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Ask a Chronic Pot-Smoker

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© 2004 The Beast

Ask a Chronic Pot-Smoker


Dear Dude,

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

Dear Bloodshot,

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!


Dear Dude,

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.


Dude,

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

Dear Confused,

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 done…

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 a hundred.

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 again?

 

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