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Hunter Stashed Cocaine For His Dad's
By Yoichi Shimatsu
The original purpose for the importation of cocaine, a plant-based painkiller and tingly stimulant, from South America was in dentistry, to soothe the gum-and-tooth nerves wracked by infectious bleeding and during tooth-cavity drilling. By the Roaring Twenties, coke was adopted as a recreational drug snorted for its exhilarating, indeed scintillating kick for the idle-rich Great Gatsby crowd. It’s semi-medicinal qualities accounts for its chilling sensation on the nerves, and on a hot summer’s afternoon at an old-style soda fountain, its cooling effects bubbling down the throat, providing a mild buzz for a sweating forehead and overtaxed mind.
As put by a popular brand of sweet syrup for soda fountains: Things go better with Coke. (That bold slogan was rolled not, not during the flapper era or Prohibition, but in the mid-1950s to describe that fizzy buzz.) The main barrier to stronger and longer-lasting cocaine and derivative crack dosages has remained its high price as a status symbol for jitterbugging flappers down through generational time to the disco crowd with too much expendable money and idle overheated brain cells in discos to chill. Rave on, Hunter, brain-addled artist and astute money-for-influence trader in China and Ukraine, an aficionado of coca-ina as it’s pronounced on the native soil of Colombia and Peru.
This drug-based query is a corrective for the news media’s unwillingness to solve the “mystery” of a cocaine packed plastic envelope checked in at a White House cloak room on the day of Hunter Biden’s entry into that hallowed space for patriots and taxpayers. The official news story about a temporary storage cabinet without locks or ID access is pure nonsense. Nobody’s going to leave their mobile phone, containing credit card info and risque phone contacts, on a shelf near a side entrance of the West Wing, where these items are easily stolen. The White House staff and the Secret Service are spinning a big lie, with a little help from sold-out news editors. This sort of official deception is based on an assumption that the American citizenry is high on recreational drugs all the time (rather than some people on their off-hours). Yes, self-deception goes better with coke.
The “unsolved” identity of the dope-baggie’s owner and the coke’s intended purpose became obvious with stumble-bum Joe Biden’s subsequent fiery and flawless speech, with Mussolini-like delivery without slurred words or botched lines at the NATO summit in Vilnius, the capital of Baltic nation Lithuania, which shares a border with Belarus, an ally of Russia and therefore is a sworn enemy of the kosher Euro zealots. Never mind those riotous Muslims torching Paris, the sole issue of the day is infighting inside what was once the Soviet Union, aka none of our business. Old Joe delivered a raving mad rapper’s endorsement of mass murder worthy of one of Edgar Allen Poe’s psycho addicted to laudanum (an opium derivative). Biden’s speech made zero sense in terms of war strategy or winding down a losing cause, but instead his mad-dog howling came off as a barbaric war cry, which must have wet the panties of NATO’s bull-dyke Valkyries.
How does a stuttering idiot-in-chief morph into an eloquent rabble-rouser to enthusiastic applause from a normally timid and evasive crowd of European political hacks? The answer is simple: Things Go Better with Coke. There was, obviously, another back-up stash(s) among the presidential entourage of dopeheads. A cynic might ask: Whatever happened to the White House War on Drugs? Since the demise of Nancy Reagan (famously, “Just Say No!”) and the rise of the zombie Clintonistas, it’s been a war for drugs, in the remote fields of Colombia and Afghanistan.
Realizing the ineffectiveness of prescription drugs for dementia on his imbecile father, the dope addict son Hunter parked his little emergency pouch of cocaine inside a White House cell-phone storage bin for later retrieval before boarding a helicopter bound for Camp David later that day. The presidential retreat traditionally serves as a clandestine clinic out of the public eye in lieu of Bethesda hospital, where addictive drugs cannot get past chemical detectors that spot self-medication by pain-stricken military veterans in wheelchairs aching from war wounds and persistent trauma, patients in real need of pleasant relief denied to them. Mendacity rather than medicine is what rules the VA system.
A Little Help from His Friends
As it turned out, a change in the chopper’s takeoff schedule upset the best-laid plans of mice and men. The Biden entourage had to depart sooner than planned in a rush likely due to the early arrival of medical doctors at Camp David, eager to crank up a dialysis machine to filter platelets out of the president’s sewer of a blood stream that clogs his brain with tiny platelets, which are tiny solid fragments of dead cells. A lifetime of meds along with a diet of beefsteaks and martini mixers inside an octogenarian’s decomposing body tends to harden the arteries along with addling his under-exercised brain lobes, thereby creating a windfall of platelets. That’s a scene from a horror movie.
One of Joe’s executive panic attacks brought on by platelets in the brain must be mind-flogging scary. Here’s a description of the cause: “During the neuro-inflammation, platelets accumulated in the central nervous system’s parenchyma, acquired an activated phenotype (soft organ tissue) and secreted pro-inflammatory factors, thereby triggering immune response cascades.” The removal process requires a dialysis session of up to 3 hours to filter out some of the gunk from the blood stream. On someone as aged as Joe B., the procedure can get messy, requiring a bed pan to relieve a bloated urinary tract. Did anyone just say “horror movie”? (During development phase, I've sat in on an innovative dialysis process using sheep liver cells to capture the platelets and prions, which emits less of a urine odor.)
Confronted with the looming medical threat to national security and global mental helth, witch-doctor Hunter prescribed powdery white Medellin cocaine as a time-proven painkiller and mental lubricant prior to his dad’s executive dialysis to restore the evil glint in the presidential eyes and ensure his bellowing rah-rah morale-booster to the emotionally inert European NATO leaders, who have been drained of energy and emotions by the constant bleed of Euro currency to Kiev, loss of their toy-scale war machines to Russian firepower, a shortage of ammo and quiet state funeral preparations for a by-now dead-duck Zelensky and his spendthrift political mafia following an imminent coup by Ukraine’s homeless population.
Ringing Around His Brain
So how could this drug-induced transformation of a stumble-bum into a barbaric warrior chieftain happen if Hunter’s stash had been left in a White House locker room? With presidential acumen on par with his predecessors Bill Clinton and Barack Obama, Joe had his own back-up dope stashes in the briefcase of one of his aides at all times and also in a desk drawer at the U.S. Embassy in London (where he frequently visits to shoot the shyte at Michael Bloomberg’s estate. En route to the NATO summit, during his brief visit with a sober and skeptical King Charles III, Joe morphed back into a stumbling doddering old man off his meds, requiring the monarch to wince while propping up Joe’s elbow.
The total transformation from zombie to raving lunatic was quite stunning, and indeed bizarre, illustrating the remedial power of cocaine from the urinary tract to the addled brain. The hopped-up president’s blood-curdling war-cry in Lithuania shall stand forever as an executive endorsement of mandatory cocaine dosages for the American men’s soccer squad at the next World Cup, especially in brutal matches against teams Russia and North Korea in the knock-out round for World War III. (China is a perennial no show due to its sports culture of corruption, confusion and over-eating, and sly enough to encourage the others to massacre each other before a Chinese “peacekeeping” intervention). An increased dosage of coke is also recommended for the talent-depleted American wonder-women’s team, now minus testosterone-enhanced Megan the Purple People Eater.
The amazing restorative effects of cocaine on that hopeless stutterer Old Joe is a potential curative for that lonesome grim beggar Volodymyr Zelensky, who is always mumbling over his cold borscht after a few minutes per month touring well behind the front lines. That dwarf will never stand tall leading a charge against enemy lines with lusty war-cries in the same vein as Shakespeare’s inspirational Henry V (“We few, we happy few, we band of brothers! Rah!). That’s how decisive battles are won.
Ukrainian military trainers need to be sent to a coaching clinic in Colombia for zippy revitalization of their reluctant slow-moving troopers fearful of an inglorious death in the killing fields of Russian-occupied Donetsk. Properly supplied to the suicide troops, the rush of inhaled cocaine confers a sense of immunity to all threats from every direction, much like those peyote-crazed Indians mowed down by Gatling guns. Snort deeply and then rush into the shrapnel! Take it from my old schoolboy pals with the LA Crips gang: Drive-by shootings vastly improve after a toke during a pass-the-crack-pipe ritual in gang solidarity. Coke can trigger mayhem in savage urban warfare, which has depopulated South Central according to the CIA strategy, which is the blueprint for what’s happening now in Ukraine. Pump ‘em up for fraternal war to clear the land for real estate agents.
Winning Elections Clinton-style
After the enthusiastic reception in Vilnius, El Presidente del Norte will surely have cocaine ringing ‘round his brain on stage during the upcoming U.S. presidential election, when proclaiming “Cancel all loans for every borrower!” Coke is the key ingredient for revival of the Cancel Culture. As for a Hunter underemployed since his brilliant career a key energy adviser for the Ukrainian Burisma gas company (shipping contraband drugs through high-pressure pipelines is the most lucrative segment of the energy sector), the Democrat Party should appoint the presidential son to lead a “stuff it up your nose” campaign for the ruling party of donkeys in the upcoming congressional races. Increased coke dependency is also a great fundraising source since the Biden clan’s loyal allies in Colombia, Peru, Venezuela, Brazil and the Virgin Islands are eager to speed-up access to untapped new pharma markets by joining USMCA, the US-Mexico-Canada free trade pact, to enable overnight Amazon delivery of coke, weed and fentanyl to every American home.
After winning the Cocaine Wars here and abroad, Old Joe and his medicated First Lady can then take a much-deserved break with a puff on a glass crack pipe at their Rehoboth seaside home with their grand-kids while a nanny walks the first family’s social embarrassment of a little girl along that queer-infested beach hand in hand with Pizzagate influencer David Brock, erstwhile fog-buddy Jimmy Alefantis.
Final question about the not-so mysterious White House coke stash: Why was the president’s gestapo aka the Secret Service put in charge of investigating the illegal storage of a contraband substance inside the White House instead of a politically neutral and scientifically competent forensic team from the DEA (Drug Enforcement Agency)? How could a fingerprint-free plastic bag be held by gloves go unnoticed by White House aides, during one of the hottest days of a record-sweltering summer? What if instead it was was an EPX plastique bomb? Oh, just put your mobile phone in safekeeping on that pile of private belongings. The cops should ask those questions to stumble bum Old Hack Joe after he wakes up with a dry throat and a hankering for the first hit of the day as our proud nation’s “Head” of State and addict in chief. To the presidential family, Hugs and Kisses aka meth and coke!
So Hail to the Chief from Eric Clapton: