a Chronic Pot-Smoker
I can’t find my keys, dude. It’s driving me nuts! I just want
to go and get a taco, and maybe something to drink, you know, like
a grapeade—oh, and some chocolate milk! Yes! Oh, man, that sounds
awesome! Cool! Okay, then—shit, where are my keys? Dude, help me out—I’ve
gotta get back before “Family Guy” comes on.
– Bloodshot in Balmer
Dude, check the fridge. You’d be surprised how often that happens.
One time I had, like, a whole jar full of shake from this killer hydro
shit my friend’s roomie was growing (and he just, like, GAVE me the
shit, dude), and I just kept smoking it till it was gone, right? So
I wake and bake one morning while I’m making coffee, right, and I
had a bowl of cookie crisp and went to school, right? So when I get
home and open the fridge, the cereal’s in there, dude! I was laughing
my ass off. Then I go to the, like, the pantry or whatever, dude,
and guess what was in there? You got it, dude—the milk! Man, I was
dying. Anyway, that was my last semester; I just kind of lost interest
for some reason. School sucks, anyway, dude. Uhhh…what was I saying?
Oh yeah, the keys—they’re totally in your pocket, dude! That’s the
problem with cargo shorts—you always forget those extra pockets!
I’m freaking out here, dude. I just got way too high—my roommate
eggs me on, you know, peer pressure and shit, he keeps packing the
bong. Now he’s gone, and I’m watching CNN and I’m thinking about Bush
and 9/11 and the CIA and shit, and I’m starting to feel all panicky,
like the cops are about to bust in and arrest me and detain me without
charges and sodomize me and shit, and there’s gonna be martial law
and, like, no more fun time for me ever. My girlfriend’s coming over,
and she doesn’t even like me smoking and shit, and she’s gonna be
pissed when she finds me hugging a pillow and rocking back and forth
on the sofa. Not only that, but now I’m starting to think she’s in
on the shit, ‘cause I’ve always thought she was too hot for me, and
maybe she’s just, like, keeping an eye on me for the government, like
an evil undercover ho or something. Dude, help, I’m bugging.
– Losin’ it in Lafayette
Dear Losin’ it,
Dude! Chill out, man. Okay, first, focus on this: you are just
stoned. Okay, now change the channel. Do it now—if you can’t find
the remote, you’ll just have to get up. Put something silly on—cartoon
network, Star Trek, some dumb-ass movie or something—the outside world
is bummer, dude, forget that shit. Okay, now call the girlfriend and
cancel—tell her you’re tired, or sick—you just puked or something.
If she insists on coming over, this will still help you to excuse
the symptoms of over-smoking. Oh yeah, brush your teeth. Now eat.
Eat everything in your kitchen—raisins, toast, noodles with milk—whatever
you’ve got, it will be profoundly delicious. Eat it in front of the
TV, and feel yourself chill out. Pretty soon your eyelids’ll be all
heavy—go to bed. You’ll be fine dude—just don’t flush that shit down
the toilet, or your roommate’s gonna be the one torturing your ass.
What advice can you give me about eating weed-based confections,
like brownies etc.? Someone gave me a cookie at a party the other
night, but I’m not sure if it really did anything for me. I was smoking
pot at the time, so I might not have noticed, but it wasn’t anything
like what I’ve heard. I’ve had similar experiences before with brownies.
What gives, dude?
– Confused in Comstock
Dude, watch out; you’re playing a dangerous game. One of these
days, you’re going to get the real deal, a brownie made by a pro,
and take it from me, dude—nibble. I was just like you, unimpressed,
until one time I ate a big-ass brownie at a party. I ate the biggest
one, because I was determined to feel it this time, and man, did I
ever. My buddy ate one too, and it was really cool for a while—but
as soon as we got back to my place, though, WHAM—I’m hugging my toilet,
and dude’s outside the door all “dude, I’m freaking out.” It was a
fucking nightmare—like being drunk, tripping, and, of course, way
too stoned—had to eat my way out of that one too.
Oh yeah, then there was this other time—oh, man. Dude, this
time I was hanging out with two dudes, and we had all this hash, and
we were gonna see this movie—oh yeah, I think it was Star Wars Episode
1—and we had all this hash, and we wanted to get real fucked up for
the movie, so the special effects would be even more special, you
know? So, you know, me being the genius I am, I tell ‘em about this
thing I heard of where you take some hash and put it on a pat of butter
and hold it over a flame in a teaspoon ‘til it’s all bubbly and black,
then you eat it. They were all into it, of course, and we had all
this hash! So, we didn’t know how much to use, you know, so we just
did half a gram each. Dude, DO NOT DO THAT. First of all, the one
dude burned his mouth pretty bad, but that was funny anyway. Man,
that was some funny shit—what a dipshit!
Hold on, dude, I can’t stop laughing now. Jesus, that was funny—almost
Okay. So—oh yeah, so we’re going to the movie, and it’s starting
to kick in a little, and we’re all excited. Then we get there, and,
like, the movie starts, and—oh wait, that’s right, they weren’t showing
the damn movie at all! Dude totally spaced on the time or the day
or something. So now the plan’s all fucked up, and we’re driving back
and dude’s like “I gotta go home” and shit. Then other dude wusses
out too, but I’m not complaining, ‘cause I’m starting to feel pretty
weird too. So now I’m driving home, and the shit is really pumping
full bore now, and I realize I just can’t drive anymore. All that
shit they tell you weed does to you that you really don’t notice much—tunnel
vision, poor depth perception, all that—was, like really, really pronounced.
I couldn’t tell if the next stoplight was, like, ten feet away or
So I pull over, and I don’t know what
the hell to do with myself, so I go into a bar, and there’s people
there I know, and I’m like, “oh shit.” They think I’m all drunk, ‘cuz
I’m walking all wobbly and I can barely talk—I’m like a fucking baboon
at this point, dude, seriously. So I get a drink, which I can barely
smell without barfing, and this dude I know starts talking to me,
all jovial and happy to see me and shit, but I can’t understand a
damn thing he’s saying, bro; it’s like he’s not even speaking English.
I can’t even tell what song’s playing on the jukebox; it’s like all
echo-y. Anyway, somehow I get through the conversation by nodding
and saying “yeah” a lot, and then dude drags me back to his table,
where he’s hanging out with—no shit—five or six babes, dude. It was
awful. He introduced me to them, but they were all speaking the alien
language, too, and I couldn’t even hold my head up right anymore.
I kept staring at the ceiling and swaying from side to side. I wanted
to leave, but I was afraid to stand up, ‘cause I thought I’d fall
over or puke or something. I managed to say some shit, but by then
the girls were looking at me like I had lice or something. Finally
I managed to get up and call a cab. Man, you should have seen my eyes
when I got home; they were, like, voodoo zombie red.
Anyway, so yeah, that shit was fucked up. What was the question