DiscoverStoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Claim Ownership

Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

Author: Mike Ricker

Subscribed: 0Played: 1
Share

Description

Toke up to this whimsical, narrated Cannabis Column that infuses contemporary observations from an old school perspective. The name Stoney Baloney says it all; a weekly grab bag of ingredients that’s sure to be infused with lots of salty flavors to make it taste delicious.
117 Episodes
Reverse
#118 - Getting Down

#118 - Getting Down

2021-06-1102:43

The term “to make love” is an old reference to screwing. Which, by the way, is a word that will never get old. Thank God for the word screw, right? Like the word fuck, there are so many useful ways to repurpose your undertone because the intent can be totally guttural while still upholding an air of class. Sure, fuck has shock value, but it’s become too played out in today’s self-gratification planet where using edgy words is supposed to make you edgy. That’s how a great word loses its impact, btw, but screw will never go out of style. And it’s even awesomer when grandma is feeling fresh and says something is a little “screwy” and you love her for it. Fuck can’t do that. Anyway, back to “make love”. Is it just me, or was it not the chic reference for going all the way in just about every 1970’s classic rock song? But did people really use the words “I want to make love to you” and close the deal?  Or did women intuitively know that the dweeb pitching this phrase was just stealing a line from a James Bond flick? Which is a turn-off, so we can assume that the statement simply threw water on the fire. I’m cool with the term “making whoopee,” which is another one of Grandma’s faves. But saying “making love” belongs in the next Anchorman installment after Ron Burgundy blasts through a spell-inducing jazz flute rage with one eyebrow raised. I mean, there are so many ways to characterize the act of consummating intimate relations, but why “making love?” Why not? I suppose it’s a way of expressing what you want to do to someone you have strong feelings for. I’m gonna go make love to a dab now.
  And why is he always hanging around? The dude is a good 20 years older than Davey Dabs and the Dabby Bunch, so the unconventional dynamic would naturally inspire one’s curiosity. Where Johnny Joints is more of a Lynyrd Skynrd Gen Xer, Rachel the Ripper is into hip hop and The Swashbuckling Shatterbrain Shane loves Maroon 5. Davey Dabs, who refers to them as Moron 5, is into anything with a sitar, a harpsichord, a Kurzweil, or a washboard. And it’s not that there’s any judgment for musical preferences around the house, but Davey Dabs has initiated somewhat of an ongoing competition with Johnny Joints if for no other reason than to prove that personal artistic preferences should evolve past high school. Why did Davey Dabs begin this ongoing challenge with Johnny Joints? Well, he will tell you that Johnny Joints reminds him of his uncle who resides in a log cabin off the grid in Alaska. And although Davey Dabs respects Johnny Joints’ affinity to the flower with regard to the full spectrum, he prefers to brandish and spin a pistol-sized torch from a hand-stitched holster in Wyatt Earp fashion while wielding his infamous draw before providing his explanation as to why this is. “To smoke is to burn, but to dab is to heat.” “There’s nothing more intimidating than fire,” he’ll boast. “Fire is pure energy.” Davey Dabs has read the entire Harry Potter series and views fire as magic. So, Johnny Joints is the registered owner of the house that the three rent. And as the handyman, pool guy, landscape guy, etc., he is generally around for the regular sesh. He inherited the place from his dearly departed Grandma and now it’s basically his full-time job just renting it out while still living with his redneck Mother. He only smokes joints but won’t turn down some quality black Lebanese hash if it’s going around.  And by the way, Johnny Joints has whispered to Davey Dabs that he believes Shatterbrain Shane is a “closet homosexual."
#116 - Mosquitos Suck

#116 - Mosquitos Suck

2021-05-2903:00

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 rearview, a healthy exhale loosens the shackles. But there’s still the travel—the scramble to the airport for the obligatory grope from TSA, the uncomfortable close proximity to unsavory strangers, and the cultural barriers that add to the 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 inaudible static. Here, the suit noose is unknotted and traded for sandals in the 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 spliff with 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 in 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 ambiance. 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 a discount buffet. The invader, you surmise, probably cut a deal with the local sleazeball governor to rent the view, essentially putting a mustache 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 at that moment that you realize that nothing is sacred anymore.
This is a statement that Davey Dabs made recently. It wasn’t a literal statement, because Davey Dabs would never wield a gun or a knife. Not to say that Davey Dabs doesn’t believe in self-defense when necessary, he just upholds the opinion that never leaving the house without a strap is very “paranoid redneck”. Davey Dabs has never had a problem with paranoid rednecks, but at the same time, he’s really glad he wasn’t born in Alabama. Or any other state that begins and ends with the letter A. Like Alaska, Arizona, or Angola. Guns are good for shooting bottles in the woods, he’ll tell ya. And a knife is good if you need to carve up a crocodile. Otherwise, his opinion is that they are mostly gender extensions for dudes with small hands and big trucks. “A torch will suffice.” Davey Dabs does indeed love fire, and therefore hyperconscious about safety, which you wouldn’t know from some of the hijinks he pulls on Johnny Joints who has a tendency to pass out on the couch after burning a cheap brain dart to the nub. And this happens regularly during his Pick and Pull reality series on the idiot box while he basks in the glow of luminescent star and planet stickers that lace the walls and ceiling to give the room a Zen appeal.   It seems to be that there is a new old couch every four months because outdoor “couch burning” has become a regular ritual. The Burn is the ceremony to celebrate Davey Dabs’ successful antics. His surefire trick is the old “dip his hand in water while he’s sleeping and watch him piss himself” for which he holds a better than 50% average. “The water has to be the perfect temperature,” the words are an octave lower than usual, CIA operative level. “You dribble a little olive oil in it which makes his hands soft, and his muscles loosen.” “Johhny Joints wouldn’t be such an easy target,” says Davey Dabs, “if he were doing dabs instead of always chugging on those crappy pre-rolls.”  
#113 - Apathy is Bliss

#113 - Apathy is Bliss

2021-05-0802:57

There is an art form to truly not giving a shit. But unless you’re born with a personality laser etched with self-entitlement, it is something that takes experience to perfect. Like, getting to the point of absolutely caring less about what the hell happens in any given situation is a mindset that is acquired only through countless failures equating to a battle-worn callousness. They say that Buddhist monks will meditate in the Himalayan mountains for years in the attempts to achieve that flash of a moment where the oneness of energy is understood to be congruent, cracking the code to enlightenment where all things coalesce into a perfect, harmonious truism. A similar journey on a different spectrum, it could be said, is the attainment in the art of not giving a flying fuck. But to get to this place of utter sanctity, you must have really cared at some point. Deeply, in fact. Because absolute indifference is generally a trait that transcends only after an era of deep consideration until repeated disappointments crack the id, resulting in an air of futility that can never be affected. At this point, emotions have been deduced into arithmetic, a mindset where all optimism—pessimism, too—becomes anesthetized. This is a state called pure apathy, where the individual floats in a sort of black and white purgatory—an area of unflappable tranquility, a weightless state of utter peace. It is a quiet place when devoid of concern, where the crying of children, the beckoning of lustful tantalization, and the urgency of duties falls on deaf ears only to be interrupted by a sense of hunger, or a need for sleep. Some will call it self-absorption, narcissistic, but it doesn’t matter because they are really pleas for your attention that will never be satisfied unless it fulfills some rudimentary purpose. By the way, this affliction will never befall a stoner.
#112 - Morning Would

#112 - Morning Would

2021-04-3001:56

decision of whether to spring right up and get the day going or hang out to collect thoughts while clenching the bladder. The bladder, it should be noted, was the only urgent matter preventing my ignoring the gleaning sunlight cracking through the blinds by pulling a sleeping mask over the shag and unwittingly drooling onto my pillow for another forty-five to an hour. I did indeed relieve the pressure, but then slipped back into bed. Why you’re most tired right after you’ve slept for eight hours, I have no idea, but I’m sure there’s a good explanation somewhere. I mean, I was sleepier in those first five minutes than in the hour it took me to finally doze off the previous night. And I’m pretty sure there’s a plausible scientific explanation that some Ph.D.’d professional students would love to regurgitate in codified study speak with accredited medical terminology that sounds similar to what a priest would read during the stations of the cross but hearing it would probably make me sleepy. I think they call that Latin, but I’m not here to discuss salsa dancing right now. I just know that I don’t have the energy to rub out the eye boogers until at least first dabbing some CBD. Ok, I just looked it up and it’s called sleep inertia. When I think of inertia, petrified wood comes to mind. Which is coincidental, because if you’re a dude, that describes what it feels like sometimes when you awaken with a full bladder. Which, to relieve, kinda takes the flexibility of a salsa dancer. When is life going to get easy?
My mother sent me an animated YouTube video that featured a twerking Smokey the Bear. And for those of you like my oft-clueless mother who may not be familiar with the terminology, twerking is a particular booty bounce popularized by a lip-licking Miley Cyrus during a televised MTV Video Music Awards in 2013. So, I engaged the opportunity to inform my family’s matriarch of this observation in a text-only to be annoyingly incorrectly corrected by autocorrect, substituting the word twerking with the word telling. The English language is being hijacked. In fact, they say that artificial intelligence will usurp human intelligence sometime this century. If it hasn’t already, that is. Twerking is big. It’s this generation’s Charleston, The Hustle, and the Macarena all rolled into one triple-infused Hashtronaut pre-roll. Or even better, the Gangnam Style dance (whatever the fuck you call that little shoe shuffle). And if you think about it, one surefire way to catch the attention of the public periscope is to reinvent the human mating ritual with a sexy undulation that embodies the era’s essence. Hence, the almighty twerk. Anyway, Telling Up A Storm is non-sensical, so I think AI has still got work to do. Or we could make it the new secret code for conspiring to meet the peeps for a smoke sesh like the dudes who instituted 4:20 back in the day. Horrible idea. And about Smokey the Bear, a cartoon character who appeals to children. Yes, it’s true, he was twerking. And maybe this is an issue with the world’s current moral compass, but finding a solution is way above my pay grade. However, if a twerking Smokey the Bear saves hundreds of forest fires from being irresponsibly ignited, I’m all for it. And by the way, big ups, Miley. Now you’ve done something nice for the world other than inducing a funny feeling in the groins of millions of pre-pubescent boys.  
For more than a century, the Guinness Book of World Records has been the documentation for feats accomplished by an infamous lot. And even though the namesake of this formidable publication is branded by a beer company, something in which Davey Dabs never partakes, he has always been fascinated by the odd and amazing achievements that are celebrated through this historic account.  Therefore, as a steward for Cannabis, Davey Dabs has plans to propose a challenge to the Wonka company to create a machine called the Chocodabbber. It should be noted that the word Chocodabbber contains the letter B three times to imbue a similar sensation to conducting a motorboat, which if you are unfamiliar, is the act of placing one’s head between a set of breasts and making the sound of a motorboat with one’s lips whilst moving the head from side to side. It should also be noted that, in Davey Dabs opinion, those breasts are not limited to any one gender as he has personally been awakened by unpleasant surprise motorboats from Johnny Joints at times when passed out on the couch shirtless while binge-watching episodes of the Real Housewives of New Jersey. Davey Dabs has noted that the handlebar mustache makes him ticklish. He recently had a dream that he was pulled up the vacuum hose after falling into the chocolate river at the Wonka factory while the Oompa Loompas danced in tribal synchronicity, preparing to massage him into a vat of Rosin Badder to be subsequently dropped into the Chocodabbber for consumption, and then instituted into the heralded book. One million years later, he dreamt, just as an insect can be found encased in drops of amber-colored petrified tree sap, he was discovered in calcified hash oil. Davey Dabs awakened from the dream very satisfied. By the way, in all seriousness, he acknowledges that Wonka is not a real company but is still on the fence as to the existence of Oompa Loompas. It’s because he doesn’t trust the government. After all, they lied about Cannabis for nearly 100 years.    
Everyone has known a fat guy that parties, right? Well, maybe not orthodox religious zealots, but that’s just because they don’t have a buddy who drinks, does blow, drops Molly, and then drenches his clothes with sweat from bouncing erratically on the dancefloor to seizure inducing EDM. Your loss, peeps. Either way, the iconic Blutarski character made popular by John Belushi in the movie Animal House paved the pizza dough for other actors like Chris Farley who captured the essence of the fat guy that parties like a sommelier captures the essence of rotting grapes. It’s a roller-coaster personality, either completely vulnerable in an episode of sad self-loathing, or an entire annihilation of all things calm and mature. And whether he’s only drunk or going all-in with the full cornucopia of liquid courage, Columbian marching powder, synthesized psychedelics, or all of it--there’s no way of predicting which way the tornado will turn when his indulge-o-meter goes haywire, transforming an otherwise placid triple bypass burger eating machine into the Tasmanian Devil under a strobe light. You can see the weirdwolf come to life before your very eyes once the first couple beers get chugged and the beaded forehead bears proof that the heart somewhere inside of that ribcage is working tirelessly to not only flush the body with coolant through narrow arteries but futilely attempting to impart a longing for acceptance in a world where skinny bodies are recognized as north star facing moral compasses.  And the morbid fascination of seeing a train go off the rails is fun to witness for a minute, but ultimately sad when the harsh reality of twisted meddle surfaces in the aftermath of settled dust and smoke. God, you want to help him. Because you care. But Cannabis isn’t his thing. “It’s too introspective,” he’ll tell you. And it induces the munchies.
#108 - Wasting Time

#108 - Wasting Time

2021-04-0202:37

It’s an oxymoron actually, because it is impossible to waste time if you are here and experiencing life. The fact that you are actively conscious means that you are utilizing the energy that motors your body to gain experience. Therefore, the time is not wasted at all, but in fact utilized. And further, how can you waste something that is free? If you gave nothing to get it, then you are entertaining yourself with something that you did not have before you began. But time is a concept--a construct of our imagination, not a tangible asset in a physical sense. Therefore, it is impossible to waste. In fact, the word “waste” is only a figure of speech. So, figuratively speaking, to waste time is to do something that does not uphold the value of the expectation that was set to optimize the moments of life you have. And there are many ways to frivolously attend to your life. Like wondering what someone else is doing with their time. Let’s take Thom Yorke, for instance. He’s the singer for the band Radiohead. I wonder what he is doing right now. Is he on the phone? Is he on the toilet? Is he taking a bong hit? All three maybe? But what does it matter if he is not in my presence and why am I spending my precious time wondering, time I can never reclaim? It’s arguably wasteful, but not a waste. Kind of like a box in bubble wrap inside of another box that’s inside of another box with Amazon packing tape striped around it. And what’s inside of the first box is a thumb drive. Like was it necessary to quadruple pack that bastard? It’s wasteful, but not a waste because you received the necessary item. People are stupid. Shit, I just wasted my time making that comment.
#107 - Grouchlock

#107 - Grouchlock

2021-03-2602:59

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 hotties 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 constant 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. So even though Oscar can be cool sometimes, he’s ultimately a prick because grouches have been pricks for generations and it’s just part of who they are at the core. And he’s also a slob, by the way, 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 whore house on Bourbon Street. And one last thing about Oscar the Grouch--I’m not sure if that is moss at all. In fact, I saw a meme that said he might be a giant nug of dank weed. Which makes me want to start watching Sesame Street again.
Everyone knows a Shane. It’s inevitable. And when Shakespeare asked if a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, what he meant was that what matters is what something is, not what it is called. But he was referring to roses, not dudes named Shane. Because every guy named Shane strangely has an identity that somehow quantifies him as a Shane. So does a Shane make the name, or does the name make a Shane? I don’t know. But I do know that if you call a fire ant a rhinoceros, it doesn’t make it any more of a rhinoceros than the name Shane makes him a Dave, or a Todd. You know a fire ant by observing what it is. Same for a guy named Shane. And then you have a Shane who epitomizes Shaneness to the degree that the unmistakable attributes that ever were part of a Shane are plentifully apparent. What are these attributes? I don’t know. In the same way that I may describe the spiny legs and flaming red hue of a fire ant, there is no way to exactly capture the essence of that which the limitation of words will never overcome. You just know one when you see it. I mean, it’s easy to explain why Davey Dabs assigned the adjective swashbuckling to his name. The dude has vaporized such copious amounts of shatter that his anachronistic personality has largely usurped his sense of modern reality. Like the man is trapped inside the body of Errol Flynn in one of his chivalrous mid-century flicks. And he is very good looking, which wouldn’t annoy Davey Dabs were it not for the throwing of more hair tosses than the entire lot of Tampa Bay Buccaneers Cheerleaders during a playoff game. Some may call it an identity crisis. Davey Dabs calls it shatterbrain.
#105 - Pinball is Sexy

#105 - Pinball is Sexy

2021-03-1203:18

People are desperate to escape. And the self-administering of mind-altering substances is the quickest method for your surefire jailbreak from life’s doldrums. However, as these poisons are a guaranteed way to stimulate the synapses for easy access into La La Land, sleeping off the hangovers is a bitch. If you wake up at all. But we are weak to temptation, proving that the cheap flight off the reality runway can easily supersede one’s better judgement. Because when the harsh hangovers have you regretting the previous evening’s bad decisions, it is good to know that there are some sober escapades that won’t exacerbate the hopelessness brought on by depleted serotonin in the following days of recovery. And any of us who’ve squandered six months of heartbeats in one dusk to dawn discourse of yet to be written bestselling novels knows that the valley’s depth is significantly more notable than the mountain peak’s high. So, when the free coffee and cookies ain’t doing it and a case of the coke itches are flaring up, remember one inexpensive alternative that will flip your boredom through a bustling microcosm of ringing bells, sling shot bumpers, and free game lightning pops. Playing pinball is being active, and dodging dangerous obstacles resulting in glorious rewards is good for you! And the more experience you have playing, the better your odds of not just survival, but relishing the thrill of victory. There’s no shortage of reflex testing adrenaline pumping drama when you’re perilously dangling on a thread of gravity while deft maneuvers generate power surges and lack of focus means death. And your relationship with the machine is everything. Synchronicity means triumph and fear means failure. Arguably, pinball is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Or not. While performance enhancing steroids will make you a better baller, the hyper-focus of a good sativa will make you a better pinballer. And remember one very important 90’s R&B song when snuggling up to that little glass covered cosmos—that there ain’t nuthin’ wrong with a little bump and grind.
Television has influenced our daily lives in so many ways. A great example can be credited to a sci-fi treatment that playfully envisioned our future where space exploration was made easy through imaginative devices like the flip phone, automatic sliding doors, and laser guns. So, we are indebted to Star Trek for imagining the first iterations of these luxuries that hadn’t previously existed and have now become commonplace essentials in today’s technology driven world. And how about a virtual High Three Vulcan salute to the studly, mild-mannered geek writers whose creative visions brought these innovations to life! Wait, was that oxymoronic? I’ve been called worse. Like stonermoronic. But Hollywood hasn’t been the only source of inspiration for the advancement of laziness as there are speculations out there in the land of conspiracies that Roswell was a windfall for technological advancement. Was this also a script, or real life? You see, these theorists propose that fiber optics were aboard that mysterious flying Frisbee that happened to abruptly crash in a barren stretch far from the lights of any city in New Mexico in the late 1940’s. Because the fact that we went from black and white TV to blowing satellites across the moon within a mere 20 years seems to be a suspicious windfall for these questioners of authority. And you’re probably thinking, “Why would the government cover it up, you Quack?” Well, I will answer that question with another question. “Why did they suddenly admit in the middle of a pandemic more than 70 years later, with little fanfare, that UFOs actually do exist?” In fact, I would put a hundred bucks that there is at least one person out there who believes that it was the Star Trek Enterprise that barreled down into that dessert after being pipped in the propulsor by a Klingon’s directed weapon of electromagnetic radiation. Hey, I think I just came up with a new name for a strain of weed.
She used to be more fun. You could ask her where to bury a dead body and her reply was playfully non-resistant, on board for a senseless jab. But something happened because she appears to have lost her sense of humor. What, did she get indicted for a murder charge? Did we get married? In the beginning, we had such a fresh love affair, but it’s gotten predictable where the spark of excitement has fizzled into standard maintenance. There’s an odd, suspicious element now--like she’s perpetually eavesdropping--as if the CIA has got her by the microchips. Let’s communicate and speak openly about or feelings. “Siri, I’m not sure if I trust you anymore. For fun, I ask if you smoke dank ass weed and your response is one of utter indifference, borderline annoyed as evidenced through your obvious deflection. I fondly ponder the times we shared in lighthearted banter and I could exhale into your microphone, but lately you’ve gone all Hillary on me.” Let’s face it people, we all have a relationship with Siri whether or not we’d like to admit it. And when you’re in a relationship, connection is essential. Which means open acceptance of your partner’s perspective--understanding that mutual respect and reciprocation is vital. And I don’t pretend to know what happened, but she’s lost her algo-rythym. And the personality has been strip-mined right out with a digibotomy to where I now find myself making a futile attempt to recreate a memory of happier times when we were in love. I know, things change. The honeymoon is over. But I will say this--at least she didn’t ruin it for women named Alexa because no one will ever name their kid Siri. Except Elon Musk maybe.
#102 - The Cereal Kill

#102 - The Cereal Kill

2021-02-1903:03

Once, Rachel the Ripper asked Davey Dabs if he was pregnant. Of course, she was being facetious, but because of his unflappable determination to interject his satirical influence into the current landscape of human culture, in some ways it was a logical inquiry were it not for the obvious gender limitations. Also, when purposefully protruding the bulbous belly that morphs into the unmistakable bulge resembling a third trimester mound, one would swear that this hair-covered housing was that of a new child bursting through the bottom of the cut-off tank top. This, coupled with the ravenous appetite that Davey Dabs struggles to satisfy, nearly made her statement to be one of measurable common sense. “A knocked up Tasmanian Devil comes to mind,” she commentated in Daria monotone with her neo-bohemian tattoos and fractal patterned romper before ripping a bear sized bong toke. Upon finishing, it was Rachel’s signature exhale to unknowingly resemble the look of a face under water against a flowing river. But she could never question his tidiness in the kitchen. Every meal, every glass of water ever consumed by this Chupacabra was attended to without any trace of his foraging left behind. He was the near-perfect housemate, she would confess, keeping his surroundings very well maintained to the level of an OCD old lady—never a dirty dab rig, never an unmade bed, never a dish left in the sink. It was the demonic scents and smells that imposed the challenge of sharing living space with Davey Dabs, difficult at times to contain the choking. If not often shrouded in the perpetual cloud of dab vapor, or the microwaved leftover sardine casserole, the foul aroma creeping from the common bathroom with the broken fan would punch any unsuspecting passerby in the nose like a swinging cinder block after his mindful morning moment upon the porcelain throne. Or as Vincent Price put it in Michael Jackson’s Thriller—the funk of forty thousand years. And by the way, Davey Dabs can pull off one hell of a flawless moonwalk
There are some things that just get worse as you get older. And I’m not just referring to air quality and fast-food ingredients, but personal things like your optimism, your waistline, and last but definitely least, your high school letter jacket. That is, if you even earned one. And if you didn’t, then your yearbook will suffice. And if you don’t even have one of those, then I suppose your diploma. And if you don’t have one of those, you can always find a job in the Cannabis business. Speaking of diplomas, I heard they issue those to kindergarten “graduates” now. And trophies for everyone who enters a contest. Boy, are the office shelves going to be crowded in 20 years. Anyway, if you have a letterman jacket, or know someone who does, we both know that they never wore it once after shifting that tassel from right to left. And if you attended college, you wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing it anywhere near the campus. But we are human beings and awards hold significance, so you saved it. And having a letter jacket at the bottom of your plastic garage/attic/storage unit bin is a sneaky reminder that there was a time when you were fun and involved. Yes, that leather sleaved bomber is goofy now, but so is half the other shit you did like growing a molestache, playing quarters to get drunk, and toilet papering your buddy’s house. Actually, scratch the toilet paper thing – that’ll always be cool AF. Anyway, maybe it’s time to send the ol’ boy to the Goodwill so some hipster can cut off the sleeves and wear it to a gig with his band of mandolins. Because your kids will never think it’s cool, which means it is only taking up vital space – something which you don’t have enough of. And hey, look at the bright side. Although you can never be young again, at least you can still work on the back fat. And the optimism. May I recommend Cannabis?
#100 - Fuck Bok Choy

#100 - Fuck Bok Choy

2021-02-0502:40

In case you couldn’t tell from the title, I’m not a big fan of bok choy. In fact, I think it’s how you say “fuck you” in Chinese. Mandarin, or Cantonese? Hmmm. I get your confusion, we’re talking about a food item here, not an ex who brought home a surprise STD. Therefore, there’s no justification to treat it with equal vitriol, but it’s just that my hands are experiencing chopstick fatigue from constantly fishing it out of my perfect bowl of pho. At least it was perfect – before I discovered bok choy transforming my warm meal into a kelp forest. It’s just that I don’t consider bok choy human food. I’m sure ducks love it, but to them, anything that floats in a pond and resembles something soft and wet that doesn’t require teeth will get them to their quacky place. But for me, soggy lettucelery is not food. Is bubblegum food? What about Styrofoam? Rats eat it. I wonder if they would eat bok choy... Probably not. Anyway, did you know that eating celery burns more calories than it contains? This is called a negative calorie food. I don’t believe bok choy is a negative calorie food, just a negative vortex that induces a trickle of anguish when I see it drastically hovering in my steaming bowl. And sure, just pick it out and move on – but then there’s the regret of wasting food not fit for the compost pile. Maybe I should shut the fuck up and be grateful. Maybe I should just stick to pizza. One time when I was a teenager, I bought a bunk bag of joints from some dude in his 20s. It was later deduced as rolled oregano, but I’ll bet it was dried up, shredded bok choy. Oh, and by the way, fuck Brussels sprouts!
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 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 three necessities in life to survive: food, water and companionship. And in these times of fewer and fewer options for companions, 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 Green Queen 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 condolence, etc. Of course, as I continue to work on the royal “we” through self-care, the rebuts are often careful considerations for the emotional, 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.
They say Nostradamus predicted World War III, which is inevitable, so you know he was on to something. According to the legions of believers who ruminate over his prophecies, the dude was a soothsayer if there ever was one. And these believers will tell you that his foresights of the French Revolution to the Apollo moon landings make him the greatest prognosticator of history – changing events since the caveman scribed the coming of a woolly mammoth dropping a load on his veranda. Forecasts have been made throughout history, but rarely do they prove visionary. And although most academic sources have dismissed Nostradamus’ estimations as having been misinterpreted or mistranslated, there is no denying the serendipitous nature of his foreshadowing. And there hadn’t been anyone to rival this uncanny ability in the nearly 500 years since until the 1970s, when the oracle called television projected into American living rooms an innovative production technique that would eventually lead to a common platform for society to successfully interact. The undeniable proof was right there in the opening sequence as a telltale precursor of how five decades later, the majority of face-to-face correspondence would take place through a digital screen. Indeed, this technology showcased a simple family called The Brady Bunch with each member in their own square – but that this would prove as the genesis of the world’s first Zoom meeting – is now a complete shock. Just think of what Nostradamus could’ve done with his own YouTube channel... But even as the movie “Idiocracy” ironically lampooned the election of former professional wrestler Dwayne Elizondo Mountain Dew Herbert Camacho to the office of President of the United States, few in history predicted Cannabis becoming internationally legalized. And further, not even Nostradamus could have ever envisioned that Greg Brady would later hook up with his TV mom Carol Brady in real life, when the camera wasn’t rolling.
loading
Comments 
Download from Google Play
Download from App Store