Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

It sure seems like everyone has a trigger or fifty these days. Not to say that people haven’t always been fragile, but now we have classified the proper terminology that pinpoints that moment where something clicks like a slipped disc in your mind and propels you down a rabbit hole of displeasure. Obviously, the term generates from the trigger of a gun, activating an emotional response that equates to a heightened reaction. The catalyst kind of hits you like a bullet, too, creating an abrupt shock to your mood. You may not be entirely aware that your reaction to the incident stems from something traumatic in your past that is affecting your attitude in the moment, but either way, your current state is altered, provoking an immediate reaction. In this modern age of psychology, we’ve become very efficient at analyzing nuances in the human temperament and identifying how drastic changes can exacerbate symptoms. Like, a hundred years ago people just called it rattling the nerves, but when you place a validated medical term to it, people clutch onto diagnosis like a life preserver—a safe zone. But the problem with that is we’ve become accustomed to having a technical explanation for everything we feel, raising expectations that since it is well-defined, there must be a simple way to resolve it. And usually with a pill. Or a drink. Or a fit of rage. And the misunderstanding from which most people suffer is thinking that acting out negatively is the most effective way to resolve the situation. But as we all have learned from experience, these confrontational reactions only intensify the problem. And therefore, I would like to share my philosophy to settling an issue before reacting in a way that could prove irreparable. My lighter is a trigger. And my bong is my gun.   

Most well-rounded people will agree that just because you can effectively navigate your way around a video game, a streaming service, or pretty much anything that has to do with sitting on your ass in front of a screen, it does not necessarily make you worldly. Like, just because you saw a movie scene set under the Eiffel Tower, it doesn’t mean you can escargot there in conversation. Get it? Whatever Becky. The world is full of analytical dweebs who can dissect algorithms, but while this ability of moving numbers can equate to more of them in your bank account, too much can result in a complete failure at life. Because one of the most important aspects for being a valued component to this remarkable existence is possessing the ability to socialize with other people. I mean actual interaction. Face to face. Eye to eye. Not profile to profile. Behold the modern nerd. It is an individual who, in their mind, is a fun loving, exciting person who fancies exploration. Just so long as it doesn’t mean leaving the house. But these geeks are having their day because the information age churns them out at such an alarming rate that anti-social behavior is the new black. To them it’s perfectly acceptable to wear a face mask and keep the eyes peeled to the ground in a grocery store while stocking the cart with microwaveable fish sticks and instant mashed potatoes, but if a stranger were to offer to help carry one of the bags to their car, the dweeb might spray them with mace and call the woke police. Anyway, the real meaning of Big Bang Theory is their concept of finally getting laid. And Stoney Baloney is the rock-hard remnants of a mom-made sandwich that’s been marooned in the refrigerator for 8 days.  

People tell me this sometimes. But am I narcissistic, or just eager to be recognized? A little of both, methinks. Aren’t we all guilty of wanting attention at some level? I mean, at what point are you self-absorbed, or just looking to feel relevant in this glorious human experience of lightning strikes and rolling stones? Because, let’s be honest, every one of us, from an instinctual level, is looking out for numero uno as much as any other living organism. And some of you would argue that you always put your child before yourself, but if that’s really the best means for your DNA reaching the next millennium, then why does the flight attendant instruct you to put your life vest on first? Because the kid ain’t gonna make it without its momma. I get it, drawing too much attention to yourself can always be a means for criticism in this environment of acceptance where all people are welcome to share the stage equally. But all people aren’t equal, physically, or mentally. Just like weed. And I’m not claiming that I, or my country, race, religion, gender, etc. is better than any other person or living thing on the planet, just that it seems silly that we should consider ourselves the same. In kindergarten they told us we are all unique in our own special way like a snowflake. Right about the same time they told us how to dress, which God to worship and which football team to root for. Contradictions are everywhere. I understand that global equality is basically in reference to civil rights, which I’m down with. And I believe we all deserve the same opportunities. And I believe in mixing flower with edibles with dabs. So, am I still a narcissist? Or am I an alchemist?  

Altering your reality by meddling with the synapses in your brain is one of the most common ways to entertainment yourself. Whether you’re poppin’ pills or pounding tequila poppers, bending the senses can bring about the most wonderful, kaleidoscopic effects. Or getting turnt. Which is the fun, turnt way of saying turned up. In the early aughts, Allen Greenspan coined the phrase “Irrational Exuberance”. He was the head of the Federal Reserve around the time of the Great Recession. Of course, he wasn’t referring to catching a buzz, but one cannot ignore the correlation that society was “getting drunk” on their own perception of wealth due to over-inflated home values. Or getting turnt. People acted like an ATM machine was sitting in their garage. Anyway, enough of that boring shit, let’s talk more about getting wasted. Or turnt. There’s a very popular method of achieving one very tasty buzz and that is to “crossfade”. Crossfading is mixing Cannabis with alcohol. And then you add a couple other stimulants or downers to the mix and you’re cross pollinating. That’s not actually a thing, I just made it up. But how you define this is irrelevant because it all resides conveniently under one comfy umbrella. And that is called getting turnt. Which is fucking fun! Until it’s over and your dehydrated brain and body wonders what the hell you were thinking. Because it’s not easy to brush off the little devil jumping up and down advocating to crank up the fun volume a couple notches with ill-regard to the looming consequences the following morning. Of course, those feelings of irrational exuberance can compound into a full-blown weekend of getting turnt. That’s called a bender. Which rarely ends well. Too much getting turnt makes you burnt.  

Amazon screwed the pooch. If your name is Alexa, that is. Because thanks to them, there’s now a glitch in the process of assigning identity to a newborn child, forcing us to rethink how we move forward with the official book of baby names. Now for the next couple generations or five, new mothers will shudder at the annoying thought of confusedly summoning the updated version of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey in their living room. I mean, they could have given any name under the spectrum for their Artificial Bitch, but they chose one that thousands of females already have, really fucking things up for any unfortunate woman with that lovely name. It’s kinda like having the last name Franklin, but your parents still named you Ben for the fuck of it, effectively forcing you to endure an unending punch line. Which is just unjust. Think of the household in a family who has the Amazon Echo and a child named Alexa. Every time that name leaves someone’s mouth, the surveillance spy is primed for your next cue to immediately spin the wheel of search engines at your command. So, having a child by the same name is only welcoming more scrutiny into your already privacy deprived life. So, sorry Alexa. You are no longer unique. What was once a flowing word of Greek origination is now a moniker of mediocrity. You’ve been replaced by automation—now the impetus for undeserved snickers galore and relegated to being associated with a virtual butler. Here’s the good news. You can always change your name in court. And you can reinvent your identity by moving to a new country. And the chances are pretty good that some grower will name a weed strain after you. Like Bubba Kush, or Jack Herer, except you will simply be Alexa. I can envision the bling of your glowing trichomes! And hey, at least you weren’t named Siri.  

If it weren’t for the bubonic plague, rats could easily be man’s best friend. And the rat-infested movie Willard didn’t help their reputation, either. You snicker, but what we’re talking about is pretty much just an oversized mouse, right? I mean, if you really put tangible reasoning to our fearful rationale, the rat has never done anything wrong. Like people, they’re hungry, crafty varmints who are scouring the planet in search of leftovers. The biggest difference between us and them is that we have thumbs and bigger melons, making it a helluva lot easier to find food. Without this enormous advantage, you’d see people crawling wherever necessary to scour up however many bites as it takes to fill that nagging tummy, too! Hunger will drive you to do the unthinkable. And ok, they multiply quickly, but so do we.  Now, I’m not advocating for new leash laws for these sniffy scavengers, but if you think about it, they’re docile and furry with cute little mouths who pretty much just want to nuzzle up for a good cuddle puddle if you’re down to have a pink potbelly warming the nape of your neck. Sure, that tail is thick, but a dog’s is bigger and whippier. And so are their farts. You know, every story needs a villain, so it could be said that the negative light shed on these feral friends has painted them as something to fear. When, they could make pleasant companions for us all after a good snipping of the reproductive organs.  Rats seem like happy creatures--red eyes and all. And by the way, there is nothing wrong with red eyes. I see them in the mirror every day after a fat bong rip. And then I nibble on some cheese.  

When you really put your mind to understanding the human psyche, you’ll see that it is easily manipulated. There’s no denying the obvious--that if you reinforce a concept to curious individuals with the right degree of conviction, you are sure to make an impression. In fact, they may even become thoroughly convinced that what you’re pitching is going to improve their lives eternally. No matter how severely absurd something may be due to the limitations of logic and physics, the facts will not be recognized once their mind is determined. They will buy into your influence unconditionally, transforming into true zealots in pure defense of this information. Information, it could be maintained, may ultimately be to blame for the eventual downfall of our species. Because as big brains can defy common sense, small brains act entirely upon common sense. So, who is wiser, the man or the ant? But we’ve conquered the food chain, which allows us to live longer so it’s ridiculous to argue, right? Wait, who conquered the food chain? The dude planted on a ripped sofa wiping Taco Bell fire sauce on his pants playing World of Warcraft? Lewis and Clark don’t think so. Anyway, as much as people think they dominate nature, the reality that we all face is that the bigger the brain, the more the insecurities will surface about who we are, what we’re doing and why we exist. And for people who crave certainty, this poses an existential conundrum. People need to fill the gaps in their lives to feel complete, therefore, if you repeat something long enough, the illusion around truth is bound to take hold. We are gullible creatures. And yes, many still believe that Cannabis is for dirty hippies, too.   

We all know the 10-second rule. When you drop a piece of food, if you pick it up within ten seconds you have beaten the decomposition clock, essentially rescuing the item from the armies of crazed little germs that lie in waiting for food fumbles. In your mind’s eye, these microscopic creatures are blood thirsty vampires, lurching, smothering it with toxic juices and dripping fangs, rendering your Funyun a potential risk to your body’s wellness. Your taste buds, however, may not excuse your blunder. There is not a moment to waste for the fast action determination that will either land that flavor into your mouth, or sadly litter the ground with another dead soldier. This is a decision factored on the intensity of your saliva, painfully anticipating the explosive zest while the impatient clock races to the point of no return.   You grow weary of your surroundings, weighing the risks of irreparable illness, or judgement from any onlooker within eyeshot. Do you forego the hazards and redeem the gaffe, or exponentially enhance the chance that a frenzy of multiplying bacteria could foster an unpronounceable condition?   Tick, tick, tick. You’re down to 007.  You stare upon it, frazzled by the dilemma. This is an exceptional onion flavored ring, and you are not one to waste tasty salt. The forehead begins to bead. Slow motion ensues. There is a finite number of Funyuns in existence and this one is yours. You put the fun in Funyun. You reach down and pinch the item with two fingers, brush any dirt across your jeans, inspect it momentarily, then hammer into the crunchiness with a shear jaw clamp. You chew and finish. You do not lick your fingers this time but wipe the hand on your jeans and go about your extremely busy day. In this unpredictable world where the strong survive, acquiring good food comes with challenges, and you are not one to be wasteful. Besides, those little critters are pure protein. Kind of like a ladybug on a blooming nug of weed.  Not that you would ever eat one. Unless of course it came after your Funyun.  

Sure, you can sit on your ass all day and pile up the layers of blubber while filling your brain with useless information from the boob tube, but that only goes so far until it’s time to get outside and do shit. And the moment you cross that threshold from front door to sidewalk, the real-life video game begins. Be it driving down roads to licking the backs of toads, unforeseen hazards exist at every turn. Think about it, there just aren’t too many places you can go where the grim reaper isn’t posted up with his sickle ready to punch the clock and get to work. Be it getting hit by lightning, tripping on a tree root that sends you off a cliff while snapping a selfie, or your building collapses because some asshole didn’t stay up with city code for 40 years, the perils are abundant. You never know when it’s your time to go. So, what’s the best option for navigating unpredictable physics while testing the limits of reason to help you feel accomplished in knowing that you lived a fun life? We all know it’s probably not the safest idea to bungy jump off the Rio Grande bridge in New Mexico, or cruise a submarine for gold doubloons off the tip of the Bermuda Triangle, but we still have to create some relative excitement while still maintaining the standard nine to five. They say golf is a safe game, but last time I checked, they still haven’t begun requiring helmets on the course. And hiking is always a healthy way to get the blood pumping, but the more it flows, the more the mountain lions and wild boars can smell the brew. Even Cannabis is dangerous—one drop will kill you. If it was a bale falling from an airplane, that is.   

Who’s the marry prankster that decided it’d be a brilliant idea to indoctrinate children with the concept that a man and a woman cohabitating until death is paramount to living a fulfilled life? I understand that for our species to proliferate for the first 40,000 years this coupling was necessary, but now we have Baby Einstein and Uber Eats. As children we were left to discover the disparity between masculinity and femininity and how love and sex is viewed through vastly different lenses. And these obvious dissimilarities have been experienced endlessly, however very few young adults address the obvious, blindly convinced that their love is the exception. Yet, we have a 50 percent divorce rate in America.  I didn’t make that up. As we know, physical chemistry can be irresistible, but is it imperative to lock the person down with a contract and a finger shackle to validate their love? That sounds like entrapment to me. Listen, I’m on your side, people, but someone’s got to be the bad guy and say something because you little princesses are force fed the fantastic narrative that a hero will battle his way to bend a knee at your feet, completing you as a woman. And until that undeterred romantic appears with a bowed head, pretty much everything you do is in preparation for a life with this mystery dude. Then eventually, when you’ve kissed a ton of toads to no avail, you finally settle for Mr. Right Now. Isn’t the idea of a “soul mate” an oxymoron anyway? Sure, marriage sounds like a great idea when there’s a honeymoon to look forward to, but when reality strikes, not everyone is prepared for the repetition. All men and women are not created equal. And neither is all bud. They didn’t tell us that, either.  

There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being nice. Because niceness is something that is severely lacking in today’s self-gratification system. Back around the 1950’s, the postman knew every member of the household by name and the milkman was a friendly gentleman with a white smile and straight hat. These iconic staples were what represented the bright American standard that exemplified a high regard for your fellow countryman. Business deals were ensured with a firm handshake. Pleasantries shared in that idyllic time were sweet and simple, epitomizing small-town ideals while reinforcing a sense of pride in being the war winners of the world. Cannabis users were psychotic, segregation was normal, and it was understood by the greater collective that the classic depiction of the Norman Rockwell archetype, be it a boy fishing with his dog, or the president caught in a moment of prayer, was what to strive toward. Simplicity equated to contentment in the post WWII era and “cleanliness is next to godliness” was the proverb of the ordered society where conformity was the key for success. So, what happened? Well, things changed. Quite dramatically, in fact. Now, too much niceness, at least in person, lends toward suspicion. And when received in genuine fashion from a stranger in proximity, the creep-dar turns curious and the apathy-dar begins to peak. But what’s so scary about being super friendly? What’s wrong with saying hello to a passerby on the sidewalk or happily easing on the brake for another car to slip in front of you in traffic? Why do we apply a negative label to the friendly man who offers unsolicited waves simply for a reciprocated smile?  In essence, there really is nothing to fear. We’ve just been manipulated by the controlled narrative to live in terror. So, relax. He’s probably just harmlessly baked anyway.  

We all know that there are some items in life that have an uncanny way of eluding your possession. In theory it shouldn’t happen, but no matter how much attention is directed toward keeping these elusive apparatuses secure, they somehow have a way of playing hide and seek. Like that extra sock that is secretly abducted by the clothes dryer, your sunglasses that want to live anywhere but on the bridge of your nose, and of course your remote control. But why is it that in this world where there is no undiscovered corner thanks to sophisticated surveillance and electronic tracking, that one of the guiltiest culprits is that baffling device that is supposed to live within proximity of the television? It’s like Osama Bin Laden is holed up in a secret Afghani cave between the cushions of your couch and he keeps snatching your remote to watch his favorite Al Jazeera sitcom. One of life’s great perplexities. I mean, they can find the Titanic 400 miles away from land and 13,000 feet below the surface of the swirling ice waters of the North Atlantic Ocean, and they can return photographs from robotic space probes that have ventured to the end of the galaxy and beyond, but for some reason they can’t install a stoner button on my mandatory channel changer. Like, shouldn’t there be something on the television that sends a signal to the remote, which then beeps like a friendly R2D2 who is happy to hang out? Young Inventors of The World, consider yourselves alerted! So, here’s the good news. Sometimes when you search, a long-lost stray nug gets found. And as far as solving the mystery of the lost sock, one can only deduce that it was eaten by the Sock Ness Monster.    

There she was, standing over a fresh dog poop, looking down upon a thin strip of sidewalk grass along a quiet suburban road holding her only bag, bulging and tied off. The Rhodesian Ridgeback at the end of the leash, quite unfortunately, just unloaded an unexpected second helping. To leave or not to leave, that is the question that I ask of Steve. Maybe she has a favorite uncle named Steve, I don’t know. It rhymed. Is there anyone in America who doesn’t know someone named Steve? It doesn’t matter. Regardless, she is faced with a conundrum. You found a small stash on the bathroom floor of a bar where only 7 dwellers are currently posted up. You scan the room, concluding that 6 of them are potential contenders. The nugs are juicy. Do you announce to the patrons of Patron that one of them has potentially lost their imperative sack, or do you hightail it out of the parking lot and fill your coughers? You examine the motley crew for bloodshot eyes while the dank scent effervesces through the pants pocket to the nostrils like a trail from Pepe Le Pew’s tail. It is as if the universe itself is checking your pulse to determine if the moral compass is deserved of her positive karma, and worthy of continuing to inhabit her fruitful loins of perfect symmetry. We have, at least once in our lives, been apprised to this test. You clutch the bag and address this reckoning by announcing to the entire venue that someone has lost their weed and you are ready to bestow it to the rightful owner. A man comes to you and admits that he, indeed, had dropped the bag and hadn’t noticed until that moment upon realizing that his pocket is empty. He takes the Cannabis gratefully. He offers to smoke a bowl with you outside, to which you politely accept. You have made a new friend. His name is Steve.  

You work your ass off and deserve a vacation. You save, plan, and prepare while exerting double the energy for the chance to finally check out and head for that sandy paradise for a classic decompress. So, when the bags are loaded with your scene safely in the rear view, a healthy exhale loosens the shackles. But there’s still the travel—the scramble to the airport for the obligatory TSA date rape, the uncomfortable proximity to unsavory strangers, and the cultural barriers that add to uncertainty. Eventually, you settle in, figure out food and acclimate to the surroundings as the echoes of your three-ring life finally begin to wither into distant thunder. Here, the suit noose is unknotted and traded for sandals in sand, memorable breezes, and a fresh day at the beach. You’ve earned this break. The quietude of ocean whispers is palpable, accentuated with unapologetic sunshine and careless laughter. This is the perfect time for a freshly hacked coconut served chilled, rightfully accompanied by a bamboo straw. This is your oasis of fluffy clouds and salt—a deserved respite to create open space in the crowded turnstile mind and begin the healing, so that you can return refreshed and recharged. This time is for you. This is where you relish your accomplishments and reflect with gratitude. Suddenly, what do you hear? It’s a buzz—a fly, a mosquito? No, it is much bigger. “Is it someone’s music down the beach?” you ask as the equivalent to the scratching needle down the vinyl breaks the hypnosis of your ambience. This is a dissonant tone, replete of anything remotely enjoyable. It is high, but nothing enters the periphery, until there, creating a smudge on your perfect horizon is a propeller plane lugging a banner that advertises an offshore gambling site. The invader, you surmise, probably cut a deal with the local sleazeball governor to rent the view, essentially putting a moustache on your Mona Lisa. It is that moment that you realize there is no escape from the dirty pickpockets who scour the empty corners lurking for nefarious opportunity--the junk mailers, scam callers, and the perpetrators of personal space. It is that moment that you realize that you are a mark--that your privacy has, and will be compromised interminably. This is the moment that you almost give up on humanity. Before, that is, you sit back and take your first toke of local bud.  

There used to be a creepy movie called The Swamp Thing where a slothy creature covered in moss was scaring the shit out of everybody in the nearby town by snatching up baddies to take back to his waterbed. Not to be confused with Oscar the Grouch who shares a similar pelt, only drier.  And even though this trash dweller feller prickly postulates in the pursuit of gloom, his articulation is far more advanced than the neanderthal grunts and farts (off camera, of course!) of the swamp hairball with as much personality as Quasimodo on a full bar of Xanax. But if moss is a beautiful green plant, why are these characters who live with it so pissed off? Take Oscar. The dude is a perpetual buzzkill. I mean it can’t be too encouraging when your main diet is moldy bread heels and banana peels with a trash can lid permanently affixed to your dome. Negativity is what he’s used to. And it’s probably because of a thing called “transmission of collective memory”, which causes you to have fixated tendencies based on the DNA passed down from intense ancestral struggles and such. Fair enough. He’s also a slob which he’s actually proud of. In fact, there’s an episode where his mother stops by for a good bitch sesh and is put off by the niceness of his neighbor who chats happily about his tidy living room. Welcome to New York City. And although Oscar probably smelled of chicken wing sauce and coffee grounds, at least he wasn’t wearing ode de crawdad cologne like that fuzzy swamp ass who probably bought it at a brothel on Bourbon Street. And by the way, is that moss or fur? Because I saw a meme that said Oscar might just be a giant nug of dank weed. Which makes me want to start watching Sesame Street again.  

Who’s got a sturdy noose handy so I can hang myself and end the misery? As if the steady banging of neon flashing little boy shoes with the tiny roller wheels into the back of my seat isn’t enough, there’s the incessant whining that is unsuccessfully quelled with parental coddling that makes me want to set the whole fucking airplane on fire. Rather than a good old scolding, the mother reasons, guilting the child for being irrational, to which the spoiled brat responds with a piercing squeal? “Why do you do this to me? It’s not fair,” she concedes while everyone around her pretends to be deaf. Or when you’re out having dinner and the tinny pitch of miniature voices tinkles out of the IPad like an annoying, buzzing fly where Dora the Explorer is solving a riddle. The child chimes along with the parents entirely tuned out, entranced by the repetitive motion of their fork to mouth while the ambience of the room is completely foiled, effectively turning the restaurant into a daycare center. I know what you’re thinking, “You were a child once”. And, indeed, I was. And I’m sure there were times I was difficult. But I remember being taught to maintain a degree of respect in public places. And I understand parent’s weakness because kids are little and cute, but this is their responsibility, not everyone else’s. One day this little monster is going to turn into an adolescent, zit faced, pizza eating, video game playing, apathetic, masturbating machine who refuses to leave home and get a job. So please have a pinch of empathy and get on birth control. I guess I’m the asshole here. So be it. And by the way, when is Nabisco going to start infusing Fruity Pebbles with CBN instead of 28 grams of sugar? It couldn’t happen soon enough, in my humble opinion.  

A lot of people need to dry out and they know it. So, getting sober is an annual challenge some of my friends will undertake for around thirty days, usually the same month every year. It’s not like they enjoy this exile, but in their mind, abstinence is a necessary evil that is going to miraculously stave off an early grave. And rehab. We all know that the body can’t reverse liver and heart damage in the matter of one month, but that’s ok, the effort is nonetheless recognized. And it sure makes for a delicious bender for said participant when the thirty days ends and Ol’ Faithful releases some steam. This temporary lifestyle change is never easy, and they will struggle to find ways to occupy their attention. Over coffee and fast food, these anxious souls will squirm uncomfortably while plotting their return, romanticizing their immersion into the waterfall of temptation when that clock finally hits 12:01 am on the first day of the new month.  So, to see the discipline through, they must maximize these efforts while minimizing the FOMO. And that means choosing the surest span with the least amount of opportunity to relapse during this annoying stint. Therefore, Superbowl Sunday will never be part of the equation. Also St. Patrick’s Day, their birthday, and Cinco de Drinko. Spring is no time to get sober, there’s too much excitement and optimism. And summer is completely out of the question. November is a strong candidate, but there’s that four-day holiday of fowl, family and football that begs for self-medication. So, January makes the most sense. They say using cannabis disqualifies you from being sober because it’s a mind-altering substance. I should know, I’ve been Green Sober for 38 days. Not consecutively, of course.  

Every one of us suffers from some form of dysfunction, which charges our need to act out in dramatic ways. It’s ok, there’s no need to build a defense. Because whatever it is that causes us to project our suffering, we all need to express emotion. You see, we are often unaware of the root of our anger since it has generally developed from personal trauma endured during the formative years, and when you add the unforgiving stresses that come with modernity, everyone’s pot eventually steams with a piercing whistle. And although every individual’s experience is unique unto themselves, the forum to where much of this frustration is projected is the most common place for public interaction—the grid of shared asphalt. And what makes the highways and byways the easy arena to cast one’s flared opinions is the fact that each person is secured by a housing of locked doors and fast wheels. This is the haven from where spitting vitriol and emphatic threats towards an utter stranger two times her size will insulate an otherwise pleasant grandmother. Where normally most ordinary individuals would buckle in fear at any face-to-face confrontation with an adversary, within this automobile they personify the confidence of a professional wrestler. The dissatisfaction of our core sometimes manifests in uncharacteristic ways. But no one should ever internalize accusations on the blacktop as it is only someone else’s personal anxiety manifesting outwardly. Self-control has never been a strong suit amongst most people when pushed into small spaces, and therefore the discomfort is sometimes blamed on the obstruction preventing them from their desperately needed open space. Which is exactly why driving stoned should be legal.   

It’s true, and I can admit it. I do it a lot. I mean, not out loud so much…well, ok, out loud. But at least I’m hyperconscious about publicly maintaining the flailing arms to conceal any evidence of my attempt to reign victorious in the current internal debate. But doesn’t everyone respond to those nagging inner voices with some form of discourse? I mean, it is part of being human to socially interact, whether it is with a person, a pet, or a volleyball with palm shoots for hair named Hanes. Wait, what I meant was Wilson. Hanes was his other friend. And by nagging, I mean it never stops. The conjecture feels like a perpetual flow, with the impatient expectation of logical responses. Because if you’re a critical thinker or even someone who questions the meaning of your existence, you’re hardwired to answer reasonable inquiries, whether or not they’re self-provoked. You can only ignore yourself for so long. They say that there are 3 necessities in life to survive, and they are food, water, and companionship. And in this digital day where real friends seem harder to come by, sometimes you’ve got to turn to yourself for a good chat. And I’m my own bestie--especially on those Saturday mornings that begin with a dab of Jack and a cup of coffee. Bam! Me Myself and Irene are off to a roaring start, gossiping it up while the eggs get fried, the lawn gets mowed, and the Stoney Baloney gets wrote. First, there’s the voice who offers advice, then the one who loves to criticize followed by the one who offers condolences, etc. Of course, as I continue to work on the royal we through self-care, the rebuts are often careful considerations for the emotionally sensitive myself. Except for the times when I feel like being a brat. But let’s not bring him into it. Hey, I’ve gotta go. I’m receiving a butt dial from me.  

Listen, I’m not trying to be an asshole here. I used to love Xmas just as much as any kid. Catching a glimpse of Santa nibbling on a cookie or hearing the patter of hooves on top of the apartment complex made sleeping unbearable. It’s just that I’m not sure I can bear grandma getting run over by a reindeer for the umpteenth time before even having a chance to banish my yard witch back to the shed and evaluate the leftover bowl of miniature Snickers and Candy Corn. Out with the devil and in with the lord. Because the problem with Christmas isn’t Christmas day, it’s the fact that we’re hyped for two months on the front end and then stuck with a stiff tab on the back end. Which equates to one sixth of your life forced into a whimsical play where everyone dresses like they’re from Norway in the 1600s. And I know what you enthusiasts are thinking--I can simply choose not to take part. Which is about as easy as choosing not to take part in death and taxes. “But it’s for the kids,” you say. Fair enough, but do you really want them learning that the plastic packaged gifts which magically appear under the tree that was cut down to end up in the dumpster came from a strange fucker who wants you to sit on his warm lap? Why not teach them real values, like patience leads to prosperity? And that violence in Walmart on black Friday is not how adults should behave. I get it, there’s nothing wrong with spreading good cheer, but can we at least ease up on the carpet bombing of commercials for shit we don’t need like shiny new cars with ridiculously large bows and another collared shirt with a snowman tie? And can we do it every leap year just to freshen things up? It’s becoming Groundhog Year. By the way, you do realize that mom infuses Santa’s Christmas cookies, right? That’s because she secretly feels his pain.