Written by “Buffalo Bill,” a pseudonym chosen by an anonymous inmate at San Quentin State Prison who has generously offered to share his story with The Black Sheep:
They pulled me over for swerving through both lanes of Pardall Tunnel. “What seems to be the problem, officer?” They could smell the buffalo sauce on my breath. It was the first of many, many dead giveaways.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to step away from the bike and recite the alphabet backwards for me.” They stopped me after I-V-Del-E. Next came the physical sobriety test.
“I bet a stoner like you is just dying for some of these Buffalo chicken cheese fries, fresh from the styrofoam.”
“No thanks, I’ve already had eno–Damn! You got me.”
That’s how it all started, and this is my story:
Once I blew a 0.98 on the Buffalyzer (which measures the Blood-Buffalo Concentration, or BBC), it was game over. They took me in for riding while impaired over the legal limit of a 50% Blood-Buffalo Level, and I spent the rest of the night in the drunk tank. My two cellmates had been busted earlier for biking with an open container of Blaze Pizza and getting stopped with a BBQ Bacon Char in his backpack.
They released me on $5,000 bail that I then had to sit and watch them spend on buffalo chicken cheese fries, which they ate in front of me until they threw out what they couldn’t finish.If that wasn’t cruel and unusual punishment I don’t know what is. They donated the rest of the money to a vegan charity (*shudder*) dedicated to helping recovering buffaholics.
I managed to avoid jail time by going to BA classes for Buffaholics Anonymous. What looked promising at first soon became the worst experience of my life. Half the attendees were IV Deli employees offering me a discount at the register, and the other half were slinging ultra-cheap buffalo sauce on the side just to make ends meet.
Finally, I thought, I have found my people.
It started out ok, and things were looking up for a good two weeks after my sentencing. That is, until I met my parole officer. He was on me like grease on french fries. He starting going to my weekly meetings with me, preventing me from scoring from my network of suppliers. Sometimes he even showed up at my door unannounced and conducted a random drug test. I couldn’t get my fix for weeks.
Things were getting dark, and my situation grew ever more desperate. One time, dying for anything to satisfy my greasy craving, I had a friend sneak me a monster chicken burrito in the back alley behind Freebirds. Two weeks later I was arrested again, this time passed out and covered in guacamole after shooting up horchata behind Embarcadero Hall.
There’s no doubt about it – Buffalo Chicken Cheese Fries are dangerous no matter the method of consumption. It’s obvious when you’ve had them, and law enforcement are trained to be on the lookout for those trademark glassy eyes and bulging stomach. Worst of all, they’re a proven gateway snack to harder, more expensive munchies like Freebirds burritos. That shit will Ruin. Your. Life.
Take it from me, Buffalo Bill – a man who learned his lesson the hard way.
Buffalo Bill has since become involved in the nonprofit organization Mean Greens for Clean Teens, a vegetable-oriented charity which seeks to empower young adults to just say no to grease and melted cheese. He now mentors five of his fellow inmates and leads weekly prayer services for those hoping to turn their lives around.