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#183 - Dragon Ass

#183 - Dragon Ass


Dragon ass should not be confused with dragging ass. Dragging ass is something we all do when our energy is low, especially in the moments upon waking before the requisite black brewed stimulant sparks the body’s motor that consumes fuel and burps exhaust.  We all know that feeling of lethargy. For so many of us, the first thirty minutes of the day is like boot camp. And if you happen to find yourself in a bizarre situation where that previously mentioned human gasoline called coffee is not available, motivating your brain toward a direction of productivity is like tugging cement through water. You are a recoil starter on the lawn mower with an empty tank. Regardless of how many times you tug on that sucker, the engine ain’t turning over until it gets some gas.  It's not dissimilar for stoners, you know. Different kind of gas, of course. Anyway, dragon ass is something completely separate. Although they have been known to be unapologetically lazy when perched atop their spoils of plunder enjoying a good snore. At least that’s what we learned from the Lord of the Rings. That they’re kinda like cats when the belly is full, and the comfort is spa-day level. They will aimlessly drift into a back nap with the loins exposed-- dreaming colorful fantasies of torching small village rooftops while blissfully unaware of the dribble of drool leaking through the muzzle’s lower incisors.  But then the interruption can be so very abrupt when the scent of hairy feet fouls the nostrils, alarming the defenses of little pint-sized thieves called Hobbitses. And nothing pisses a dragon off more than getting his favorite hood ornament jacked from his booty. So, with a burst of smoke and a toss of the tail, he boldly rises with awesome drama, and devours him in one swallow.  And then he sniffs for a mate. Preferably one with a nice booty. 
If you missed going to Disneyland as a kid, there’s a part of you that feels like you got gypped. Maybe your parents provided a solid upbringing, but if you never felt those nervous butterflies before crossing the threshold into the Imaginarium where animation blends with real life, you may be more likely to compensate with unhealthy methods of coping in adulthood. Let’s be real. There just is no more imperative bucket list item for a youth. I mean, even if your only highlight was getting spit-farted on by Donald Duck, at least you had context to quell your curiosity. Because when your peers came back to school from summer break wearing mouse ears with their name stitched on the back, it meant that while you were mowing the lawn, they were at mecca, peering into a kaleidoscope of make believe where each attraction is a highly detailed spectacle designed especially for you.   This is the happiest place on earth.  Until nap time, that is.  Because happiness isn’t a place, it’s an energy. And it’s not easy to keep the vibe upbeat when your kid is a huge mermaid fan and the only place to see Ariel is in her grotto which is packed, and the newness of the theme park is wearing off while the patience turns to tears thanks to uncomfortable heat and lengthy lines.  By the way, when are they going to create a land of make believe where each segment is a highly detailed spectacle, hyper-designed especially for adults who missed Disneyland? Oh wait, they already have that. It’s called Las Vegas. Except you get strippers, not cartoon characters.  However, they might be named Bambi. 
The union of marriage is a sanctimonious institution that has effectively been the glue that has bound our species for millennia. Without that legal commitment, which has basically stood as a contract between two people to agree to love each other til death do them part, we’d be an eight-billion-person planet full of nothing but singles ready to mingle.  That’s a scary thought. And we all know that uninterrupted love to the very end is fairly unrealistic, but that’s why you’ve gotta lock that “right one” down before someone else swoops in and changes their mind. And it shows the old man in the golden throne chillin’ on cloud nineteen with a Mai Tai in one hand and a heavenly joint in the other that you’re a team player who abides by the scriptures. You want to make it past the pearly gates to cloud sixty-nine, right? Because matrimony is a religious indoctrination, not entirely based upon love, but in many ways necessary for the order that allows for species to proliferate. People respond well to being given direction and told where to conform. And even though every animal in the kingdom requires a mate of opposite gender to make a baby, we are the only ones who feel the vital necessity to ink it onto paper. And even if you’re an asshole like me who believes that this contract is a formality initiated by the church to keep us donating our tithes while raising future tithers, there is no escaping the fact that each and every one of us is beholden to convenience.  It’s why we sign with blood when committing to our internet provider.  Because this is our conduit to most of the world’s information. Including websites that contain salacious acts of naughtiness. Which could keep you married. Or not.
If you think about it, much of your precious time is spent future-tripping over things that have never happened, or most likely will never happen. Because in your mind, living with concern is a necessary means to survival, oftentimes spent devising some sort of escape strategy, calculating the risk of ill preparation. You even commiserate at times, stricken with worry over ‘what if’ and ‘when’. But, in reality, should the calamity actually take place, it will never affect your space.  Now, you may be thinking that this is a misrepresentation of the word commiserate—it’s a strong, emotionally charged word. But if you break it down to its etymology, it undoubtedly originated from the Latin equivalent to the word misery. And what you’re doing is making yourself unnecessarily miserable simply from fear of the unknown. And largely to blame is the influence of mainstream media with messages of dramatic storylines loaded with cliffhangers, oftentimes hyper focused on one isolated report or opinion. Admittedly, this is difficult to ignore. They are scare tactics. Your attention has great value, and these entities will go to great lengths and compromise integrity in the name of fiscal profit. Which keeps the lights on at Fox News and CNN.   Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe misery provides a familiar comfort space for you. Like, we’ve all witnessed the odd kitten in a litter, right, where all are normal except for one that is simply evil? And you think to yourself, “why is that cat so mean while the others are friendly and cuddly?” The only explanation is that it must find some purpose in living in a defensive manner. Well, some people are the same way.  Except stoners. They commiserate over an empty nug jug. But they are used to it.  And they think the news is funny. 
Friendship, it’s potentially the most imperative virtue in life. Because without some form of reflective exchange with another living animal, it’s nearly impossible to apply meaning to our existence.  In fact, since our great grandfather times a hundred Erg the Nomad wandered the plains foraging for mushrooms and crunchy insects wiggling under Woolley Mammoth dung, knowing that another bone-wielding human had your hairy back has always been what keeps us going. Be it a person or a pet, we need to feel as if there is another organism with eyes that finds our existence worthwhile.  And one true measure of a real friend is a person who makes the attempt to reciprocate the association. Which often determines the varying levels of friendship.  First, you have your pretend friends. These are the ones who are around because you have something to offer. It isn’t based on leveling up as much as it is on climbing the social ladder or making their lives better by what you can provide to them. There are the remote friends. These are the pals you communicate with once a year or so, just to re-establish that you still have a connection that is important, albeit superseded by current circumstances that require more immediate attention.  And then there’s your tribe. These are the peeps on speed dial with whom you counsel for social activities and relationship opinions. They are in your periphery, sharing meals and outings on grassy plots on sunny days, deeply involved in the events of your development, helping to navigate the course of your journey. They are responsible and dependable, having stood the test of time, supportive and aware of some deep secrets. But there is another important friendship that belongs in the upper echelon.   This is the friend that generously reciprocates the bounty of green fluffiness out of the kindness of their supernova heart. They comprehend the commonality that is imperatively based upon positive intentions. Even if for only one sesh, this friend is true and should be revered. They are welcome into your space and judgement should never be passed. Interaction in life is critical. And a friend with weed is a friend indeed.
There are people in this world, most in fact, who toil through their humdrum existence with little reach outside the periphery of their familiar surroundings. And then there are those who impulsively thrust their bodies into random situations for the sole purpose of the experience that will inevitably fill the well of curiosity toward further tantalizing teases of possibilities.    One of these rare participants is Davey Dabs.  In his absurd stratosphere of rationale, that which fluctuates between the calm, enlightened space of gratitude and hairbrained feats of stupidity, is an understanding that without context, life is a sequence of guesses and assumptions mostly leading to inaccurate determinations of fact. And in his relentless pursuit of accumulating knowledge through participation, it is clear to him that no person has ever prevailed at every attempt made toward succeeding.  “Wins and lessons,” he likes to pontificate to those who doubt his process. “There are no losses,” he extends, “because each perceived failure is actually an incredible part of creating who you are meant to become.” These words are choked out in a massive cloud of exhaled vapor while visible swirls of broken sunlight peek through the venetian blinds. “There’s not a CEO in this country who hasn’t failed at least once in life.” With an avocado mask covered face, these are the last words before he draws a second full gram dab of rosin before politely standing to excuse himself from the table. He proceeds to drop his robe and takes to the sauna for a “chicken bake” with a brewing belly of 1000 milligrams of RSO. He will meditate in the suffocating heat for thirty minutes much like Moses himself, transcending consciousness in the face of the burning bush.  His brown body is covered with jet black hair—bunches of it bulging from the edges of his speedo.  By the way, Davey Dabs’ favorite thing to eat from Costco is the Chicken Bake. 
#177 - Tacky Khaki

#177 - Tacky Khaki


Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.   Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences.  I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store.  Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar? Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is. 
To be great at America’s favorite pastime, you only need to succeed three out of every ten attempts. We’re talking about getting hits in baseball here, not getting lucky between the sheets. However, for you men out there, the numbers are pretty much the same. For every ten times you try, if you get action three out of those, you’re doing better than most of your neighbors. Unless, of course, you live next to a college dormitory.  Or a retirement community.  Sorry for the visual.  One reason why getting laid has been compared to hitting a home run is because it’s not always easy. It takes skill and practice. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable in the batter’s box, getting to first base can feel very intimidating, much less advancing to second and third. And none of it matters unless you get to fourth base. That’s called home plate. Which is coincidental, because fourth base is where babies are made. And those babies end up living at your home, endlessly screeching at an empty plate.  Anyway, to effectively score and win, you need to be physically and mentally adept with good timing. You wanna keep the ball in play because that’s where the action is. If you’re swing is too erratic, you’re not going to find the gap on the field. And You only get three strikes until you’re back in the dugout watching the other players take their shot. Also, it’s good to keep the pace moving because the more the game drags on, the longer it takes to get to that victory.  By the way, did you know that the Major League Baseball Player’s Union just announced that each team can now carry 14 pitchers? There are 30 teams in the league. That means there are 420 pitchers overall.  Looks like baseball is catching up with the times.
#175 - Wetting The Bed

#175 - Wetting The Bed


I know, you’re wondering if this is a topic that really needs to be discussed. Or can we just bundle it up and toss it in the washing machine, pretending it never happened. And my response is that it does need to be discussed for two reasons. The first being because it’s good to create healthy discourse about things you are normally embarrassed to bring into public view. And two, because we’ve all peed the sheets.  No one is ever proud of this unfortunate mishap, but it’s ok, everyone knows you didn’t do it purposefully, it was just an accident more than once. And either because you were a child traumatized by your divorcing parents, or you simply have an old lady’s bladder.  Or you blacked the fuck out.  Listen, I’ve had a few hard drinking friends who should’ve had a plastic wrap around their mattress. But can you picture the look on a person’s face when you’re getting romantic and the first sound is that of lying on top of an unopened Amazon package? Talk about a buzz kill. No one wants to feel like they’re about to get busy on a hospital bed. I mean, putting on a condom is awkward enough. I’m gonna come clean here. I was a bed wetter until the age of ten. In fact, I soaked my pants during recess in the 4th grade, terrified to re-enter the classroom. Hiding the wet leg wasn’t so difficult in the self-imposed solitary confinement of the boys restroom but passing through the gauntlet to my desk in the back of the room after the bell rung was a different mission. And sure enough, Reggie the class clown caught me dead in my tracks. “You Peed!” he yelped, pointing directly to the massacre.  Wetting the bed at that age was humiliating, but peeing your pants was a scarlet letter. But it’s ok, I came to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person.  Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cat Piss. 
Yes, pinky swears are a lighthearted agreement rarely enforced, but we all know that there exists a code with the intention of not being broken. Because in this sue happy world of painful litigation, if we don’t respect the sanctimony of a real deal, then why agree to it in the first place?  Locking pinkies is a silly way to execute blood brotherhood without the pricks. And I’m not referring to the kind of pricks who purposefully cut you off in traffic, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle to draw a drop of blood. I’ve seen blood bonding in movies where two warriors will cement an agreement by slicing a line in their arm before the compulsory forearm broshake, then sealing the bond by wrapping a leather strap. The man love is palpable. In fact, you think they might rub beards.   Either way, the hand is the tool that secures alliances, and the inconspicuous pinky can be the secret weapon of assurance. Sure, most pinky swears aren’t taken seriously, but if we create a legally binding understanding that once a pinky swear is consummated there is no way to overturn it without going to hell, or some shit like that, they can be enforceable. It needs to matter more. Along with saving polar bears. This is good. Because even though the pinky is the runt of the litter, it has the plenty of potential. Your ring finger is cool but is basically employed for the purpose of identifying the symbol for a ball and chain called the wedding ring. The middle finger, well, that’s a no brainer—very useful indeed. The index finger is essential for booger harvesting and pointing at cool shit, which is of great importance. But the pinky has been underrated.  Therefore, as unlikely as it is that it will work out, sometimes you’ve just got to see how it goes because it’s the best option available.  Kind of like when you’re out of weed, but you’ve got a dirty pipe with a bunch of resin collected in it.
Make bad decisions. End of story.  Well, there’s more actually.  See, we all know that It’s difficult to think clearly when gazing through the glowing lens of beer goggles. Because when everything in your periphery is enhanced by fuzzy Glamour Shot lighting, the miscalculation alarm can be severely compromised when your weaker senses are enticed.  Suddenly, casting caution to the wind makes perfect sense, and you are down because you’ve just unlocked the jailed trap star who runs the city. That antisocial video gamer who clocked in this morning with a Best Buy name tag just got run over by the tank that is the new confident and boastful Chief Executed Baller. With a couple shots and a beer satiating the gullet, the amazing new you has emerged. And this dude is a fucking player who struts with swagger and makes the calls, ready to order some rounds and make some memories.  This is the juncture in the evening where terrible ideas become sound opportunities to prove to the world that the tin man just needed a few drops of oil. A few of these ill-advised decisions include tossing back a fifth shot of Fireball whiskey, doubling up on the stack of waffles, and cranking the ignition on the Hyundai. It all makes beautifully perfect sense. Oh, and hooking up with your childhood bestie.  Not all decisions made when drunk are bad, however. The moment you decided to hit a homeless guy’s scraggly joint on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of scoring an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week. 
Everyone loves being told they are wonderful. That simple sound of adulation flowing off another person’s tongue can have the most pleasing chemical rush on the brain, pushing the dopamine swiftly to the receptors, instantly unlocking any tension while lifting the corners of the mouth towards the stars, loosening the jaw, and warming the refrigerated heart.  Even the prickliest of Ebeneezers loves to hear how wonderful he is, though you know he’s likely to shrug off the compliment as a waste of air if not ventured for profit. Because somewhere in that hardened soul, there lies the need for love and validation that cracks the rigid conditioning of a Victorian rearing which left the child starved for emotional embraces.  But as with anything in life that causes one to crave more, adulation can also be a tool for manipulating. Oh yes, many practice the art of calculating compliments to achieve a desired result that ultimately benefits them personally. Some call that laying the frosting on too thick. And no one is not susceptible to sugar.  However, if the delivery is not perceived as genuine, the guise can be uncovered, potentially creating an adverse reaction. Most people know when they are being patronized. By the way, this does not apply to Cannabis growers as they all claim to grow the best weed. Tell them that and often they will place a handful of nugs in your possession. Of course, there is no such thing as the world’s best grower because there is literally no feasible way to accurately determine this. But who cares, you’re getting free nugs and logistics are not your problem.  It’s called reverse psychology. And you can never be blamed for complimenting growers. Because when it comes down to it, all weed is the best weed in the world if it is the only weed in your possession, especially when it’s free.  Or the price of one compliment. 
#171 - A Jar is Ajar

#171 - A Jar is Ajar


‘Twasn’t it Shakespeare who wrote ‘a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose’? Whether he did or not, it’s a play on words. And from what the history books tell us, he was the best at making plays out of words. Or organizing words into a play.    What we learn from this is that as useful as language can be, it can also prove confounding. Through all the channeling to the place in the brain where comprehension is gained by translating your senses into images or ideas, there is always the opportunity for misinterpretation.    In the English language alone there currently exists 20,000 words, so chances are very good that a few of them are going to doppleganged. I mean, to a foreigner, it can’t be easy to discern the nuance of building a building, or how to desert a desert. Or how minute a minute is, much less how a solution can be a solution.     I know, it’s fucked.    They are called homonyms. And as I’m sure you know by now, the key to differentiating terminology is by understanding the context of the word. Meaning, you just need to know the subject matter you’re talking about.    By the way, did you know that they found a pipe in Shakespeare’s grave and they’re pretty sure the dude smoked weed? So, what did he mean when he wrote that ‘a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose’? Well, there are many ways to refer to a rose in literature. And actually, ‘twasn’t he that wrote that, I just looked it up. He wrote ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. Which was from Romeo and Juliet and meant love transcends applied labels like Montegue and Capulet.    And speaking of love, if a jar is ajar, it means I’ve unscrewed the cap of my beloved nug jug and ripped another tasty bowl whilst I scribed this stoner prose. Just like Bill Shakespeare would’ve. In case you’re learning English. 
Humans have been walking upright for nearly 200 million years. The average life span of a Neanderthal was 32 years. The number of people that have existed over this course of time is, well, a shitload.    And through all of that, you are here now. The fact that you are reading this now is proof. Yes, your imagination can do wonderous things, but transcend the physical plane of time is not one of them. You have consciousness and you have the body to transport it through this reality, which means you pretty much have what we can assume almost every dead sentient being is no longer experiencing, which is life.    There is no life in the past, it doesn’t exist. There is no life in the future, it doesn’t exist. What only exists is right now. And you got it, friend.    Mozart is not here now. He lived 32 years. Christ, John Smith, Nefertiti--their energy has manifested into other forms. Yet you still possess the core reactor, that spark that sets the heart pumping nutritious blood to every cell in your body. You are surrounded by skin. The entire thing moves at the will of your thoughts.   Isn’t it amazing?    And a day will come where you will be gone, and time will roll for another 200 million years plus.    You are armed with sensors--nose, ears, eyes, mouth, and skin—everything necessary to flow through this one and only journey. Heaven? You mean there’s something better? I’m not convinced. So, let’s apply our focus to something tangible because time is precious. And that’s waking up tomorrow after a healing rest for another unfolding day of breathing quality air.   And while we’re on the subject--you can’t breathe without lungs. And Cannabis gives those sponges a good Rain-X coating of resin, which is good.   Hey, Bob Marley did not die of lung disease. And if it didn’t get him, it ain’t gettin’ nobody. 
There’s not a damn thing wrong with socks. Hell, life without them just wouldn’t be as cozy. In fact, I can’t say that there’s a more soothing sensation than pulling up a brand spankin’ new pair of cotton fluffiness over the feet. It’s a reward for those soldiers, a way of thanking them for taking a pounding and being the trusted vehicles that get you from point P to point Q.  Did you know that your feet are among the heaviest producers of sweat in the body, and socks are there to soak all that up and prevent the scent of cheese from settling into your shoe? I know what you’re thinking, the smell of cheese in your shoes is not Gouda. So, you better Brie ready to head to Monterrey, Jack.  Awkward silence. Anyway, we’ve become spoiled. Because socks are now a commodity we take for granted. What was once a true luxury of the bourgeoisie has become a mass produced, commonplace afterthought found on the discount aisle at Marshals. And getting them as a gift almost feels like a gyp.  But you can’t blame grandma, her purpose is to keep you clothed and well-souped. Afterall, her grandmother grew up in the Great Depression, so having the ability to provide comfort for her brood is her way of expressing love. And socks have become cool with their graphic prints of Hindu patterns and weed symbols. In fact, socks are a great way to make a statement. And that statement is that you are so fucking fashionable that when it comes to dressing, no stone is unturnt. And if they think my socks are dope, wait until they get a look at my underwear. Now, it should be noted that getting socked in the face sucks. Unless It’s with a bag of weed that stinks like fromunda.  
If you’ve got average talent, but your dream is to be a successful recording artist, here’s today’s splendid reality check--you can be painfully average at singing, but still rack up a shitload of downloads and streams enroute to becoming a star. In fact, many would agree that if you don’t take advantage of the revolutionary studio tool called Autotune, you are putting your chances of success at a major disadvantage. And for those of you luddites who’ve never heard of Autotune, it’s a recording production program that takes your shit-show of off-key vocals and gives it Carrie Underwood quality.  Originally, this was considered cheating, but these days it’s called winning.  Think of it like yoga pants. You take an otherwise decently shaped body, throw it into some stretchy polyester, and turn it into a sleek presentation of pure form. Because we live in a world where perception is reality. No one cares how you do it, just make it great. Only upon perception will the public determine if your efforts are entertaining. Whether you’re good or not hardly makes a difference, the question is do you have lightning in a bottle? That’s it. We want the baby, not the labor. Because let’s face it—a pop star’s ability to sing is secondary to their status on the likeability meter. The ability to hit the high notes, at the end of the day, makes very little difference when you’ve got modern technology to do it for you. Mick Jagger proved that. You laugh, but for 50 years he demonstrated that average pipes can be overcome with energy and interaction. Well, ok, probably cocaine, too.  Don’t do cocaine. Smoke weed. High notes included. 
What is a mullet? Well, it’s a mud sucking, bottom feeding fish which rightfully became the namesake of the confusing hairstyle that has prevailed as a badge of honor for those who feel compelled to demonstrate their white trash fashion.    The Mullet Magnate is a classic rock outlaw. Forgetful but not forgotten. You know the song Eye of the Tiger? Well, it’s about him.    And he loves how this appearance keeps people guessing. Hmm, is he a Chevy or Ford guy? Budweiser or PBR? This struggle that it creates for those attempting to pinpoint his identity promotes a wily giggle while priding himself in keeping those corrupt, human trafficking liberals on their toes.    At the end of the day, he’ll sit back with another self-proclaimed victory under his belt while rolling up a pinner of ditch weed. The checkerboard smile fumes from the rocking chair next to the creaky screen door on the front steps of the single-wide. There’s a sense of completion that comes with his keen advantage over the birdbrained society—knowing deeply that those idiots will never quite nail him down. Liberty is not only a concept represented by the American Flag decal on the back of his rusted trusted 1999 pickup, but something that America will inevitably reclaim after inconceivably electing a black president.    When it’s time for supper, the one functional burner gets ignited while the cigarette ash hovers over a large pot of near boiling Crisco oil, ready for the breaded filets that will be dropped. “This is the only way to cook a mullet,” he mumbles scratchily. “Otherwise, it tastes like ass.”   It should be noted that his favorite dish is Granny’s Roast Possum with Apples and Yams. A meal he expects to enjoy at the side of his Baptist preacher once the rapturous ground consumes the non-believers into the depths of a fiery hell for eternity.    The mullet will never go out of style, he will tell you. Not that style is a word that has ever been associated with his like. 
#166 - The Tramp Stamp

#166 - The Tramp Stamp


There’s a butterfly on the lower back and bow-tie garters behind each thigh. This branding of ink, so carefully chosen as to place you in an identifiable class of lady, is the telltale mark that distinguishes you as someone who is open to making spontaneous decisions. These unpremeditated life choices are generally fueled by mind altering substances that conceal the issues of abandonment from a father who was more interested in hanging at the bar with the boys than spending time with his little girl.  This artistic imprint is a statement, offering all onlookers a moniker that signals a woman’s right to express herself as she chooses. In fact, it is somewhat of a Fuck You to authority, proving to the cold judgmental world that boundaries are not your thing and although countless human lives have toiled through the mud to pave a path to your local place of employment, you are the modern pioneer who is here to show the world what real empowerment means one pole dance at a time.  To your loyal patrons, these tattoos offer a glimpse into your private world, but for a deeper dive, a degree of dollar-operated engagement is required. And in your sanctuary of dark VIP rooms, the mysteries are divulged through tantalizing whispers over animated champagne pours while stirring the fantasies of these flawed gentlemen in search of feminine validation.   And by the way, you have a love affair with Cannabis. She is the only woman who truly gets you to your core, unleashing the true inner strength that allows your joyful expression to flourish. She unlocks the hope chest that has contained your dreams since that first time boys paid attention to your blossoming body. You are sisters in a sense—the only relationship you innately trust.  Like you’ve never had with any woman before.
#165 - Venus and Mars

#165 - Venus and Mars


I think it’s time we rebranded these planets. I’m thinking Penis and Mons.  I don’t know.  A guy named John Gray wrote a bestselling book in 1992 called Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus and the term quickly became a popular catchphrase that captured the world of differences between the two sexes. I never read the book, but it would be assumed that there’s a distinction made between the two planets that align with the tendencies of gender.  And planets aren’t the only inanimate objects that get assigned masculine and feminine attributes, because boats and cars are usually referred to as female. I don’t know of many items referred to as male, but surely someone somewhere has a butcher knife named Butch, or a Sherman tank named Sherman.  And while we’re rebranding planets, just for the record, I’m not cool with calling Pluto a dwarf planet. It’s not fair. You can’t just disqualify a planet in the middle of the game as if it just wiped its ass with a penalty flag after a touchdown. The system taught us that there are nine planets and now we’re just simply expected to shift to eight. That’s bullshit. And the reason it pisses me off is because if you’re not entirely sure about something you’re going to teach in schools, then don’t teach it. And besides, Pluto is my favorite dog. He’s got his shit together a lot more than Goofy, that’s for sure.  Anyway, Mr. Gray ain’t wrong. I mean, it doesn’t take long once you’ve hit puberty to understand the chasm between how the brains of men and women work. For instance, when she is thinking, “I wonder what he is like?” he is thinking “I wonder what she is like in bed.”  By the way, if Cannabis genders are also to be associated with a planets, the females are from Mercury, and the males from Uranus. 
#164 - Wookies

#164 - Wookies


The brain needs oxygen so the body yawns. And upon rising from the pillow one overcast morn, there was a gurgled effect and a peculiar pitch out of the mouth that seeded my core with suspicion. Oddly, it resembled an anxious Chewbacca sending a ‘let’s get the fuck outta here’ to his not so trusted friend Han Solo who invariably induces motion sickness from the erratic movement of dodging asteroids to the smell of burnt Wookie dingleberries from laser beam near misses. I panicked. Had some strange transformation occurred whilst asleep? There was no extraneous fur growing on my body, no foul breath that resembled the remnants of fried Grantaloupe innards, or any other traits of a Chewbacca for which I should be deeply concerned. There must have been in a crazy dream before lucidity resurfaced, so the anxiety began to fade.  Nightmare averted. But there is another species of Wookie—sort of the human version of that Sasquatch’s buzzin’ cousin from another mother. Generally unclean, extremely hairy, and housing silver dollar sized earlobe gauges, their look is that of having stolen tapestries from an eastern European gypsy bordello and fashioned the material into pants. You see and smell them at heady Cannabis events toting their wares in a pelican case. I sniffed the underarms, and it was not good. Had I transformed? Was it Freaky Friday? Jumping out of bed, I immediately made a terror run for the mirror where a thorough inspection was in order. The hair was studied for any new emerging dreads, the mouth for any new sores, and the face for any remnants of crumbs in the patchy facial hair. Nope, it was the same dude that passed out drunk the previous night in the middle of the original Star Wars trilogy.  So, I relaxed and took a dab, clutching my stuffed Princess Kneesaa Ewok toy that brings me comfort in moments of reality. 
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