benevolence of car thieves, Little Pharma

A short but heartwarming tale of the brewing of spiked lemonade from the temporary sezure of a literal metaphorical lemon

My friend drives a car valued at around $500. “Which friend?” you might wonder, since the combined value of the automobiles owned by my friends is about that of a 1968 Pontiac GTO in reasonably good condition. “Doesn’t matter,” I might demur, preferring instead to focus on the story rather than introduce distractions like imaginary fits of dialogue.

This friend had his shitwagon, reliable for the genre, stolen from a parking lot in Broomfield, ten miles yonder down the Denver-Boulder Turnpike. Most items transported along that road, or left anywhere near it, are eventually stolen. Anyone who continues on to Denver International Airport and leaves a vehicle in long-term parking might as well leave it running.

My friend got his car back. While its resale value in any market was and remains far too low to assign numbers to, prospects for its intact return were low from the start, with Nate Silver estimating the odds my friend would ever drive it again at one in six. But the police found it and even rolled it back to my friend’s residence in a wheelbarrow.

That was a couple months ago. I was recently provided an update on what had previously been judged by all parties to be a closed mini-saga.

This is the first time I have ever read an account of someone nursing methamphetamine. Whoever this old warhorse is, he had an initially tepid and unpromising but ultimately gratifying slow-motion rager unto himself, all owing to the combined generosity of car thieves, my friend, and the manufacturers of homeopathic meth.

I’ll return to the usual stuff on Wednesday, once I dig myself a path from under the cascading rubble leading far enough toward the top of the pile to afford a proper view of most of the bodies.