So on the goober grape day of the four twenties celebrations occurred. The pork board was pumping pig propaganda powerfully. The talk remained mired in meat mayhem. The gross out factor was high that day , as dab after dab was liberally applied. Spiraling upwards with the floating dark angels. The talk around the island remained on salami suits and blood beers. The proper pronunciation of the infamous Lester peecans remained prominent in the stoned debate. People were straight getting sweated, hard life on the island. Conspiracy theories about Walmart starting a zombie apocalypse, just to make money on ammo and spam burgers. While everyone does pepto numbies just to stomach the possum tail hotdogs of the future. With powder alcohol we will snort our drunks. So to travel back to the future we rolled giant spliffs to smoke. I forgot how photogenic giant joints are. The smoke detector went off almost instantly, classic. The room clouded up rapidly. It takes the junkie back to all the years smoking like a caveman. Fire and flame and fumes.
In the realm of the mimosa merlins one had best have his sea legs under him. It is so nice to sit with a family that feeds itself instead of eats itself. The land of nice people playing with floating mimosas and foodie fantasies.
The caliber of 420 soldier you are rolling with matters. You definitely want that died in the wool, super stoner, weed lifer hardcore operator. That old school instigator “I’ll pack half a bowl, if you pack the other half.” That guy back in the day with all the inspector gadget protopipe strawberry flavored paper get highs. Back behind that Bojangles in that abandoned, grown over playground catching a fat buzz back in the day. Rolling big schwag blunts and taking them to the head. At least our kids won’t have to smoke the redneck Mexican brick, outlaw biker, beester, mid grade, fermented seed havin ‘ , stank ass , ditch weed bullshit. Stuff you would never roll a hog’s leg of now. Robbie quit pinchin’. Longing for all the classic rock enjoyment of the back in the day stoner origin stories. Waitin’ by the side of the road, while somewhere your bag was being mercilessly pinched, way beyond a hippie tax, by some shady connected older kid. Oh the life, Pink Floyd piping out of beat up cars, fish-tailing down gravel roads way too fast. That delicious point of almost being out of control. High as all hell, hanging by a thread. Being young salad days, minor threat motherfuckers. Punk rock potheads easy targets for redneck cops with way too much time on their heads. We were kinda raging it though, wasted in the streets destroying blunts by the bushels. Forever running from Po-Po. Gingerbread-man my teenage years, good practice as it turns out.