I grew up in a house with cautionary tales of taking hallucinogenic drugs.
The friend of dads who drugged a lady who was going door to  spreading religion,
he was an arsehole who was later killed by his son.
Then the story of Malcolm Gramophone, a man who covered one wall of wis Waitati house with speakers,
sounds fun, but going the pub in Port Chalmers he would pop his infant son in the rubbish bin, once someone lifted the lid and there was wee Gabriel God Galaxy Gramophone.

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