A Trip with Rudy Giuliani
By Nicholas Dibagia
Dose: A handful, Oral, LSD Blotter; 1 bowl for recovery, Smoked, Marijuana, Plant material
Notes: Rudy Giuliani was there.
Monday: There I was, kicking rocks behind the empty husk of the Brown Jug, looking for something to do. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. I’d run out of grain alcohol earlier in the day, and a source of new entertainment was needed. It ran across my mind to try more of those edibles that I buy from a guy who knows a guy, i.e. a friend of mine who scopes out dealers on Grindr, an app for which my esteem grows every time it comes up. But no, this day was something different. As I tried to discern whether I was about to kick a clastic or a non-clastic sedimentary rock, I heard a rustling behind me. I turned, and there was Rudolph Giuliani himself, America’s one-time mayor, the maxillomandibular mensch. With scant a whisper, he shuffled up to me and thrust a baggie at me. I saw deliverance, destiny, and resolution in it. He cracked the bag open, handed me a handful, grunted, and put his square on his tongue. With the Son of God in front of me, I followed suit. [Gargoyle note: Do not take mystery substances from strangers. Always test any substances before ingesting them.]
The LSD seemed weak, almost too weak. Rudy said we could head back to his place and hang out for a while. The pandemic has me sorely out of friends these days, so free drugs and a place to chill were a welcome change. We watched Teletubbies for hours. Every time I got up to change the channel, Rudy would grab my arm. I kept glancing into his eyes and was met with the same watery, sallow glance. The kind of glance you would get from a salmon at the seafood counter of a Meijer in a distinctly landlocked state. His hands were sweaty, his tie knot loosened from his neck.
After a while, we ordered a pizza. According to him, nothing’s as good as pizza from New York because they use water from the East River in their dough. “Bullshit,” I said. We all know it’s not true. Same as pretending to like Joe’s pizza even though all you can ever taste is grease and burnt cardboard. We settled for Domino’s. Rudy wanted the meat-lovers; He said he loves how meat feels in his mouth. I don’t eat meat. At this point, I was starting to trip pretty hard so I forgot about the prospect of pizza and settled facedown on Rudy’s living room rug.
All that shit about patterns is true. Soon I couldn’t stop myself from tracing every pattern I saw with the tip of my pointer finger. I went from the rug to the curtains to the liver spots on Rudy’s face and hands. His skin was cold and clammy. I turned away, disgusted but not surprised.
Now, I began to have some realizations about life. First I noticed the Teletubbies. Those poor kids! The helicoptering of their “caretakers,” The Noo-noo and the Sun Baby, was simply overwhelming. I wish those kids could see what true freedom is like so they could live how they were meant to, instead of under the iron fist of their impromptu guardians.
I turned my head and watched Rudy stuff his face with pizza, crowing about “the meat.” It was at that moment that I began to make my next realization: Rudolph Giuliani is a fucking loser, but in a pathetic and not important way. The kind of loser like he’s a fat, disgusting old man. The kind who’s so dense that he doesn’t understand how little impact he actually has. I found that anathema, the antithesis of what I wanted to be. I told him I’d see my way out. He tried to stop me, to convince me to stay. “Don’t leave. Stay here, play Wii with Rudy,” he said. Now, all I could see was Jabba the Hutt.
I left. I walked to my apartment. There, I smoked a bowl and ate a box of Frosted Flakes. I watched Animal Planet for a while, felt bad for the kids of the zebras and their confinement, and soon fell asleep.
Trip grade: 6/10. No feelings of anxiety, but a lot of bad vibes from New York City’s former right hand man.
Conclusion: Stay away from weirdos. Don’t helicopter-parent your kids. Frosted flakes are good.