hat's off to a great value

today dr. koaladick went to a friendly neighborhood gas station and, after locating an arizona tea product (arnold palmer half and half with splenda: it kicked so much ass), asked the attendant a usual question: what's the cheapest kind of cigarettes you have? unfortunately dr. koaladick lives in a city where cigarettes run $6 a pack and up. he is not happy about this.
dr. koaladick is a hopeless addict. despite what his girlfriend will tell you, he does not think this makes him cool, nor does he do it just to piss her off. some people just don't understand.
so, as the doctor assumed a pouty demeanor and began sifting through the various medical licenses from rio, monte carlo, paris, singapore, and st. paul, minnesota that crowd his wallet (k.d. enjoys gambling, decriminalized drug laws, and the occasional snow-in with some chef boyardee lasagna and a quality pilsner) for a twenty-dollar bill, the dude behind the counter gave him an answer he'd never encountered: here, these, $1.99.
the doctor raised his visage, shocked, and marked the stack of green packs by the lighter display.
'what's this? $1.99?'
the attendant pointed.
the doctor picked one up. it said 'hat's off' and had a sketch of a dick tracy style hat. they were menthol 100's.
'i wonder why they're so cheap.' the doctor then noticed the words 'made in india' printed on the side. he also noticed the words 'twenty little cigars.'
he asked the attendant about this cigar business, and whether or not it was safe to inhale. the attendant told him they were cigarettes, not cigars. k.d. looked back to the box, coonfused. no point arguing with the man, he thought. the attendant said, again, 'cigarettes.' perhaps a shitty translator had been employed in the production of this pack of mystery smokes. etymologically, however, the prospect seemed sound.


. . .


the doctor's first puff sort of burned. 'jesus' he coughed, 'this stuff tastes like sandpaper. sandpaper and...and...eucalyptus?' dr. k's pupils grew wider, and by the time he had walked two blocks things were starting to get funny. everything moving a little slower than normal, and strangely disproportionate. the next thing he knew he was sitting in his living room with underpants on his head, shirtless and playing shinobe on ps2. for a second he thought there were bats.

. . .

dr. koaladick awoke the next day with a headache that felt like africa colliding with the arabian peninsula behind his forehead. he reached out his right hand and felt around for his medical bag, in dire need of really any of the pills it contained, but it wasn't there because he was on a sidewalk. the sidewalk next to wrigley field, to be exact. he could hear sounds that reminded him vaguely of words, rubbed his eyes and saw the fuzzy outline of some drunk bastard sloshing his beer around, carrying on about how the pirates suck. fucking idiot, thought dr. k, everybody knows the pirates suck...now where in god's name was that gas station?

the end