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August 25, 2012
I had endured many humiliations in my quest for cocaine. Having a gun pushed in my face while I waited for a Mission Street dealer was pretty bad. But this felt worse. I had just returned from a six-month trip to Latin America and the first place I stopped was a friend’s house -- a friend who was my dope supplier.

“Does anyone still speak Latin down there?” he asked.

The question not only demonstrated his ignorance of South America, but of the vice president’s similar gaffe a month earlier. I smiled, shook my head, and waited for my bag.