Mushroom High

A letter from local highschool student Jonny Needlin asks, "Dear John Dooley, I want to take psychedelic mushrooms, but my cousin tells me my brain is not yet fully formed, and that I should wait before exposing my virgin gray-matter to psychotropic substances. What should I do?"

Jonny, it's always a pleasure when some smart-ass student writes in for advice. Tell you what. I'll take the mushrooms instead, and tell you about the experience. Then you can decide for yourself if you want to try them when you're a responsible adult like me (I've got to warn you that you'll have a much smaller penis).

Mmm. They're crunchy--taste pretty good. Like moldy pizza or that vegan chick I dated from Tigard. Take heed, Jonny. From here on you'll experience what I undergo on mushrooms, in a quantifiably quasi-scientific manner; I'll talk you through it.

The first hour, you'll swear the mushrooms didn't work. Then you'll chug a Gatorade and a '95 Kenwood table red. You'll smoke a doob and grind your teeth.

Things will begin to look rubbery, and will bend if you concentrate.

A third eye will open below your abdomen and will itch like hell. You'll develop a third eye lint infection, but forget about it when someone with boobs enters the room. Your third eye will bulge obscenely and turn purple, peeping through your shirt. Wait a minute! That's not your third eye that's bulging. It's your third leg!

Despite your quandary, you'll forget the boobs and engage in a giggle fit with a green Play-Doh wad, form it into an exact replica of the Bust of Augustus, and then eat it.

Your mom will call and tell you she's drunk and masturbating with your baby shoes. Or if you're in the woods, a Quaker will show up out of nowhere with steaming oats.

You will destroy a birdbath with your flapping. Your strength will multiply, and you'll easily steal dry-docked boats, pulling them on trailers silently away with your teeth in the night.

The sky will be blue and pink simultaneously. You'll sing uncontrollably about dinky duckies and farty frogs. Then you'll get an email from the boss who says the column is late. He needs it right away. You'll sort through your research, pointlessly.