lemmy
Don’t want no sleep, Up for a week
Yes, I’m a speed freak, speed freak
—Motörhead, “Speed Freak”
When I think of Lemmy, I think of Motörhead. When I think of Motörhead, I think of speed. And when I think of speed, I have to poop. Because every time I did the stuff, I’d have to take a shit. I’m not sure if this is true, but I’ve heard that the meth makes your guts contract, thus forcing your shit down the pipe. But I’d get it just thinking about it. Very Pavlovian, no? It was actually kind of difficult for me to score because as soon as I made contact with the dealer and knew I was gonna get some, my butthole would start rumbling. Making a quick exit from the dealer’s house was partly because I wanted to slam a line up my nose, but mostly because I had to get to a toilet.
I haven’t done speed in years (”no regrets, no regrets”)—it hasn’t been hard to avoid—but I certainly enjoyed it while it lasted. Damn, I’m seriously getting poopy just writing this. Which brings me to my point: I’m not sure how I’m going to go see this documentary on Lemmy. You can watch the trailer here. It looks grand. Make sure you watch all of it because he tells a funny little joke at the end.
Speaking of ends… I must apologize for not writing more on the subject, but all this talk of Motörhead has given me diarrhea.
