the black cocaine

My Partner in Crime, Robert Downey, Jr.

July 28th, 2009

this guy

he invented cocaine.

I want to tell you about my good friend and partner in crime, Robert Downey, Jr. Now I know you all are thinking that he is amazing, based on the sheer mass of his drug experience and of course being able to have a black accent in Tropical Thunder, but there are lots of things you don’t know about him that, in my opinion, should elevate him to the level of God, or maybe even God’s rich uncle. Rich in talent, that is. But Robert’s story goes way beyond talent.

You see, few people know this, but Robert Downey, Jr. and I are members of the rarely believed Immortals. Really, we are just good old folks who have been around since the creation of time and space. We didn’t always know each other, however; it has been many years but if my memory serves me the first time our paths crossed was during the Crusades. We were on opposing sides, of course (I’ll leave it up to you to figure out who was the Norwegian Christian and who was the Palestinian Muslim, because I am decidedly ornery this afternoon). Though we were both foreign, we actually knew English, as it was the custom of Immortals to learn all languages of mortals. It was a form of Olde English, of course, in order to make the story more authentic.

Anyway, I found him slumped under a water dike on the Jordan River. When he saw me approach, he immediately hid what he had with him and exclaimed, “halt ye, sirrah! Forsooth wat goes thereof?” To which I put away my sword and replied, “calm ye self wiry heathen. I am not wat for which would poketh thee with mine swoard. I greet thee with armes wyde. ” Seeing there was no danger, he told me, “mine eyes tell me thou dost speak throoths. Mine name is Israel Mohammed van Dowwny Junior. Careth thee for some of mine fyne jenkem?” He then uncovered that which was hidden by burlap behind his back, a small dried stack of cattle feces, that he had been sniffing up the nose. “Thus ware thy breued for the best, as the book tellis, ” I replied, “but spareth me that which I do not ken. Cometh thee to the public house for a flagon. ” We got up and entered the nearest pub. Along the way we had been getting on and he mentioned to me his profound love of subtances and his lifetime quest to discover the lost Temple of Cocaine in the far east, for which he had prepared a Hot Aire Ballo’on in a field nearby. He was in the process of getting jenked up, as he put it, when I approached him, in preparation for his journey. Fearing the end of my life in the crusade, I agreed to go with him, but only after a drink. We entered the pub and the barman leaned over to us and said, “What’ll it bee, kind sirrahs?” I ordered a flagon of High Life, and Dowwny Junior asked for a Martinus. “Don’t thou meanest Martini?” asked the barman. Dowwny Junior summoned up great tides of anger, reached across the bar and lifted the barman off the floor by the collar, and screamed into his face, “LISTEN, IF I HAD WANTED TWO OR MORE DRINKS, I WOULD HAVE ASKED FOR THEM. ”

Within the hour we were well on our journey. Up and away, it was just the two of us, a basket, a balloon, and the heavens. I had with me most of my personal effects, but Robert (as we would later be known) had nothing but his royal blue velvet robe and stash of cattle droppings. After a few hours I began to tire, and asked him how long he thought this journey would be. He replied, “Oh, about as long as my dick!” To which I laughed. “No ”, said Dowwny Junior, “really, look how long my dick is. ” Sure enough, Robert’s dick was so long that it stretched out into the sunset, towards the ancient Temple of Cocaine. “How do you know it is pointing in the right direction?” I asked. “Are you kidding, ” he said. “what do you think my dick is stuck into at the other end?” I began now to realize that the very end of his godlike wangsausage was plugged firmly into the Temple of Cocaine itself, and that this was his energy source, and why he kept smoking and talking about all the films he had been in for three hours straight. He was using it as his infinite energy source! “Works a fuck ton better than that arc reactor, ” he claimed. I was impressed.

Unfortunately, when we arrived at the Temple of Cocaine, he had already absorbed all of it into his massive schlongenhammer, save a few lines. He offered them to me, but when I handed him the rolled-up shilling note, he waved it off. “You take the last one, ” he said. “I HAVE ENOUGH IN ME TO LAST UNTIL 1992. ”

To this day, Robert Downey, Jr. remains largely misunderstood.

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