Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

The universe is ever-evolving. Change is constant. Therefore, as energy continues to manifest everywhere, we, too, transform. It is this energy that connects everything. But everything does not evolve in the same way. And although it is still evolution, some things devolve. And sadly, as the de-evolution of human connection seems to endure at the behest of advancing technology, so goes love. This is evidenced through the over-commercialization of love that subtly diminishes its indescribable joy by convincing us that a man’s purpose is fulfilled when he identifies a wife for life. And to prove that commitment, he must reward his soulmate with an expensive token that symbolizes their devotion. Love has been manufactured and packaged, over-simplified, and marketed as a reward for being responsible rather than a reward for being alive. The words “I Love You” have become more of a convenient reassurance to a couple’s conversation. It is sort of another way to say, “We’re good, you have nothing to worry about,” and there may be some “lovemaking” if everyone plays their cards right. But where that last thing that is supposed to mean what it was actually called, “making love,” for most relationships, it is simply maintenance that ensures the other party won’t expect any drastic surprises that could result in some major life changes. It simply says that we’re cool, we are still sharing a bed. Love has become more of a notion than an emotion. A concept rather than a concert. A calculation rather than communication. But for those of us who have been fortunate enough to experience true love—the obsessive fluttering of enchantment, the impatient lather of fervor--you know that this vibrance is unrivaled by any emotion encountered in the human experience. I love Cannabis. And it has never expected a diamond as proof.   

It’s funny, you know? We have longer life spans than ever before in the history of our species, but less time for shit. So, to clear out some of that unwanted clutter like language and such, it makes natural sense to condense our words and phrases into convenient little, digestible acronyms. Because the more you abbreviate your words the more time you save and are therefore able to accomplish more tasks in your day. Except the task of practicing patience, that is. Anyway, if you don’t know the meaning of SEO, FOMO, and IG, you’re DOA. But why is it that we minimize language in the attempt to maximize brain space? And why is everyone in such a frantic hurry? Is it because we are bred to be competitive? Is it because we cherish every second of life so much that we want to stuff as much as possible into the short amount of time we are here? Is it so we can spend more of these precious moments glaring at the electronic device that projects a pretty picture through thousands of megapixels that persuades internal monologues which in turn influences buying decisions? BTW, this is called a television. Or a smart phone. Which they named because the phone is smarter than the person using it. In some cases, it makes perfect sense. Like, no one wants to have to memorize the word tetrahydrocannabinol, or cannabidiol. And it’s understandable that the current youth generation believes themselves to be far evolved past the old days when words were still in their infancy and actually pronounced phonetically. God knows that one hundredth of a millisecond you saved by truncating your words is going to pay dividends. Too bad it took you half a minute to figure out how to do so. Oh, shoot, when I mentioned television, what I meant to say was TV. It’s funny, ya know? Not really, actually.  

It was the hot dab that did me in. Thank you, my airheaded rookie administrator, for enlightening me about what the inside of a barrel of a flame thrower feels like when delivering a dragon’s maniacal fire. And just when I managed to inhale actual air, the entire experience was intensified upon identifying the sensation of having swallowed a sleeping porcupine into my lungs who, upon awakening in the cramped space, was overcome with fear, causing it to instinctually employ its quills in order to defend itself. This is where the anxiety kicked in, triggered by the claustrophobia that turned into paranoia. Suddenly, this place was a trap—a cage, stirring my stable thoughts into a panic while I gauged whether the extreme discomfort would cause madness before having the luxury of first offing myself. And then came the bong spins. At least that’s what they used to call it long before concentrates with 110% THC existed. So out of the place I fled, incapable of explaining myself not only because of the inability to formulate and convey a cohesive word but also for the complete lack of oxygen flowing through my gills. The night instantly took a Fear and Loathing turn, forcing the retreat from the party into the sanctity of the vehicle when suddenly there appeared a judge from Pink Floyd’s The Wall hammering down his gavel for the crime of a wasted, meaningless life. And then the dizziness proved a harsh catalyst, churning the stomach into a pressurized brew of thick stew, conjuring the recently eaten food truck kung pao calamari to projectile launch onto the misty pavement in the back alley. This was the worst Cannabis experience of my life. Thank goodness for cool dabs. And the cool mother fuckers who know how to heat a dab. But if you don’t, that’s okay because that’s why the good lord gave us the vape cart.  

I think it is the devil’s candy. Call me broken, but when the thought of black licorice enters my thoughts, I immediately picture the odd fuck from Lemony Snickets hiding a sinister grin behind his outreached hand that is gripping black licorice like it’s a bouquet of dying flowers. Or that miserable pedophile in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who goes Richter when out sniffing for children. Is there one single redeeming quality about black licorice other than the fact that it is candy? At least that’s what they call it, but that’s a matter of opinion. Because the flavor I get is castor oil, not candy. That’s the spoonful of snake pee that children had to choke down when they caught a cold in the days before the cold war. For those of you who skipped American History, it wasn’t a war that was cold. Let’s move on. Black licorice is even worse than candy corn, which doesn’t taste anything like corn. But in its defense, at least it doesn’t taste like black licorice. In fact, it doesn’t taste like anything at all, but it does look just like a giant kernel of corn, which makes it wonderfully stoney, nonetheless. I think fennel is what gives black licorice this horrific flavor. My guess is that this herb grows in Death Valley, which would constitute it as the birthplace of black licorice. Therefore, I’ll bet when you’re sent to the fiery depths of hell, it’s actually Death Valley where they serve black licorice sandwiches for lunch with black licorice flavored mayonnaise and a fennel leaf instead of lettuce. Sounds like torture. Like when I think of drinking a witch’s brew, what appears is the image of black licorice tea with a lizard tail garnish, drunk through a straw from a freshly harvested water buffalo nostril. Hey, red licorice is delicious! Green licorice would be dank. Someone should invent it. Although they’d want to take out the word liquor.   

Everyone has seen Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, right? Well, Slugworth, in case you have the memory of Dori the Fish, is the creepy, long-faced fucker who scares kids straight. Kind of like that sinister, spider-like pervert in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who smells children better than his own farts, but that’s an entirely different personality disorder. These guys are good old-fashioned villains. Stories need them. They play an important role, which is to make you uncomfortable so that when there is a release of tension, your happy ending has the most impact, leaving you with an earned feeling of satisfaction. It’s what keeps us buying movie tickets. And winning this small victory has value in society today because badly needed is a reinforced belief in humanity. You see, real life used to mean overcoming pestilence and armed invaders, but now we just live vicariously through a film that does the work for us. Even Wall-E, a picture of how lazy and worthless people have become in the future because of the advancement of technology, has a conflict and resolution with a satisfying finish that leaves us with the positivity of goodwill. This goes to prove that in cinema, even a society with no purpose other than to sit on their ass all day in a spaceship and drink Big Gulps is capable of redeeming value. Anyway, Slugworth was the X-Factor, Wonka’s inside double agent, the mole. It was his job to test the moral compass of these neurotic little rascals. So, what we learned from Slugworth, even though he presented a misleading guise himself, is that honesty is the best policy. And if your values outshine your greed, the redemption is as inextinguishable as the Everlasting Gobstopper. And what we learned from Willy Wonka is that with simple imagination, flavored wallpaper, chewing gum meals, and fizzy lifting drinks are conceivable if you just believe in your dreams. And even more wonderful is that they can all be infused.   

It’s a woman who is just a friend. Except a guy can’t call her a girlfriend like a girl can call another girl a girlfriend. You see, if a man publicly addresses his friendgirl as a girlfriend, the silence stews amongst those within earshot, the brows lift, and the inquiries eventually fly like hail in a tornado. Be aware, gentlemen, that the examination from her friends will begin suggestively. First, you’ll pick up a subtle nudge that comes off as cautiously indirect. It’ll be something like, “So, how do you two know each other?” But don’t be fooled. This is a disguise—to appear as if they’re not prying. And if your response does not quench their curiosity, the concern can escalate into a full-blown probe. They will tell you that they are worried about you and have your best interests in mind, however one must realize that there is always a lurking agenda. Ultimately, they are determining one very major factor. And that is if there is any possibility that there may be a new Little Miss Mustard Pants being brought into the world by an unsanctioned woman because that affects everyone in the tribe. And mom and auntie are territorial and will want to be acutely informed because this could drastically affect the family dynamic. You are an adult now and adults make babies. And if that baby comes from a woman not approved by the consensus, you’re seriously fucking with everyone’s happy place. And women understand this much better than men. People need labels. They need it on their shirts, on their spaghetti sauce, on their prescriptions, and on you. Because life is easier to manage when things are categorized and put in their rightful place. So, understand that nomenclature is vital. And as a species, there is the matter of instinct when introducing more human beings into the clan. And the planet. Because we’ve become too populated. We need to become more potulated.  

There are too many damn choices these days. You wake up, throw on the standard comfort wear, and now you’re armed and ready to start ruling out inferior options in almost every aspect of life. Thankfully, some of your choices are pre-determined, like which coffee you’ll drink, where you’ll sit at the breakfast table, and how to get to where you’re going. Then some are not pre-determined. And so, it begins. Whether to shave or go with the rugged look. Which entertainment or educational outlet to choose in the car. Whether to speed through the yellow light or ease in and stay put at the crosswalk. How far to stay back from the crosswalk. Whether or not to run the people over crossing the crosswalk and head for Mexico to disappear. What to have for lunch. President Obama went so far as to reduce his everyday clothing to one or two outfits to lower the number of decisions he makes daily. Zuckerberg, too. In fact, it has become known that the average human makes around 35,000 decisions in a single 24-hour period, while 7 of those are spent sleeping. I’m pretty sure we make decisions when we sleep, too. Like how to deal with your cat who tells you he wants to move out because he doesn’t like the tiny socks you’re buying for his paws. Or where to hide from the hamburger that is trying to eat you. Even if you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice. And choosing doesn’t get any easier when it comes to Cannabis. Will it be a joint, a bowl, or a bong hit? A cartridge, an edible, or a dab? Sativa, Indica, or a hybrid? Or choose all of them. It’s the right kind of burnout.  

Religion is a mess. Can’t we just consolidate the roughly four-thousand-two-hundred-plus doctrines of belief into one handy little guidebook that reflects something like the Ten Commandments and call it a day? And if it pisses you off, we don’t even have to call it the Ten Commandments. I don’t care what you call it, just don’t call me late for dinner. Because when you think about it, all denominations pretty much preach the same thing. And those tenets are to simply believe in a higher power, honor that higher power, practice good faith, and get rewarded with 72 virgins...or at least one soulmate. I mean, everyone’s paradise sounds so God damn appealing that I’m feeling uncertain about which stairway leads to heaven. And it’s becoming a bitch pulling the trigger on which lord almighty best suits my lifestyle. I don’t want to pick the wrong one because this is an eternity in hell we’re talking about and I hear the air conditioning units are old and squeaky. And it’s a good thing temperature rises because then melting the polar caps will make things much cooler down there.  I’m just an imperfect person trying to make the perfect choice. Maybe it’s like this. Maybe you go to the heaven that represents the deity you choose to worship, which means there are up to twelve thousand different versions of heaven. Wouldn’t that be divine? Because then there is no wrong choice. Anyway, I guess I better pick my horse while I still have time to place a wager. I could be swept away by the angels at any given moment, and I sure as hell don’t want to miss my boat across the river Styx. Ok, I think I’ve made my choice. I choose Rastafarianism. Does this mean I will get to smoke with Bob?  

Puppy dog breath. Can you define the smell? Because it doesn’t smell like anything else. They are so new and young, but their breath is borderline noxious. Is it the food, or an odd combination of a strange bacteria paired with the culture of milk from the mommy? What is it that goes on in that soft, warm potbelly? It’s a tough smell to put your finger on. It’s kinda like a three-day old re-heated latte, or a bazaar Middle Eastern hookah. No, maybe it’s a woodsy smell, like moldy leaves on a warm day, or bark. There it Is. It smells like bark. Anyway, these are questions that were manifesting during the transition from a dream state into utter, blatant, brutal consciousness when my humpty dumpty eggshell head manged to pry open one pasty eye to see a dog bowl in extreme proximity. How did I know it was a dog bowl? It said DOG in bold, judgmental letters. At first, I thought it was a GOD bowl. I think I may have drunk from it just before I passed out because my mouth tasted like puppy dog breath. Or maybe it’s because two pit bull puppies were licking my face and I’m pretty sure my tongue was hanging on the linoleum in the kitchen only moments before. Was it because they loved me, or was it because of the dried pizza sauce? These rolling blackouts are becoming an issue. However, I think I have a talent, kind of like Lieutenant Dan on CSI: NY. By initiating a proper forensic investigation and a professional analysis of the remaining shrapnel in my pockets, it’s very possible to piece together the collage of events until the mystery is pretty much solved. So, does this mean I blacked out. Or did I gray out. I should have greened out.  

The whole thing was a Whirlwind. Literally, that was the name of the fabulous traveling amusement ride she so deftly operated. Sometimes the energies of the heavens are in complete synchronicity, and a bolt of lightning can change your trajectory. There was an actual graphic of a bolt of lightning on the side of the structure, you see, and it was the bad-assedness of this bolt that I commented on before she picked the ticket from my fingers, spit into her cup, and engaged that crooked smile. “Wanna party?” she slyly said. “Don’t ask twice,” was my response. And into the gorgeous August night, we swept, first dashing to the shooting gallery to claim the stuffed Minion that was my marksman’s prize to behold and gift to the new apple of my eye. Aboard the Ferris wheel, we shared a blunt, hovering over the shrieks and bells that beckoned the unbridled impulses. Off to the Giant Zipper, where the twists and spins made us drunk with the lust of maniacal whimsy. In the wee hours of the crisp morning, the shocks of the third wheel squeaked back and forth like a rocking chair on a creaky front porch. And then off she went into the sunrise, down that lonesome dusty road to the next Walmart parking lot several miles from some random main street. She would impress a new crowd in a forgotten town where the tumbleweeds saunter in the footsteps of John Steinbeck. The lonely romantic life isn’t for everyone, I thought, and I may never forget her precious companion Muffy in her torn Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirt, bravely battling that pesky case of mange. I think of Travolta in the movie Grease as the summer sun fades south, my curious eyes gleaning for some explanation on the peaks and valleys of life’s rockin’ roller coaster. “Wonder what…she’s doin’ now…”   

Bring up anything that has to do with people attempting to strategically advance a ball toward an advantageous area outlined by boundaries that will result in points on a scoreboard, and anyone non-competitive will look at you with the same blank expression as Garfield the Cat. “Time is precious. Great moments are few. So why would you knowingly squander them on such a blatant distraction from what is real and important?” Big sigh. They aren’t wrong. Millionaires flexing their dominance by out-celebrating each other has about the same importance to our lives as the contrived subplots in The Real Housewives of New Jersey. The bottom line is this--If you’re spending time watching with the hopes that it will make your life better, you’re really screwing up. Because observing fit people battling over a ball from the cushy living room sofa gives new meaning to the term Lazy Boy. So, why is it so important to vicariously witness our territorial need for dominance through meaningless gladiator games? Well, there’d be little else to root for without sports. And singing shows, but that’s another subject. Modernity has spoiled us to the point that this surplus of time (we allegedly enjoy) has allowed us the luxury that only royalty enjoyed hundreds of years ago, which was to sit and observe the toils of the less fortunate attempting to survive. You think this entertainment is free, but quite the contrary, as you are volunteering this free time to the exposure of beer and pizza commercials. And most people would consider that pointless when you could be walking on a nice trail, reading a book, or cooking a meal. Or actually playing a sport. However, if you must watch sports, most noncompetitive stoners recommend ripping consecutive bowls first with a friend, as it makes the nonsense tolerable. And to see who passes out first.  

I talk to myself sometimes. Ok, all the time. Call me strange if you want, but the reality is that everyone wants to be heard, and no one listens to you more intently than you. And where other people will often respond with unsolicited advice, the real opinion that is most beneficial to your situation is your own because no one will give it to you straighter than you to yourself. Unless you lie to yourself.  I’m not entirely convinced that this is even a possibility.  Sometimes I see people on the street having an intense discussion with an invisible character with arms flailing about. They call that some form of schizophrenia. I call it getting to the core. Because be it their imagination or not, it is still themselves whom they are addressing. Their father, a former boss, a stranger, their alter ego, the world? Regardless of who that pretend individual is, it’s still an extension of one’s id and a great way to iron out the kinks. When you really think about it, we all have more than one personality, don’t we? There’s the one that you show to the world, the one you don’t show to the world, and the one only God sees. And anyone who engages you in conjecture will never be able to lend as deeply to that context as you will to yourself, no matter how much they know about you.  So, call me nuts, but this catharsis of inner dialoguing often results in a certain amiability that allows me to settle internal conflicts that need resolution.  And sometimes, when I light a joint, I’ll take a toke, pass it from the left hand to the right hand, and then take another toke.  Because sharing is caring.  And a friend with weed is a friend indeed.   

Remember that movie where the guy is dying of thirst in the desert, and he keeps thinking that he sees water up ahead, but it’s only a mirage? Well, that is what your brain is doing when it tells you that if you drink more alcohol, you’ll feel better. And be more amazing. And be a more amazing singer. You know how it works; the progression casually begins at Friday happy hour with a beer and a shot just to take the edge off, a reward for the tempest of horseshit you weathered all week. Then things turn professional with more pints before throwing all caution to a stiff cocktail wind with the kind of reckless abandon that involves consecutive rounds of mystery shots with trendy names followed by hard high fives and puckered faces. Inevitably, the evening will wind down with a large Mojito and another beer that goes half-drunk before the proverbial white bar nap gets hoisted in staggering surrender. Your mind, body, and spirit are separate entities now, clashing like titans, fueled by a paradoxical lather of physical imbalance and a false sense of mental fortitude. With your better sense of rationale completely disregarded and your level of sobriety stubbornly defended, you’re in no position at this point to make calculated decisions. Like whether to invest the $43 for an Uber ride home or drive yourself. Or whether to provoke an argument with another drunk person or your significant other. Or whether to provoke an argument with your drunk significant other. Or whether it’s a good idea to eat. And eat a lot. This is called the Drunchies. Be it the Denny’s Grand Slam loaded with maple syrup and a banana split chaser, a Super-Sized Big Mac Meal accentuated by dubious packets of ketchup and a crushed Oreo McFlurry, or a fully loaded bacon-wrapped street dog, a liquor-induced feeding frenzy is a recipe for a boiling volcanic cauldron. Note:  Under no circumstances should this condition ever be confused with the munchies.  

It happened in the co-ed dormitory at college. There I was, chatting it up outside of someone’s room in the hallway, when I heard the words splattered out in a high pitch cheer. “Mikey”! It is one of my buddies who is twice my size. He comes charging down the hallway with what I think will be a loving bear hug, which is indeed the case. Until midway through when he spontaneously decides to apply a World Wrestling Federation Standing Guillotine Drop finished with a ripe, moist kiss on the cheek. My knee has never been the same. My girlfriend was floating the river with some friends. They came upon a 60-foot cliff ledge that people were climbing to and jumping from. What ensued for her, having had zero experience in this particular field of expertise, was an extremely painful seated landing that resulted in severe, dark purple bruises that led from the bottom of her feet, up the backs of her legs, to the cusp of her buttocks. She sat on an inflatable donut for two weeks. My childhood friend Brad disappeared at a Kenny Chesney concert, completely blacked out, and no one could find him anywhere. He was wearing an American Flag bandana around his head, which made picking him out of the crowd difficult. His phone was going straight to voice mail. Then the show ended, and everyone was at the car ready to go home when suddenly he appeared like Charlton Heston as Moses returning from the mountain with the Ten Commandments in tow. He’d spent the entire set sitting cross-legged with his knees resting on the stage-right amplifier, so he could “really feel the bass”. His hearing has never been quite as acute. Please note that none of these episodes occurred while under the influence of cannabis.  

Guess what the leading cause for divorce is. Marriage. You know why? Because when you’re young and horny and good looking and fit and ambitious and wild and optimistic and horny, the idea of growing old with someone who can shoulder half the responsibilities seems like a great plan. And the honeymoon sounds like a blast. Who wouldn’t want an exotic, all-expenses paid vacation on the family dime where your only responsibility is to bang through the soreness? “One day we’ll be the sweet old couple who bickers at each other, but it’ll be cute.” No it won’t. Firstly, you’ll be complaining about how much greater life was when you were young, somehow relating being broke with innocence and romance. You’ll get heavier, slower, lazier, and waaay less fun. You’ll twist the wrong way getting out of the car and end up horizontal for the next 48 hours. And as far as your partner? Over years of repetition, you’ll begin to despise their little ticks like the noticeable groaning noises when they eat, leaving an empty carton in the fridge with barely a full sip remaining, and involuntary farts. And it’s the same with having kids. When they’re new and fresh and little and curious, they’re as cute as anything in life can be, all doe-eyed and non-judgmental. They have to be. It’s a matter of preserving the species. If babies weren’t precious we wouldn’t put up with their bullshit. But then it doesn’t take long until they’re hairy, teen-aged, argumentative, Hot Pocket eating, Grand Theft Auto playing, zit-faced, mango flavored distillate vaping, masturbating, money vacuums who eventually, apprehensively, become adults. Have I mentioned I have a friend named Davey Dabs? I wonder if he was ever cute.

The sound of farting is funny. Call me immature, but if the timing is just right, the surprise audio booty burst of creaking wood, or the short brunt of a brass instrument, can be playfully startling, resulting in a good giggle. Even my 70-year-old Victorian-bred mother finds small moments of joy in the embarrassment of those who become the butt of her connivery. She’ll covertly plant a remote-controlled fart machine into an unsuspecting person’s backpack (me), or purse (my sister), then await the most opportune time to sabotage the target in an elevator or in line while ordering a Frappuccino. With the innocuous press of the button, the device is detonated, releasing a robust, attention-grabbing rip, forcing a potentially awkward situation.  And more so when locked into eye-to-eye contact with the barista. After, I’ll say to my mom, “What, are we 8?” And she’ll respond, “What, are we 98?” So it’s safe to say we all agree that wind-breaking has comedic value, at least on some level. But nobody likes being sucker punched in the nostrils by some mystery skunk at a concert or in a crowded bar. It can be a game changer. The culprit knows who they are but avoids accusation by playing ignorant while everyone else in the vicinity, to no avail, painfully attempts to discern the direction from which the putrid vapors might’ve been released while hoping to God no one is secretly blaming them. It’s like peeing in the pool. Totally undetectable. Totally not cool. So, here’s the deal for your inconsiderate assholes who don’t have the decency to relocate your rotten innards out of respect for people who don’t have any desire to share the remnants of your cheap lunch. Either own it or take it somewhere arid. And if that’s not an option, then at least have the courtesy to flood the area beforehand with a pungent bowl of fresh bud, you barbaric, Neanderthal fuck!  

Peek into someone’s fridge, and you get a glimpse into their soul. Because what one chooses to store in the crib’s chilliest place provides clues to those with inspective impulses whilst grabbing a glass of water. Are there indications of plans for the unexpected (or expected) Armageddon, or is it a bare-bones, protein shake and salad with raspberry vinegarette affair? Food lends definition to our existence. And what we choose to stock in the container of cool mirrors our personality. This inventory often reflects how we manage our bodies, entertain people, and what we stand for as members of society. And the volume speaks volumes. For instance, if you find frozen Salisbury steak television-ready dinners amassed on the freezer shelves, chances are good that the person bathes at least once a week, whether he needs it or not. If the produce appears visibly abundant and there’s oat milk and faux meat, she most likely owns a yoga mat. And if a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream and leftover Domino’s Pizza is evident, then it’s quite obvious they are a stoner. However, some may find that contradictory because a stoner probably wouldn’t have any Ben and Jerry’s ice cream left. So, let’s pretend they just made a grocery run. And by the way, the Cap’n Crunch that sits on top of the refrigerator does indeed deserve inclusion. It’s almost like the refrigerator is your butler. It stands ready at the guard; you chat with it. You audit the innards and shuffle the contents accordingly. Its interior is a calendar of sorts, most items categorized by importance while others stay static—the capers, the horseradish, the sauce you took a chance on—accessibility based upon importance. This place is a barometer of your success. You need to be content with the contents. And it’s where you stash your dabs. Right next to the Devil’s lettuce.  

We are preoccupied with sex. Since each of us first exited the womb, genitalia has drawn our fascination with the irreversible magnetism that’s built into our DNA. But as the system of indoctrination has been designed to control our natural urges through guilt and shame, there is still no proven method of turning off the salacious thoughts that occupy much of our attention, no matter how hard we try. Because, like any animal with the propensity to propagate its lineage, the compulsion to unveil the object of our reproductive options hiding behind those undergarments is undeniable. And make no mistake about it, were we armed with the intensity of a dog or a bear’s ability to determine the signals of varying bodily scents, we would probably be sniffing each other’s backsides, too. Thank God for perfume and cologne. But then again, those are a creation for the modern age, as our innate senses seek to gauge one’s virility by taking stock of the current state of natural bacteria that we foolishly wash away and subsequently mask with these pheromones of other mammals. They call this evolution. Hence, the mind and body will negotiate, often subliminally, to direct our senses to determine what we favor the most based on our biological needs. Just as the nose knows when it dips into a jar of finely cured Cannabis bud or a saucer of freshly pressed rosin, the subconscious directs our senses to the favored terpenes which would best stimulate the body’s endocannabinoid receptors. They are females, the givers of life, and their sensuous allure is only a different manifestation of what instinctively draws us to the loins. We want to see the flowers in full blossom. It satisfies our voyeurism. Because we are naughty.  

Dude, we were having a great night, and then... It appeared that the late shot of elixir was what transformed Dr. Jekyll into Mr. Hyde, escalating the exuberant whiskey burn growl into an ear-piercing screech. And that’s where the off switch appears to have malfunctioned. Like a Pitbull on its first lick of steak that triggers the glazed, wide-eyed feeding frenzy, in an instant, what was a composed practice in cocktail etiquette became an all-bets-are-off mission to Mercury. This was the turning point where the motor skills became flagrant and sloppy, effectively turning the leaking lip into a lawn sprinkler that sprays the bar with non-sensical gibberish. And here I am, hyper-aware of every tic and touch while you decimate the vibe of the room with nails-on-a-chalkboard karaoke. The turkey strut turns to a fumbling act of foot balance and mumbled lyrics, cracking yourself up whilst the room second-guesses the system of open mics and overpours. Dropping the microphone, you parade to the bar demanding attention, lambasting those who won’t share in your fist-pumping, shot glass-pounding camaraderie, measuring the patron’s moxie in ounces. Your jerking, brutish arms are weapons of buzzkill. And then there you go, swapping spit with the wobbly sea hag who appears like a ball to the barstool chain, deliriously charmed by your advances. She cackles with delight while you attempt to dance her around before stumbling to the filthy floor like limp bags of garbage meant for the dump. Meanwhile, her cross-eyed cougar friend advances toward me, on the hunt for the thunder from down under. So, I grab your arm and shuffle out of the impact zone as the bouncer gets anxious. Thankfully, I just use Cannabis. So, you have a friend to drive you home.  

Davey Dabs saves his earwax. He stores these globs in carefully labeled ceramic saucers that are categorized by the air temperature and date they were extracted. And as much as the fear of bacterial propagation is, he ensures his housemates Rachel the Ripper and the Swashbuckling Shatterbrain Shane with whom he shares the refrigerator, that they are sanitized before being stored for terpene preservation. Numerous times, he’s been asked to explain how there could be terpenes in earwax, which is a qualified curiosity that Mr. Dombrowski honors with the same regard as a scientist when pointing to research methodology. The explanation is simple; botanical terpenes are reintroduced to the waxy substance the same way as into distillate to offer the closest replica to an indigenous full-spectrum product. Davey Dabs intends to dab these globs in the afterlife. This ear wax, he surmises, could be misinterpreted as a repulsive collection of bodily excretion, but it is done solely for reasons of spiritual growth. You see, Davey Dabs believes that should he unexpectedly perish, he will have solidified the necessary preparation for his transition beyond the physical form. He does not believe--which is his inalienable right--that hash exists in the promised land. There is no proof. To his knowledge, it is not recorded in any religious text. And although Davey Dabs takes many risks in his often-absurd attempt to challenge life’s gravitational contest, he is not willing to risk being without dabs. Therefore, he has preemptively assembled a careful simulation with what he knows will accompany him into the metaphysical realm. He believes that earwax is his best chance, and it is instructed to whoever handles his will and testament that these saucers are to be buried with him like the rituals of pharaohs of ancient Egypt, where he will have dabs accompanying the ascension of his soul. “All things must pass,” he solemnly whispers. This, he says with the hopes that the final blink will be while inhaling what will not be his final dab.