Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column
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.
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#313 - Your GPS Lied to You
04/14/2025
#313 - Your GPS Lied to You
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 you once believed is now a clueless idiot and you are determined to get even with a brazen scolding. You will belittle it, call her a bitch, or him an asshole, condemning their actions with caustic flare while detailing the irreparable hassle and embarrassment you’ll endure due to their lack of focus. At some point you may forgive them, but now is not the time. You are lost and late, and the world is in a state of utter peril that may take years to repair. However, although it doesn’t feel like it, this is no one’s fault. You do feel a sense of responsibility, though, for having blindly trusted what used to be a credible source. So, to rectify the blunder of placing your faith in this digital confidante, you will take uncharacteristic chances in the attempt to absolve yourself of any further regret. There is no time to waste on getting to the original course. So, you will make illegal U-turns across center-dividers and irresponsibly hit the brakes on a busy thoroughfare. You will knowingly break the law, nervously cursing while backing up on a one-way street to return to the exit passed. Ninety-five percent of the time, however, this device is correct. Therefore, you should reward your GPS system. I recommend a digital blow job. You take a puff from a vape pen and exhale it into the screen.
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#312 - Dogtism
03/31/2025
#312 - Dogtism
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 needs to be done as cute and not mean-spirited. And let’s be real, the thought of an autistic dog isn’t not cute. Because having sympathy for something that is cute is cute by default. So, there ya have it. Now, we all think it’s insanely adorable when an animal displays traits of human characteristics. We’ve been on YouTube to see the Sneezing Panda, the Dramatic Squirrel, and the Chimpanzee who has been trained to do the moonwalk. It melts our hearts. So, it should be ok if I initiate the query of whether a dog can share a friendly disorder with said Homosapien. Because I’ve got a friend who researched the criteria of what would implicate their pet as having this neurodevelopmental condition that is characterized by anti-social behavior. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t spot on. Like, if your four-legged beast bestie is generally incapable of making a real connection with you and your friends, it could be that it has this most unfortunate affliction. I would suggest Pet CBD for the little pal, but I am not a vetted vet. By the way, I’ve never actually seen a chimpanzee do a moonwalk, but that would be sick.
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#311 - The Triumphant Return of the Mustache
03/24/2025
#311 - The Triumphant Return of the Mustache
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 maintained lip wig has nothing to hide. But when a dandruff filter protrudes over the orifice like a warning label to hide anything that’s pretty, you wonder if twisted thoughts may be at play. This also does not include the Saddam Hussein. That’s the abundantly flourishing frown fur that seconds as a push broom. A good example is the wiry-haired Baby Boomer whose peach fuzz began emerging in the 6th grade, eventually blossoming into a thick black pipe cleaner that is as much a part of his appearance as the brown teeth. We’re talking about guys who draw attention with intention, celebrating the bro grow as a statement. Be it in defiance to conformity, or absolute ownership of his gender identification, he boldly brandishes his face flag as a male human recognizing gallantry as a virtue. It is proudly presented as part of his personal brand. It’s different this time. Call it a comeback. The stigma is ending, and we are entering a new era of acceptance. Kinda like Cannabis.
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#310 - I Miss Guitar Hero
03/17/2025
#310 - I Miss Guitar Hero
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 how much greater the pandemic could have been if we were still heroic guitarsmiths. Sure, a few fences were repaired, and thousands of poorly written memoirs began, but all at the brutal cost of what could have potentially developed into a new pool of six-string leviathans. You see, instead of developing the rhythmic cadences that become the steppingstones for the next generation’s Stairway to Heaven, these future Proud Boys instead spray attacking aliens with automatic rifles and flame throwers while they could be ripping licks. God knows more teenagers need the invaluable knowledge of how to charbroil a burger. Something is missing. And it’s the living room stardom that has abandoned us shredders, thanks to the plug being pulled on the proverbial amp. And rock is now officially dead. Because with no practice axe to make the fingers skillfully nimble, the only fire under their asses to seek their rightful heir to the holy rock stardom throne will be from the match that singes their dingleberries from lighting their own farts. Guitar Hero was the initiation into potential immortality, learning music by braille, one imperative note at a time. You could be anyone--Eddie Van Halen, Jimmy Page, Slash. It was so much more than just a video game, but a position on the sacred stage. And I miss it. So, I smoke Cannabis to quell my sadness. Hey, that sounds like a lyric!
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#309 - Grease is the Word
03/10/2025
#309 - Grease is the Word
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 in a good old fashioned drag race on the streets where the result is transferal of ownership by way of a pink DMV form. And it’s also a term for underwear that’s never been slipped past the knees. Which sweeps me back to glowing memories of Sandy. But why did they call the movie “Grease” instead of “Motor Oil”? Because grease is to be eaten, not poured into your engine. In fact, grease is one of the tastiest items to have ever pleasured the human palette. It slathers your frying pan. It butters your bread. It styles your hair. Or at least it did in the 1950’s. Grease showed us a glimpse into that period’s youth movement where sexual repression graduated from soda fountain sips to gyrating hips. It’s a musical look into the often-painful process of teen self-discovery against centuries old religious indoctrination. And like all curious yungins, these rambunctious punks were ready to define their own style and music that counteracted the strict boredom their grandparents embodied. It was also an example of the prevailing winds of love as Sandy was hopefully devoted to Danny. I’m hopelessly devoted to this blunt before I watch Grease for the 14th time.
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#308 - My WiFi Divorced Me
03/03/2025
#308 - My WiFi Divorced Me
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 our species to proliferate. People respond well to being given directions and told where to conform. But 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.
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#307 - Black Licorice is Vile
02/24/2025
#307 - Black Licorice is Vile
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.
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#306 - Two to Tango
02/17/2025
#306 - Two to Tango
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 up with a concussion. And a busted knee. Not that it can’t happen while limboing, it’s just less probable. By the way, limboing is a word. Now, if you watch highlights of the summer Olympic games, you might catch the tango competition. Otherwise, there’s hardly anywhere to see people tango. Not even in movies really. There was even a movie called Last Tango in Paris with Marlon Brando, but I don’t recall any tangoing. And on Nat Geo you might catch a male bird attempting a tango to attract a mate, but for humans that overzealous act would come off as sex repellant. Because I witnessed a hippy dude rocking a tutu while smoking a joint in the city park. He was gyrating like one of those fan-blown air dancers you see out in front of a used car lot. No one would come close to him. At times it might have resembled a tango, but he didn’t have a partner. And according to the idiom, it’s not a tango unless there’s two people. Does that mean he was in limbo? Sometimes I feel like I’m in limbo. So, I smoke two joints. I call it the Tangie Tango.
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#305 - Traffic Magic
02/10/2025
#305 - Traffic Magic
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 tension. Because traffic is a drain on your fragile psyche. And you are not proud of who you become in these moments of frustration when it turns you into a triggered bitch. You see, we all have a threshold of tolerance that, when crossed, causes a discomforting level of anxiety and stress, fueling the impatience and adding to life’s pressures. And because there is no immediate resolve, you learn to live with the strangulation while building a resentment that weighs on you like an addict’s regret. You blame the other drivers. “Oh, if only those idiots hadn’t dug themselves into that inescapable cavern of debt like I did.” There’s the mortgage, the auto loan, the kids, the boob job—all the shit you have on autopay that prevents you from turning right out of the driveway instead of left. That’s the right turn that leaves the city toward a tropical paradise--far, far away from the giant magnet that tugs you into the grind. Fortunately, Cannabis improves your perception. One small toke from a vape pen makes the speakers speak, the seat heaters glow, and the engine vibrate comfortably for the most optimal enjoyment during your relaxed commute. You are quite aware that it is against the law to drive stoned. Thank God for Visine.
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#304 - Marry The Ketchup
02/03/2025
#304 - Marry The Ketchup
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 and go. Think about it, a plush balcony overlooking the crashing waves of a majestic coastline with your culinary love. Where’s the sign-up sheet? If I could marry a bottle of ketchup, I probably would. We already share bottley fluids, so why not consummate what you consume? I mean, talk about compatibility, I want succulent tomato flavor and the sauce’s only objective is to be eaten. In no time we’ll have a small family of packets. And it will never guilt you for inviting other tasty items into the relationship. Like, a greasy burger beckons to be dipping in the dripping. And French fries are lacking the jazz with no sauce to give them pizzaz. Ketchup is good on just about everything. In fact, I’m pretty sure that if you look up the food pyramid from the year 1955, it will tell you that man can survive off ketchup alone. Because we’re not just talking about tomatoes and sugar, but onions, cloves, garlic and other healthy items that put the zing in amazing. I understand that there are some cultures that prefer soy sauce, or chili sauce, but I don’t get it. You could smother a piece of plywood with Ketchup, and it would probably still taste good. By the way, is ketchup really the world’s most popular condiment? For me it’s bubble hash.
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#303 - Dragon Ass
01/27/2025
#303 - 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.
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#302 -The Happiest Place on Earth
01/13/2025
#302 -The Happiest Place on Earth
If you missed going to Disneyland as a kid, there’s a part of you that feels like you got Jipped. 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. Cannabis is no exception. There just is no more imperative bucket list item for a youth. I mean, even if your only highlight was stepping in Donald Duck’s spit fart, at least you had the 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 specialness of the theme park is wearing off while the patience transforms into tears thanks to uncomfortable heat and lengthy lines. Thank God for edibles. 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 as a kid? Oh wait, they already have that. It’s called Las Vegas. Except you get strippers, not cartoon characters. However, it’s likely her name is Bambi. And she loves Snow White.
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#301 - Worrying About the Wrong Shit
01/06/2025
#301 - Worrying About the Wrong Shit
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 il-preparation. You even commiserate at times, stricken with worry over ‘what if’ and ‘when’. But 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.
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#300 - Joint Effort
12/30/2024
#300 - Joint Effort
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 for them. There are also 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.
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#299 - Tacky Khaki
12/23/2024
#299 - 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.
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#298 - Sex is Like Baseball
12/16/2024
#298 - Sex is Like Baseball
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 recently 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.
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#297 - Wetting the Bed
12/09/2024
#297 - 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 too 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 boy’s 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. It’s ok, I’ve come to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person. Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cheatah Piss.
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#296 - Your Time is Now
12/02/2024
#296 - Your Time is Now
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 this moment 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 when 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 what is 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.
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#295 - Pinky Swears Are Binding
11/25/2024
#295 - Pinky Swears Are Binding
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 drive BMWs, 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 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.
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#294 - The Shit We Do When We're Drunk
11/18/2024
#294 - The Shit We Do When We're Drunk
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 of 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 forgettable 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 to lube up the joints. 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 beautiful 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 pinner on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of calling Guido for an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week. Thankfully, the evening wasn’t a complete loss.
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#293 - Getting Socks as a Gift
11/11/2024
#293 - Getting Socks as a Gift
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 smells gouda.
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#292 - Flattery Will Get You Everywhere
11/04/2024
#292 - Flattery Will Get You Everywhere
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 complement.
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#291 - Let's Taco Bout It
10/28/2024
#291 - Let's Taco Bout It
Who doesn’t love tacos? I mean, this juggernaut of Mexican culture easily rivals the hamburger when competing for most delectable item in the food pyramid. And whether you like your fillings grilled, deep fried, or sauteed, there is only herding the ingredients into a tortilla and wrapping that baby up to convert your hand into a flavor shovel of extreme awesomeness! Think about it. Tuesday would be Bluesday if not for the amazing taco. And not just because the two are alphabetically compatible, but because tacos are so damn cheerful, they turn an ordinary meal into a downright fiesta. And with the deliciousness well in hand, all you need is a bottle of to-kill-ya to quickly transform a mundane weekday into a Satur-type-day? So vamanos on those happy hour Margaritas amigo, because we’re going to need some tang to punctuate the party. Tacos aren’t just yummy for the tummy; they give the meal personality. It’s the rare food item that can relocate your dinner table to a barstool smack dab in the middle of a pinata filled cantina. Suddenly you’re stoned on some pressed brick weed surrounded by a handful of gleeful hombres with frilly tuxedos and giant sombreros strumming guitars, squeezing accordions, and singing like angels and you’ll swear you’ve been transported somewhere south of the border. Every country has their own version of a taco, right? Poland has the pierogi, Italy has the pizza, and Israel has the falafel. And the United States has the taco pizza. Back to the food pyramid. I wonder if that originated in Tenochtitlan. That’s where they used to conduct human sacrifices. Those were some evil bastards. But then, they didn’t have Cinco de Drinko.
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#290 - Wookies
10/14/2024
#290 - 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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#289 - Problem Solving is Easy
10/08/2024
#289 - Problem Solving is Easy
I’ve got a secret for anyone paying attention. So long as you’re alive, you’re always going to be dealing with complications on some level. Yes, sometimes more than others, but there is no avoiding the hard cold fact that there will never be a day when you don’t have to generate a solution of some sort. It’s true. You’ll never be challenge free at any point in your life. And as you resolve things, there will inevitably be fresh obstacles to overcome. That’s actually not a secret at all. Finding weed used to be a big problem. Like, there were times when we stoners were willing to put life and livelihood at great risk just to get a THC fix. And rightfully so—for those who crave the pleasurable acuity that this consummation of Phyto cannabinoids attached to the endocannabinoid receptors invokes, nothing compares. Not one drug in the world, plant derived or synthesized, can replicate the unusual, yet natural euphoria gained from using Cannabis. It’s like a friend. You have a relationship with it. You smile when you think of her. It is love. So anyway, you pretty much trade one obstacle for another. Be it drugs, or logistics, or bills, or partners, there will always be at least one situation in need of your resolve. And money doesn’t fix everything, either. I know this. Not because I have a surplus cashish, but because I’ve never met someone wealthy who wasn’t wearing something of a heavy crown. And in case you’ve been sleeping under a rock, the problem of finding weed has been resolved. And weed can put you in an introspective place of humility, patience, and gratitude, which is the mindset for solving those other seemingly difficult dilemmas. So, get stoned. Because chances are the problem only exists in your head. By the way, I publish a weed magazine. So, I do have a surplus of hashish.
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#288 - Father Time Is Undefeated
09/30/2024
#288 - Father Time Is Undefeated
No matter how well you take care of your body, gravity will eventually pull you back to earth to be reclaimed by the soil. And although very smart people on this planet have developed stunning scientific methods to prolong the everlasting blink, when your train is whistling into the station, you’ll need to politely disembark to clear space for new passengers. This is the end of the line--no pill, no surgery--no more birthdays. But you can’t be mad. Being atop the food chain doesn’t mean you live forever, just that you live well longer. In fact, you’ll most likely dwell here about five times longer than the average caveperson ever did, so be grateful that you don’t have to be worried about being eaten by a razor-toothed land shark. That poor hairy dude didn’t have a gun, a car, or an electric razor--much less a Home Depot. Yes, there are clams that live over 500 years and there are some trees that live thousands of years. But for you, large brain or not, 120 loops around the glowing orb are what you get--give or take a decade or ten depending on how well you attract lightning. And that’s a generous estimation, mostly reserved for women living on some isolated island in Japan or Italy with simple diets and a daily glass of vino, sequestered from the instant gratification society of processed foods and secondhand smoke. So, as there’s no denying that some people have temporarily circumvented death. But as there are clever roundabouts and shortcuts en route to your final destination, the tick of the almighty timepiece will eventually come to a halt. And when that clock finally stops, let’s hope it gets stuck on 4:20. Afterall, the best way to go is up in smoke.
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#287 - Boogers Are Influential
09/23/2024
#287 - Boogers Are Influential
The 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.
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#286 - Urine Love
09/16/2024
#286 - Urine Love
Discussing urine sounds disgusting. Afterall, what we’re referring to is liquid waste that is excreted from your body. And it’s generally yellow. If you’ve taken your vitamins, that is. But when you really break it down, it’s just water that regulated your system so that it functions optimally. And the facts are that urine is about 95 percent clean. So clean that some people drink it. And are proud of it. Let’s not get into why, but the question must be asked--what is this fascination with reclaiming the holy water that once flushed your machine? Like, once you’ve drained the oil on the Lambo, you wouldn’t pour it back in. Evidently there are reasons. And I don’t have the answers. I remember in the 5th grade there was a multiple-choice question on a test that inquired what the best chance of survival is if you were to be stranded on a life raft at sea. One of the choices was to drink your own urine, which no kid in the classroom chose out of absolute repulsion. The correct answer, no more appealing to a ten-year-old, was to kill a seagull and drink its blood. Which makes sense. If you can catch a fucking seagull. Good luck with that one. So, the urine could save your life. Especially if it smelled like fish because you’d be making your living off scooping minnows. I was thinking that if you urinated on some part of the boat and let it fester in the sun, most likely a seagull would land, and that’s how you could catch it. Sorry for the details, but as you can see my educators prepared me for survival and I’ve been traumatized by this one for decades. Anyway, back to drinking pee. They say if you eat asparagus your urine will retain the flavor and there are connoisseurs who savor this taste. I wonder if that works with infused drinks. Only if you’re a Cannaseur.
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#285 - Exercise the Demons
09/09/2024
#285 - Exercise the Demons
I’m going to be the voice of reason right now by telling you that you gotta get your cardio in. That’s just how it is. You see, the reason we have bodies at all is because gravity pulls matter toward the earth and your muscles have developed into what they are today because of that resistance which forces you to battle against that incessant tug. Honor your space suit. You are consciousness in this rare form for an allotted time and then it’s over. On to another manifestation of energy. So, get it while you can. No one’s ever come back from the dead last time I checked. Once it’s over it’s over. Done. Goner. Adios amigo. Stardust, Baby. Bottom line is to keep moving or the inertia will creep on you like a good Girl Scout Cookie. Not the cookie that helps teach young girls to hustle, but the strain that makes you want the cookie. Because if you refuse or are not capable of making rapid movement to the point of increased breathing, these parts will rust and decay. In time, the energy of your atoms will slowly meld into another form, which is cool and all, but that form will not be the amazing you. And we want the amazing you. You want the amazing you. Use it or lose it, Champ. That is unless you like the movie Wall-e so fucking much that your ideal life is to be rollin’ in a motorized Lazy Boy drinking smoothies all day in a star sailing metropoliship. I mean, that looked pretty chill for a minute, but ultimately, we want challenges that test our mental and physical fortitude, leading to improved self-actualization. So, that little devil sitting on your shoulder who tells you to finish that tub of ice cream when you know you should be getting in your steps? Tell him to quit smoking all your weed because it leads to the munchies. It’s entirely his fault. That little fucker.
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#284 - Cursing is Liberating
09/02/2024
#284 - Cursing is Liberating
When venom is coursing through your embroiled veins, it feels good to let out an exultant fuck. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find any single word in the English language so versatile. Call us unrefined, but when you have such an effective expression that is so interchangeable simply by the tone and cadence with which it is spit, why reach into that bag of expletives for anything else? With fuck as the signature example, swear words can be some of the most impactful of all expressions—the exemplary embodiment of absolute emotion. They are the sprinkles to your sentences. The punctuation of your pronouns. The gravy on your mashed potatoes. And when you study how we might’ve arrived at this era of artful articulation, it seems plausible that this breakthrough gained momentum when the 1940’s war children came of age a decade later. After having their mouths washed out with soap enough times in the cookie cutter order of row housing, they grew weary of the conservative austerity it took to defeat the Nazis, ready to adopt their rock and roll identity--ripe for a cultural rebellion. And rightfully accentuated by bad words in back alleys with cuffed jeans and cigarette fueled observations. If you think about it, language is a peculiar vehicle for communicating. And since the advent of our grunts toward a more competent connection, shunned words have had a place on the periphery of the dictionary. And when it comes to the word fuck, why would you insulate the remark that pinpoints your fiery feelings when it specifically flavors your fervor? Doesn’t It feel liberating to let it out. Just like a giant, breathy bong toke.
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