Bunny Trafficks Drugs - June 12, 2006

I have a thyroid problem and it's a bitch. I whined about it so much on my blog in 2005 that I had to call a moratorium on bitching and shut the whole subject down. The subject went away, but the problem never did.

I'll explain it all again. The thyroid is a butterfly shaped gland in the throat which regulates metabolism. When it is underactive, as in my case, it can cause a host of problems including sluggish metabolism, low blood pressure, weight gain, bad hair and skin, mental fogginess, and the most notorious of Bunny maladies: PMS. For a time I took a drug called Synthroid which worked to allieviate some symptoms, but also made me sure I was being stalked by ninjas and too often caused me to clean the cracks between my bathroom tiles with bleach covered Q-tips. Last year, I tried all natural cures. I gave up on them in one fell swoop after a particularly violent bout of PMS, during which I made a grand romantic gesture of tossing the herb cabinet into the trash with vigor and kicking the can till my toes bled. The phrase "better living through chemistry" is not as outdated as we'd like to think, it seems, because all natural cures cured shit.

Tired of feeling half-awake all the time, tired of miles and miles of running and reaping little reward from it, I made the decision to go back on Synthroid, but I knew that getting a doctor to prescribe it would be a challenge. Any drug which alters the metabolism is a liability. Only the pricey doctors with big insurance, specialists, endocrinologists etc. will prescribe it. Naturally, those doctors are not on my Kaiser Permanente plan.

I think it was Tucker who had the fantastic idea. "Bunny, Mexico is, like, two hours away. We could go and get enough thyroid medicine to last you a year!" He was very enthusiastic about the idea, and I thought this was because he is such a good buddy. Little did I know...

We left LA in the mid afternoon, driving through San Diego to Tijuana on the 5. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in the sky, and no smog either. We did what we usually do while spending any time exposed to each other: brainstorm, pontificate, figure out ways to buck the system etc. Tucker spoke of Ghengis Khan as if he were his own adored father, though a thousand years of time make that an impossibility. Along the same subject line, he laid out his plans for future domination of the planet, and I told him he was being mean.

"You should just be nice to people."
"Silly Bunny."

We walked freely over the border into Tijuana, where, not ten feet beyond the barrier was a pharmacia advertising all sorts of drugs. I went to the man in the white uniform behind the desk and ordered "Like, ten thousand bottles" of Synthroid. He brought out ten, which Tucker, being my good buddy, paid for. I waited in the sun at the doorway, admiring pretty trees and spinning in the wind, trying hard to ignore the "orphans" selling chicle in the gutter and the miasma of piss odors caught in the air. I could hear Tucker asking the man for something, but his words were too obscured by car horns and shouting to make out.

Tucker: "Nah, man. That's how much it costs in America."

He handed me a black plastic bag with enough Synthroid to keep me good and paranoid for two years, and then bounded down the stairs and into the street yelling "Come on, Bunny! Hurry, Bunny!"

"What were you trying to buy from the pharmacia?"
"Quiet your Bunny hole!"

The line for re-entry into America was hundreds long, and it seemed to creep. After a bit of waiting, it dawned on me that it was probably illegal to buy generic drugs in such a quantity and take them back over the border to America, and that I would have to claim the purchase.

"Oh shit, Rilly. What do I say when they ask me what I bought?"
"Just tell em you bought medicine."
"But what about my prescription? I don't have one?"
"Silly Bunny."

Tucker looked around, over the heads of the very short Mexicans in line with us, and spied another pharmacia. He chirped "Ooo!" and then took off again. He returned minutes later with a little brown bag.

"Look Bunny!" he giggled. He held up the bottle for me to examine, and though the label was in Spanish I recognized the shape and color of the four pills inside of it: Viagra.

"What in the hell do you need Viagra for?"
"I want to try it. Its supposed to be fun."
"Rilly! Who are you going to use that with?"
"I dunno. Some whore."
"Poor girl. She'd better have a steel vagina."

He giggled again, put the bottle back into the paper bag, and stuck it into my black plastic one. It rattled around with two years' worth of Synthroid as I stepped, stepped and stepped closer to the American border agents, sweating what I would say to them. Tucker walked through first and lied to the agent when he asked what city he was born in because he wanted to see if he could get away with it. He did. The agent asked him if he had anything to declare. He held his hands up, smiled and walked into America. I was next.

Now, I was pretty nervous. The agent took my driver's license, looked at it, at me, at it, at me, and so on and so forth. He asked where I was born. I got nervous and said the wrong city, though I didn't mean to lie.

He asked me to put my bag on the counter and I did. He looked through it angrily.

"DO YOU HAVE A PRESCRIPTION FOR ALL THIS MEDICINE."
"Er...um, no. Sir."
"THIS IS AT LEAST A YEAR'S WORTH OF DRUGS, MISS."
"Um. Yes."
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH VIAGRA?"

TUCKER!

I'm shaking. Am I drug trafficking? Am I a drug trafficking pervert? Are the Federales going to throw me into jail?

He takes out a slip of pink paper, too pink for me to be comfortable with, and begins writing. I'm having a hard time comprehending any sights or sounds at the moment, but I do hear words like "offense" and "illegal" and also the phrase "intent to sell." I know that last one is pretty bad, but all I can think is: Please don't take my medicine away. Please, oh please.

He orders me over to another desk, the supervisor's desk. This man is equally as shocked by the contents of my bag. I hand him my license and he begins typing my information into the computer, presumably. I've obviously not committed any crimes, or don't have any "priors," I guess. He asks me what I'm doing with a year's worth of drugs.

"I have a bad thyroid?"

Tucker nonchalantly wanders over to the desk and says "Where's my Viagra?" I kick him in the shins. Perhaps it was the distraction, or my desperate facial expressions, or the low street value of Synthroid that made him lenient, but for whatever reason, he decided to take pity on me and let me go. I picked up my plastic bag full of drugs and took it back to America where I will take one pill each morning, and the cracks between my tiles will be fucking spotless.

Any females reading this story who are considering sex with Tucker in the next week or so are forewarned. He has Viagra.

Posted by The Bunny at 5:13 PM

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Posted by: Quado at June 13, 2006 09:00 PM

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