Classic Trance - Smokin’ Dope.
March 9th, 2007 by Kevin
This a repeat from about four-five years ago and was also featured in the chapbook. It was moderately edited since publication for another project. Enjoy.
I scored some weed.
I suppose I should phrase that differently: “Duuuude, I totally scored some weed, maaaaan.”
I have a brain disease. I’ve been told that the whacky tobaccy helps the brain farts more than the actual neurological medication, so I’ve been on a serious search for some of the old Mary Jane.
I couldn’t find weed. No weed to be found. No ganja.
Yes, I will now proceed to use every stupid nickname I’ve ever heard for pot. It’s hugely entertaining.
As a last resort, even though I knew it would lead to horrific gossip, I called a dear drug addicted buddy of mine who I knew could probably help me out.
The following is highly unethical, so I have added a disclaimer.
WARNING: Drugs are bad. You shouldn’t do drugs or buy drugs or sell drugs or look at drugs or even think about drugs, because if you do you will be licking Saddam Hussein’s heinie and shooting babies with bayonets and killing your little brother and washing whites with darks and running with scissors. You will be smacked on the hand by ruler-wielding nuns, and then you will be sent to Singapore and caned until you crap in your new Abercrombie jeans. After that, the president will staple a big red A on your chest, and it will stand for Asshole. You will be forever branded an icky smelly asshole that doesn’t love Jesus, and you’ll never work in this town again.
You will live in an endless hell of guilt and shame and people will stone you and piss on your grave, all because you smoked pot.
I called my friend and requested both pot and a bong rather than rolling papers, because unfortunately, I have a very bad habit that is quite unpopular in the pot-smoking community which makes me unable to successfully smoke a joint.
I slobber when I smoke.
I have done this since I started smoking cigarettes. Anyone who wants a drag from me had better be prepared for a mouth full of Jen Juice, because I slobber on those suckers like a basset hound. I can’t help it. I guess I’m just full of spit.
Have you ever slobbed on a joint in mid-pass? God, you’d think I shot the pope.
“Jen. What the hell. Damn.”
“Yeah, Jen, learn to smoke. Shit. I can’t even light the roach. Jesus, Jen. I will never give you a hit of my shit again.”
My friend arrived at my house with the goods, and I could not help feeling like I was about to be featured on an episode of Cops. My mother had just dropped by and had taken my son to the drugstore with her. Perfect timing.
I dragged my friend into my room and shut the door. She pulled out a very large baggie full of what looked like an entire bonsai tree.
“What the hell is that?”
“Pot.”
“Goddamn, it looks like a whole tree!”
“It’s a quarter. It’s not that much.”
“A quarter what, pound? Christ. I won’t smoke that in three months. There’s no way that’s only a quarter.”
“Jen, I would smoke that in two days. You don’t want it?”
“I’ll take it. Will it stay fresh?”
“I dunno. I’ve never waited long enough to find out.”
“Right.”
“Here, I got you this bong.”
“Nice! Aw, look, it’s cute! It’s all blue and swirly with the patterns. Aw. I like it!”
“Yeah, it’s glass, so don’t bang it. And here are some screens.”
“OK, show me how to do it.”
“WHAT?”
“I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve smoked weed. I have never packed a pipe, rolled a joint, or even picked a leaf in my life.”
She then began showing me how to pack the pipe and change the screens, how much to put in, when to dump it out, how hard to hit it, et cetera. I felt very shady. I felt like the Good Girl About To Go Bad in an ABC after-school special or some crappy junior high school educational video.
Jen didn’t know it yet, but she was about to enter the World of Drugs.
Suddenly, my mom burst in the front door and walked directly into my room. I was holding a bong and a baggie stuffed full of marijuana.
For a moment, I was twelve. I almost crapped my pants.
My girlfriend almost crapped her pants, too, and I think that she was more afraid than I was.
My mom turned and walked right out, closing the door behind her.
“Dude, your mom just busted us.
“I know. Oh God.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“My mom is probably calling Child Protective Services as we speak.”
My friend scuttled out of my house like a dung beetle, and I watched my mother. Her face was like stone. It had too-dark foundation on, but it was like stone. I smiled too brightly.
“Hey, Mom! What did you get at the drug store?”
“WHAT was THAT?”
“I’ve become very interested in botany.”
“Jennifer.”
*sigh* “I bought some weed.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Yes. But it’s for medicinal purposes only.”
*snort*
“Seriously, Mom, I don’t even like pot. It’s supposed to help the brain thing.”
“It is not.”
“I SWEAR TO GOD it is. Look it up on the Net. It is. In California it’s legal.”
“It isn’t legal here.”
“I have a quarter ounce, Mom.”
“What if someone came in here and searched? They would take the baby away from you!”
“Who would come in and search?”
“I don’t know!”
“And do you really think my son would be taken away due to my big fat quarter ounce in this neighborhood? Second grade kids sell more than that on the corner. Please.”
“Are you going to smoke it while he’s here??”
“Yes, Mom. I’m going to lock him in the bathroom with me and we’re going to blaze up. I’m going to share it with him.”
“Don’t be smart.”
“Oh, I’m not. Come on, Mom, give me a break.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Mom, you don’t think it’s a good idea for me to drink beer in my own home. You don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go to gay bars because I might get AIDS from the air.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Well, I don’t like that shade of lipstick. We’re even.”
“Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“What’s pot?”
“A big black thing that you cook in.”
“Oh.”
After I put my son to bed, I went into the basement, packed my little pipe and sparked the thing up. The phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jen.”
“Oh, hey, Dad. Did you tape Buffy the Vampire Slayer?”
*BAM*
“Holy shit.”
“What?”
“It just started to hit me.”
“What?”
“I decided to take matters into my own hands and bought some pot.”
“You know, I always thought you should try that. Is it working?”
“It wasn’t until just now. Woo.”
“This whole thing really sucks, doesn’t it, Jen?”
“Pretty much. I’m pretty tired of it.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Got it, Dad. Thanks. Woo.”
Never again will I understand those who get high for no good reason. Never in a thousand years would I smoke this crap for fun. Hungry and stupid just doesn’t do it for me.
I tried smoking reefer for a few weeks, and while it did lessen the pain of my muscle spasms, it really didn’t do much else for my brain problems. I had to kick the habit, because it wasn’t worth the money or the extra Cheetoh consumption.
I can see how it might work well for those with chronic pain, but it wasn’t the answer for me. I feel for those who have to use it as a last resort, though. I didn’t enjoy it much at all.
When you’re sick and in pain, you’ll try anything. Anything at all. Internet cures by the thousands. Powdered yak horn. Bat urine. Standing on your head in ice water. It’s so easy to hope when around every corner is someone who swears that this is the answer, this is what’s going to succeed where your doctor failed, this is going to be the magic cure-all.
It’s so easy to hope, and so hard to accept that sometimes there just isn’t any miracle. All the reefer in the world wouldn’t make me forget that my life refused to cooperate, straighten up, fly right, and go back to what I wanted it to be – the life of a healthy person, a person who didn’t need drugs to feel better.
Kat wrote on 03/11/07 at 2:55 pm :
My gosh, I remember reading that post the FIRST time! My memory is good, but wow…I remember it because it made me laugh my ass off. And did so again.
Lola wrote on 03/19/07 at 9:44 pm :
Coming out of lurkdom to say holy shit is hilarious, especially the part about your mom. I think I just woke up the kids with my snorting laughter…
Kaggy wrote on 04/1/07 at 8:41 pm :
Profound.
I am your fan.
Kaggy.
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I do love the classics.
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