I don’t know much about cocaine. I’ve never seen it despite growing up around unlicensed pharmacists who sold it. I’m almost certain that I am one of maybe seven gay men who have never been offered the drug in the bathroom of a club. Suffice to say I know very little about the relations between fiend and pusher. Maybe I’m thinking too much of people who turn to the selling of illegal substances to make a living, but I expected coke retailers to exercise more restraint than this. You know, since disclosure agreements don’t seem like a realistic option in these sort of instances.
We already know Nippy can sniff all the way back to Spring 1987. Do we really need to know the specifics about what she used to do with her nostrils? I wish I had Dionne Warwick’s email address so I could send this to her and watch her call her goons to handle this failed drug dealer. If you watched Celebrity Apprentice earlier this year you know Dionne is an old school goonnette. I swear, I’d pay good money to see her and Cissy Houston slap the snitch out of this sum’bitch.
Y’all leave Whitney Houston the hell alone. Better yet, y’all leave Whitney Houston fans alone. We’re already traumatized that Whitney went from sounding like an angel to an angel’s colon after food poisoning. It’s simply cruel to be so graphic about how this came to pass.