Congratulations Funky Walrus!

We all earned some crazy nicknames when we were dealing drugs.  Some of us were tall, so we got called things like “Cleveland Giraffe” and “San Jose Giraffe,” basically variations on the city we were in and the animal, giraffe.  Others had strange birth defects that made both of our eyes develop on one side of our face and never left the town we grew up in, and so came to be called “Flounder.”

You’re not part of this royal “we” we just related two choice examples from.  You earned your nickname because you’re cool, you’re good at what you do, and you wear a sweet fake mustache.

Your nickname is “Funky Walrus,” and you sell everything under coke on the danger scale in Southern Florida.  The majority of your customers are elderly people, but you don’t make distinctions about who you sell to, except that you don’t give product to assholes.  Assholes, and people who pollute.

“If I’m gonna take the time to ride my golf-cart to your house, you can take the time to recycle, asshole,” is one of your many catchphrases.

Others include “Eyyyy!” and “I’d stick my manatee dick in that if it wasn’t taken.”

Oh, by the way, you’re a manatee.  This comes in handy because you can’t be prosecuted in American courts, and Florida cops have no desire to in any way harm an endangered species.  So you’re basically able to operate with impunity in the small, quiet beach communities that dot the south of Florida, dispensing drugs (that you see as non-threatening) to residents as needed.

Tomorrow, you’re going to do the whole community a solid.  Colette, your friend Jared’s grandmother, is going to be fresh out of weed for her glaucoma, but her social security check will be late.  Most dealers would do some credit shit that would eventually get awkward, but you know how it is to get fucked over by the government, so instead you’re just going to give Colette a week’s supply and tell her to pay it forward in cookies or cakes or something nice like that when she can.

You’ll smoke a bowl with her after you drop her stash off, listen to her talk about how awesome the forties were (apparently World War II was sort of awesome if you were a bi girl) and then take off in your golf-cart to your next destination, driving down the side of the road at a stately fifteen miles per hour so as to not lose your fashionable Panama hat.

Congratulations Funky Walrus!