I ran into Slick at the bus stop last night, “Hey I got somethin’ fer you Readin’ Man!”

It being well known that I collect Christian flip-comics, the young hoodlum had saved me one gotten from a missionary. Usually these are just found on bus seats, or on the shelves at the market where I work. I quizzed Slick about his source and used the blank back of the comic to scrawl his sage commentary, “This dude says ‘Please read this’, en I’m like naw, not me. Then he pushes it in my face en I’m like yeah, ‘Jimbo reads this shit.’"

“Dude, I was not lingerin’ with that white-boy: big Grisly Adams lookin’ mofo wit a bunch of crippled up midget black bitchez in wheel chairs—some creep-factor child-molested homo vibes were assaultin’ the Slick sensory array dude. What-the-fuck! an army of gimp black bitchez? I was lucky I didn’t get raped…”

And on the slick one rapped as I stepped away with a waive and a 'thank you' to my worldly benefactor...

In case you cannot get a copy of Jack T. Chick’s masterful reconstruction of rural American drug culture here is a summary.

Bad Bob is pictured on the cover as a bearded sunglassed figure of Аrуаn menace with the Stars & Bars in the background. He was born an evil child, the Devil in a Highchair. J.T.C. does abused and/or evil babies in highchairs as well as he does nighted crucifixions. His mother listens to a liberal guidance counselor, does not beat Bob like she should—and bam! He’s forty-years old and towering menacingly over a waitress in a diner, and being worshipped by a clutch of middle-aged stoner skanks.

Soon he is doing a drug deal with a narc and getting locked up. He is witnessed to by a young Christian that visits the jail, who he threatens and sends away in tears. The jail cop then tells Bob and his stupid cousin, who set up the deal with the narc, that they deserve to burn in hell. And, as if answering a plea from every betrayed drug dealer in the U.S. the narc-bate cousin burns alive in hellfire in the cell! Bob is rescued by the jail cop and J.T.C loses me with six pages or repentance. I’m sorry, but Bad Bob was fun, and Christian Bob is lame.

J.T.C does not, however, disappoint. He brings the stoner granny skanks back into the picture to announce their inevitable search for another supplier. This comic was really heavy on scripture, which I like, but lacked the midnight crucifixion scenes that keep me coming back. As a chronicler of the wasted masses of American drug culture I have to say that J.T.C. comes closer to identifying the primary driver of the American drug scene than any other source: women. American women drive drug consumption, commerce and violence more than any single factor, and he gets that, depicting it effectively, down to the bad complexions and half-washed hair of the point women who are warring successfully on our dying culture through the drones that serve them.