Here’s Pooh, the heroin junky, stumbling down the stairs after a good nod. He falls, busts his cranium and thinks to himself when rising … gotta find a new drug. Something that will give me energy and not make me so damn stupid. I think I’ll hang out with Christopher Robin today. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. After all, he is a professor of organic science and surely he can whip up something in his lab that’ll change my entire outlook on the day. But first, I must somehow recover from this downed out stupor I’m in. Time to take a stroll through the eight-mile ‘hood and get a little fresh air. Stop by Rabbit’s crib and get a bump of speed and a fresh ten-pack of syringes. Maybe he, or my little biker bro’ Piglet, will have something good. A big old 45 unit blast of meth that’ll knock my dick in the dirt. One that’ll give me a rush and rock my fuckin’ world! Yeah, it’s going to be a good day! A good day indeed!

Approaching Rabbit’s condo, Pooh hears his friend banging the hell out of one of the young neighborhood forest bunnies. One of those promiscuous young bunnies that trade their ass for dope. “Rabbit! Come to the door man! I brought some carrots to trade for speed!” announced Pooh. Sticking his head through a hole at the base of the hollow tree, Rabbit quietly whispers, “Shhh! Go away Pooh! Can’t you see I’m trying to get laid?” “But dude!” insisted Pooh. “I’m jonesin’ like a mother fucker and I really need a fix! Hook a road dog up, will ya?” “Fuck you! Kick rocks! Go see your best friend the swine. He’ll get you loaded. I’m busy. It’s not every day that I get one this young and pretty. Now don’t go away mad, just go away!” Sad but suddenly realizing his furry friend was only doing what rabbit’s do, and that’s fuck like one, Pooh decided to cruise on over to Pig’s. Rabbit was cool and all, but he wasn’t the true blue friend Piglet was. Piglet wouldn’t ignore him, kicking him to the curb just because he had a piece of ass on the line. Piglet was a righteous bro’ through and through. Or … so he thought.

Working on his Harley in front of the Pig’s M.C. Clubhouse, Piglet looked up through his mirrored Raybans and said, “What up Bear? You look like you just lost your best friend or something.” “Nah. I’m straight.” replied Pooh. “I just need a good shot to get me going. Got any go-fast dude?” Handing Pooh a lukewarm beer from a nearby workbench, Piglet said, “Ain’t got shit right now bro’. But I hear ol’ Chris is cooking a batch off down at his house. Let me change this last spark plug and we’ll ride on over to see if the shit’s ready. Dig?” “Cool bro’. I just feel like shit today and need some speed.” Finishing his brew, Pooh noticed Pig making a last minute phone call on his cell. Couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but for some reason, Pooh felt uneasy. He’d heard rumor Piglet may have turned snitch for the feds. But having known the greasy little slop sucking bastard since he was a kid, Pooh just couldn’t believe it was true. Surely Piglet hadn’t turned rat. Nah, no way. The Pig was a righteous, hardcore stand up dude.

On the way to C.R.’s, Piglet hit a pothole on his Dyna Wide Glide splashing mud and water all over a nearby Eeyore sending him into gloomy despair. “Hey you fuckin’ Pig!” yelled the panhandling jackass. “Why don’t you watch where the fuck you’re going!” Flipping Eeyore the bird, Piglet twisted the throttle, Pooh on back hanging on for dear life, making his way to the lab. Even though it was Eeyore’s birthday and all he was trying to do was scrounge up a few bucks for a beer, Pig could have gave a shit less. A huge storm was coming and he wanted to make it over to Chris Robin’s before he and Pooh got caught in the rain. Eeyore was the last fucker he needed to worry about knowing if he didn’t get a bust for the feds, he was going to be sent to the big house for at least a hot twenty piece. You see, Piglet had recently got busted in a sting operation over at Owl’s house the week before. And he’d cut a deal to set Christopher Robin up on a meth buy in ex­change for a suspended sentence. Piglet was wearing a wire and the DEA, ATF and 7th Judicial Drug Task Force were set up in a vacant house across from C.R.’s waiting for the deal to go down.

The unsuspecting bear, Pooh had no idea what was about to go down. All he knew was Piglet sure was acting awfully skitzy and his gut feeling told him some­thing may be wrong. Passing Kanga and Roo standing on the corner selling crack, Pooh gave them both a friendly wave. Looking in Piglet’s mirror as they passed, Pooh noticed Roo run toward the middle of the street waving his paws mouthing the words, “No! He’s a rat! No!” Now thoroughly paranoid and in no way wanting his old pal Christopher to get busted, Pooh casually reached behind his back releasing the safety switch on his Army issue .45 cal. “This fuckin’ pig ain’t setting my friend up,” he mumbled to himself quietly. “I’ll fix his hot ass!” Arriving at the lab, Piglet parked his scooter next to C.R.’s Pantera, dismounted, and walked up to the door. Scanning the area before knocking on the door, Pooh attempted to spot any narcs or unusual activity that might tip him off to what might be going on. Entering the living room Piglet announced loud and clear, “What up Chris? Got that speed powdered up yet? I need a pound to take back to the sty with me.”

Totally spun out after having been awake for days, pure crystal meth leaking from his pores, Christopher Robin turned to face Piglet holding two .40 caliber Glocks—one in each hand. “I got a call Pig. They say you’re no good. That you’re a rat for the feds. Now get out of that leather so I can check you for a wire!” “Yeah, you filthy fuckin’ pig,” added Pooh. “I knew you weren’t right the minute I saw you using your cell phone earlier in the day. You’d better not be snitchin’. Because if you are, you got a bad day coming mother fucker. Now get out of ‘em!” he too pointing his pistolo at Piglet’s gonads. Reluctantly yet not having a choice, Piglet shucked his clothes and sure enough, he was wired for sound. “Why you dirty little pig bastard! I oughta …” About that time, the S.W.A.T. team wearing ninja suits and full riot gear knocked the front door down with a batter­ing ram. “Police! Hold it right there! You’re under arrest!” Gunshots went off and a firefight ensued. Flasks full of crystal meth oil burst everywhere. Pooh fired off a few rounds, then dove out a nearby window. C.R., now shot twice in his left shoulder, also managed to escape but not before putting two slugs in Piglet’s brain.

When all was said and done, Chris was caught a few blocks away at the 7-11 shot full of holes. Pooh was captured two weeks later trying to cross the Mexican border at Reynosa and Piglet was sent to the graveyard. Christopher Robin and Pooh were indicted. Chris for first degree murder of a government informant and manu­facturing meth, Pooh for conspiracy to manufacture and obstruction of justice for refusing to testify in open court against his old friend Chris. Later, Kanga and Roo both showed up at the pen for selling rock. And Rabbit too for raping under­age bunnies and making child porn videos. The only Hundred Aker Wood residents to remain free were Eeyore and Owl whose duty it was to send money orders and care packages to Chris and Winnie in the pen. Thus another day in American subculture of make believe animals. Hope this blog hasn’t destroyed any of your fond, child­hood memories of Winnie-the-Pooh. It was simply meant to amuse and entertain. By the way, any of you tweekers out there seen any heffalumps or woozels lately? I’m Tripper! Better Days!

Does anyone believe in karma? I’m talking about the consequences of a person’s actions that determine their specific destiny. Sometimes, I think about karma and wonder if it had anything to do with why I’m here. Why I’m serving this assload of time in federal prison and why all this is happening to me. Then, I think about what I might have done. Surely I didn’t do anything too awfully bad. Surely I haven’t hurt or harmed anyone so bad that I deserve this much mental and physical torture. Have I? Yet if someone believes in the laws of karma, I did something somewhere along the line that caused this to happen to me. And let me tell you folks, whatever it was, I sure wish I hadn’t done it. It had to be something to do with me selling drugs. That’s all I can think of. That’s all I can figure out. Because that’s all I’ve ever done. Sold dope to friends and acquaintances.

I didn’t sell marijuana, cocaine or speed to little kids. I sold it to my buddies. Grown adults who were capable of making their own decisions. Individuals just like me who simply wanted to alter reality a little and have a good time. Despite what society and law enforcement want you to believe, I wasn’t the guy in the dark trench coat hanging around schoolyards forcing drugs on small children. Yet that’s the way the legal system paints guys like me to be. The decision to use and purchase drugs is a conscious one. And to me, buying and selling dope is a consensual crime. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t used or sold. I wish I would have went to college and become a lawyer or doctor. Wait, not a lawyer. Changed my mind on that. They’re just as crooked as any criminal there is, doing time right, here sitting next to me in federal prison.

Anyway, back to karma. Some dealers have sold dope to individuals who overdosed and died. Not me. I’ve never done that. No one ever kicked the bucket as a result of doing any of my party material. In drug rehab at the prison my 2nd or 3rd go round it was offered in prison, I’ve watched films showing the most strung out, fucked up, totally wasted out of their minds junkies in the world! But truthfully everyone. I’ve never even met anyone like that! All the people I sold to and partied with were average folks. So, why is karma kicking my ass? Can anyone explain that to me? Or, is it karma at all? They say hindsight is 20/20. Wish I knew why this is happening to me. Maybe one day, after I finally leave this world, and my entire life is played back for me on a big movie screen, I’ll know. I’ll have found out what it was I done that was so fucking bad. Think that’ll happen? I doubt it. But you know what I mean.

My friend Robert T. was an asshole of a drunk. He hung around all the meanest bars in Fort Smith mouthing off and running his head to those he shouldn’t have. He fought all the time and probably hurt some people too. I know he at least stabbed one or two. Yet they didn’t die. Sure, they went to the emergency room with a couple of puncture wounds but they didn’t bite the big one. But one day something happened to old Robert. Was it karma that fucked Robert off? Drunk as a dog, he said something stupid to the wrong guy. Finally went and done it. He got stabbed and killed at Abe’s Oasis on Midland Boulevard. Was it Robert’s specific destiny to die at the hand of another wielding a knife? Or, was it simply coincidence? I don’t know. Even as ignorant as Robert acted sometimes, I don’t think he deserved to go out like that. If it was karma, then karma is a mother fucker. A stone cold mother fucker that I detest and abhor.

In closing, was it the laws of nature that put me here? And, will my good or evil ways have a bearing on me being reincarnated into someone decent or something bad? Or, is there really such a thing as karma and reincarnation at all? I honestly don’t think I’ve done anything that horrific in life. And if there is a heaven, I’ll go there because I’m not a bad person. My nature, disposition and character are that of a happy individual who never once meant to hurt or harm another living soul or creature. Yes, I broke society’s laws. I sold speed and weed to people and I’m doing time for it. But did I really deserve all this? I know some of you self righteous do-gooders out there will say I did. And others who have been in my shoes will say just the opposite. If anyone has any mind boggling insight on karma they’d like to share with me, I’d like to hear about it. Because right now I’m sitting here in prison kicking myself in the ass constantly wondering if it was karma that fucked me off, took 17 years of my life, and put a black label on me stating I am a no good rotten asshole. I’m Tripper. Better Days to all of you readers! Thank you for hanging out, it’s been rough here lately.