The sporting editors had also given me $300 in cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous drugs. The trunk of the car looked like a mobile police narcotics lab. We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a salt shaker half full of cocaine, and a whole galaxy of multi-colored uppers, downers, screamaers, laughers... and also a quart of tequila, quart of rum, a case of Budweiser, a pint of raw ether and two dozen amyls.
(from the book)
The long, strange trip that ensued is pretty much what the book's about. I didn't get any type of social commentary out of it, either.
