One of my first jobs at the temp agency was digging ditches in St. Bernard Parish at a strip mall. It was finally being put back together after Katrina. I got the job only because of my car, not because the dispatchers liked me. My coworker and I stopped for energy drinks and smokes after 8 hours of trying to pick thruogh clay and clam shells. Back in Jersey, concrete slabs were laid on blue stone. Down here clam shells are used on top of thick clay. Forcing shovels into it all day kicks a half century old ass.
Great stuff BC powder. I guess it's only sold here in the South. If a Jersey State Trooper found one of these in your car during a Turnpike stop, you'd be sitting in holding for two days until they finally got around to testing the suspect white powder. Ironically, at my age I'm hooked on over the counter pain relievers. Today I was a junky walking around like Grouch Marx looking for a fix.
I managed to score a few hits of BC powder from my friend Russell. During the exchange he goes into a coughing jag. Russell turned all sort of wild colors. After he finally caught his breath. "Man, I thought my number was up on that one." That's what triggered this morbid blog. The general myth is that we all want to go of natural causes. That's more depressing than death by stupidity. At least we have some say with a needless death.