Earlier this week, a mysterious figure known only as "Commander McBragg" sent us a thrilling true account of the day Hillary Clinton's heroism saved his life. Today, a seedier tale of the underbelly of Harvard Law.
I remember back at Harvard Law in 1990 where Barack and I were putting the finishing touches on the latest Law Review up on the shabby-but-venerable second floor of Gannett House. Back in those days, you didn't need to shiver outside to have a cigarette and I could see the thin tendrils of smoke curl up around his face as he took another drag. Normally, he'd just go back to his spotless little basement apartment in Somerville after we closed up and I'd go back to my hellhole. I couldn't understand how he found the time to keep his damn place so clean. Anyway, the Review was in the can for the month, and I felt like celebrating. I pulled the little baggie from the coin pocket of my Levi's, undid the twisty-tie, and shook out enough for a couple of rails. I never touched the stuff while working, but after the day was done anything goes, especially after we'd just put the Review to bed.

Barack sort of frowned as I looked at him and I arched one eyebrow with the unspoken question, trying hard to channel John Belushi. He started to shake his head no, but then shrugged and said, "Ah, what the hell," and I shook out enough for a couple more. Neither of us had credit cards and back then a driver's license was too thin and flimsy, so I took a ruler and started chopping it up with the sharp metal edge. It was pretty clean shit and there were some pure chunks I had to crush with the flat side of the ruler, but finally I had four fat rails set up in parallel lines, like some quantum double-slit experiment gone horribly wrong.

I took a five dollar bill from my wallet and showed it to him, Lincoln-side up, saying "Emancipation, baby," as I rolled it into a tooter and handed it over. He rolled his eyes in disgust, but took the tooter nonetheless, and snorted up the two nearest lines. Barack banged the end of the tooter on the table, picked up the remaining dust with the tip of his finger, rubbed it on his gums, and handed the tooter over to me with a smile.

I tooted up my share and unfurled the bill, cleaned the edges on my jeans and put it back in my wallet. If you want to know what it smells like, just take out your money and sniff. About half of all US currency in circulation is contaminated like this, with an average of 16 micrograms per bill. Not enough to get you high, but enough to smell for sure. Just like Coca-Cola from a fresh bottle of syrup. But, I digress.

"So, give me a smoke," I said to him and he handed me the pack. He lit another one too and we sat back and drew deep while we waited for the stuff to kick in. I could feel the shit burn the back of my throat as it crawled down like the drip-drip-drip of super delegates and the world started to look pretty crisp. Barack, who was usually quiet until he had something of substance to say, started to quickly speak in that earnest and well-intentioned way that all too often deteriorates into babble.

He kept talking about this chick named Michelle that he'd met in Chicago, about how hot she was, how smart and tight, and how she wanted to change the world. The words were coming from him like bullets. You know how it is when people get going like this, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise. I was about to tell him to shut the fuck up already, but finally he got this strange look on his face and said, "Hey, can we cut out a couple more?"

"Sure," I replied, and took out the little baggie. I was on scholarship and though I had no credit I had few money worries, so again I laid out four fat ones, took the same bill from my wallet, and handed him the freshly rolled tooter. He hoovered his down, handed me the bill and I did the same. I wiped the table clean, put away the bill and said, "Let's blow this place and get a drink."

As we walked to the bar, I thought to myself that it was a good thing Barack was focused on this chick. Just a few days ago, we'd crashed the Hasty Pudding Theatrical where Kevin Costner was getting an award. Not that we gave a shit. Normally we wouldn't screw with that undergrad crap, but there was free food and Barack got the idea to dress up like Whitney Houston so people would think he was one of the performers. That tool Mo Rocca was the writer that year and he sneaked us in.

We actually got to meet Costner and even though there were plenty of guys in drag singing, he was pretty taken with Barack. It turned out Costner was about to make The Bodyguard and Barack was pretty flattered with all the attention. It made me wonder that he liked it too much, so as we approached the bar I was relieved when Barack couldn't stop talking about Michelle. But after awhile I just wanted him to shut up.

This is a true story, I swear.