#313 - Your GPS Lied to You
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
The tragic miscalculation of digital driving directions can be the cause of great stress. Because when you’re lost, everything appears foreign. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, you find yourself flustered and exposed. This is a dark and confusing place where suddenly every turn, every sidewalk, and every streetlight look identical. Your sense of security vanishes, leaving you vulnerable and frightened, the anxiety heightened. You feel betrayed by the soothing, relatable personality inside of your electronic device as their lack of sound decision-making seemed almost purposeful. The voice...
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#312 - Dogtism
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Autism is not funny. If you’re poking at a human being, that is. But if it’s an animal (or an insect, or a fish, etc.), you have the license to say whatever you want because the concept seems ridiculous. It’s not an official veterinary diagnosis. Cannabis experiences the same plight, in that, if there’s little scientific data to back up your claims of medical efficacy, they are generally shrugged off as unsubstantiated. So, no one can accuse me of making fun of something that’s not a matter of official record. Now, if you are going to poke fun at an animal for being autistic, it...
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#311 - The Triumphant Return of the Mustache
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Since the first Caribbean pirate washed down his minnow stew with peppercorn spiced rum, the mouth mane has stood as a solid sign of masculinity. However, as hair trends wane and wax, the last thirty years or so have not been friendly to the man stache. Like, if you donned a thick one and a person caught a glimpse in their periphery, they might do a double take, curiously considering if they’d just witnessed a caterpillar nesting under a stranger’s nose. But the moustache is cool again. Now, this is not to be confused with the molestache. A dude rocking a confident, purposefully...
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#310 - I Miss Guitar Hero
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Let’s face reality. The world is a much less rocking place now that a landfill somewhere is stacked with obsolete Guitar controllers. It’s kind of sad that gone are the days when all you had to do was turn on the television, throw a strap around the neck, and instantaneously morph into an imaginary rock god. With a backflip of the head, an involuntary scrunch of the face, and one long, high-pitched lick on the plastic fretboard, there was no denying that you were meant to headline MSG. That’s Madison Square Gardens, not monosodium glutamate. My tummy just rumbled. Just think of...
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#309 - Grease is the Word
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Have you ever heard a dude say that he would still bed Mary Anne from Gilligan’s Island, even if she’s currently 110 years old? Well, the same goes for Sandy in Grease. In fact, if those rambunctious teenaged gearheads hadn’t soiled her white blouse, she might have remained a virgin. In my mind, she always will be. Youth is eternal in film. Because while Kenickie’s Roman hands and Russian fingers were exploring the back seat of the 1939 Packard with Rizzo, Danny was tuning up Greased Lightnin’ with nothing but a pink slip in mind. That’s the terminology for reigning victorious...
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#308 - My WiFi Divorced Me
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
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...
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#307 - Black Licorice is Vile
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
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...
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#306 - Two to Tango
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
We’ve all heard that it takes two to tango. But have you ever known anyone who ever tried tangoing? No, you haven’t. Is tangoing even a word? Everyone has tried to Limbo, but even though these two world renowned dances sound like they could be kissing cousins, their originations came from opposite sides of the world and have very little in common. In fact, tangoing appears to be a hell of a lot more difficult. Not that I’ve ever attempted it. Nor has anyone you and I know. To limbo, it’s all about being a little tipsy at a luau. But if you tango tipsy, you’re probably going to end...
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#305 - Traffic Magic
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
The moment your automobile doors are shut with the driveshaft engaged; the contest is underway. Regardless of who is behind the wheel of other vehicles competing for space on the road, your primary objective is to circumvent them to save precious minutes enroute to your destination. And although the unidentified drivers against whom you jockey for position are often good people in your own neighborhood, they have now become faceless adversaries crowding the track. Like the butts of cigarettes, courtesies are flicked out the window. And there’s no surprise that this daily race causes...
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#304 - Marry The Ketchup
Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
Anyone who’s ever worked in a restaurant knows that when you have two half-empty bottles of the world’s most popular condiment, you pour one into the other to make one of them appear fresh and new while the other gets tossed. It’s called marrying the ketchup. That’s a figurative term. But what if we made it literal? Because let’s face it, there are a lot of people on this planet who are unhappily married. And if they could run off with a bottle of ketchup to a tropical island for a glorious honeymoon without the rough repercussions of divorce, most would probably drop everything...
info_outlineThe finger reaches into the hole.
And why not? Although this appendage often sits idle, like an old motor, it is a tool best maintained with regular use. And as the subconscious wanders into aimless thought while tediously inching through rush hour traffic, the instinct directs the fingernail toward an accessible area of the anatomy in need of grooming. Sure, this exercise serves some low-level maintenance to the nostril, but at the same time there is an element of achievement in withdrawing that coagulation of dirt and snot from the inverted cavern as if excavating something valuable.
Like a gold nugget.
There’s a reason why they call it digging for gold instead of digging for coal, you know. And it’s because of this sense of reward by producing something that is sustainably harvested and interesting to look upon.
You’ve manufactured a prize from your own body. A toy of sorts. Something to play with by rolling it between the fingers to create the perfect little musket ball for the most accurate flick. Or maybe you didn’t roll it at all, but slid it off the flat mantle like a shifted tectonic plate, with the intention of sailing it into the distance in hopes for a good twist in trajectory, as if whirling a frisbee into the warm summer air.
You find value in this lone confetto—a personal token of celebration for the miracle of life. And this is the proof that you are alive. A booger, however immaterial it may seem, is of the highest significance. It is there to remind you that the system is fully functional--that the body is in pure working form, curing itself, keeping you optimal--a true symbol of your existence. You have spent countless hours over the course of your life with these little treasures, having grown accustomed to the daily practice of preening.
In fact, it could be argued that this was the precursor to learning how to roll a joint.
Or pinching a nug.