Oh, Nick Swardson. I love you so much, and you won't even give me the time of day. We'll see, fucker. We'll see.
www.myspace.com/gayrobot
So, uh, I think I'm in love with that. Nick Swardson does the voice and I believe Adam Sandler's producing or throwing money at rich Jews in cheap suits. Same thing, really. And it's going to be on Comedy Central. God, I can't wait to get stoned, vege out, and fall asleep watching it!...My life is so empty. But I guess that's why it floats. Rimshot!
Barry, when I say rimshot, I mean rimshot not suck down a bottle of $5 vodka behind the drum kit like no one can see you. Fuck you!
And scene.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Erotic, Erotic - - Put Your Hands All Over My Body...
I love the warmth. The warmth of spring. The warmth of a mother's love. The warmth of a bulging man rock in my mouth as I massage it up and down with my cocksure tongue. Almost choking a bit. But I'm a pro, I haven't thrown up unvolunteerily in over 2 years.
The day started off as any other. I blindly threw my alarm clock across the room, hitting Kitten Kiboodle, the maid, in the temple. Amid cries of "Oh, I can't see anything!" and "Sir, could you please call the doctor," I somehow managed to put together an outfit for the day. Stepping over her limp body, I ordered Kitty to run the bath, iron the clothes I had set out and prepare breakfast. Those bumps were particularly well cut today and I let Kitty know, but she simply nodded her ursine head and skulked back to her business, clutching the ice pack my tennis/swimming/gymnastics/aerobics instructor, Poli, had provided her with.
Mysteriously feeling a bit lackluster about 15 minutes or so after breakfast, I decided to take a nap. However, Poli had other ideas as I woke up with his magnificent, steely left pec jammed uvula deep in my mouth. It was time for swimming.
Poli was something of a conundrum to me. A six-foot, three bronze god built only of rippling muscle and baby lotion, he was about as smart as a three year old child but hung like a thirty year old porn star. I loved him like one man can only love another man, but his presence infuriated me to no end. He was always running around, sticking things where they didn't belong and due to the extreme size of most of those things, a professional oft had to be called to the house. And how I disdain people! But standing by the Super Olypmic-sized pool, dripping from every square inch of his body with chlorine, bursting through that tiny little black speedo, grinning broadly as if it were his last day in rehab, I felt nothing but love. And a huge erection in my pants. Thus swimming lessons were pre-empted for the moment.
Next: "I Once Caught A Fish THIS Big..."
The day started off as any other. I blindly threw my alarm clock across the room, hitting Kitten Kiboodle, the maid, in the temple. Amid cries of "Oh, I can't see anything!" and "Sir, could you please call the doctor," I somehow managed to put together an outfit for the day. Stepping over her limp body, I ordered Kitty to run the bath, iron the clothes I had set out and prepare breakfast. Those bumps were particularly well cut today and I let Kitty know, but she simply nodded her ursine head and skulked back to her business, clutching the ice pack my tennis/swimming/gymnastics/aerobics instructor, Poli, had provided her with.
Mysteriously feeling a bit lackluster about 15 minutes or so after breakfast, I decided to take a nap. However, Poli had other ideas as I woke up with his magnificent, steely left pec jammed uvula deep in my mouth. It was time for swimming.
Poli was something of a conundrum to me. A six-foot, three bronze god built only of rippling muscle and baby lotion, he was about as smart as a three year old child but hung like a thirty year old porn star. I loved him like one man can only love another man, but his presence infuriated me to no end. He was always running around, sticking things where they didn't belong and due to the extreme size of most of those things, a professional oft had to be called to the house. And how I disdain people! But standing by the Super Olypmic-sized pool, dripping from every square inch of his body with chlorine, bursting through that tiny little black speedo, grinning broadly as if it were his last day in rehab, I felt nothing but love. And a huge erection in my pants. Thus swimming lessons were pre-empted for the moment.
Next: "I Once Caught A Fish THIS Big..."
I'm Seriously Going to Start Begging Strangers on the Street to Have Sex With Me
"C'mon, please! I'm already on my knees here!"
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Dear Hinda
The following is a letter a friend of mine found while rummaging through a random public computer at school. Being the avid supporters of schadenfreude that we are, she kindly passed this onto me.
Now, it's not the fact that this guy is trying to get into the pants of some girl on the other side of the country that's embarassing. It's also not the fact that he says such touching things like: "...besides making me want to pimp ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities in me...." Or that he extols such wisdom as: "Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things."
It is the level of commitmment he puts into it. In order to write something this schmaltzy, this cheesy and this grammatically incorrect, one must have no sense of self-awareness. Or, be head over anus in love. It's sickening, really. But you can just tell that this guy's heart is pinned roughly to his sleeve with a safety pin and gum, bleeding all over his Ecko sweatshirt. I hate to admit it, but I almost admire his ability to so thoroughly puss out in the span of one "like letter." If only I had a heart, eh?
Anygay, below is the letter in its entirety, bad punctuation and all. Read it and try not to jack off with your tears later tonight.
Dear Hinda,
forgive me for not calling to tell you this. I don’t think the
phone would give me all the time I need to say what I want to say, and
since I had such difficulty expressing myself the night before you
left, I figured I’d try a different approach here
But don’t be scared. There’s nothing in this letter that will
scare you. I will try to make it as funny as the one I left for you in
New York but there are only so many drawings I can make of your big hair
(insert drawing I love nytshirt).
Do you remember when I said I studied everything about you in a
couple of hours? I was being completely truthful. I have an eye for
detail and a spectacular memory. I always have. I remember exactly what
your hands look like, how your toes are just a little spaced apart from
one another so that they don’t quite touch, and I remember the precise
way you sat on the futon hugging your knees with your arms---you
reminded me of my sister then. I picked all that up in the first twenty
minutes!
What took me a little longer to notice about you was that you
are a complete woman. it was only as we were walking along the river
tossing the apple back and forth that I saw how everything about you
comes together. And I don’t pretend to know you that well, but I think
what I saw in you was real. Do you know what I mean? How do I say this
without sounding ridiculous? Well, being in your presence that
afternoon made me realize what it is like to be completely aware of
another person and at the same time forget about myself. It was a rare
and beautiful feeling. Maybe it was the AA meeting that gave us a
little high or maybe it was the sunshine…I don’t know and I don’t care.
All I know is that afternoon I felt like I really connected to you.
And that is the most amazing thing about life–interacting with
other human beings. Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people
teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things.
But everyone teaches me something.
From you I learned to live in the moment. Truthfully, it’s all
we have. Sometimes I look into the future and sometimes I look into the
past, and when I do either of those things I miss the absolute beauty
of the present. And yet the present is difficult because it demands
that I be honest. The past and the future allow me to create scenarios
that may not have happened or that may never happen. Living in the
moment does not allow this. And being honest is hard because
sometimes it’s the dream of the past or the dream of the future that I
really like to chase.
Of course you already know that you bring out the gangsta in
me. But I also want you to know that besides making me want to pimp
ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities
in me as well. Basically, you’ve encouraged me to be a better
communicator, and I’ve decided to pay you back with some truly honest
words.
And that’s why I’m writing. I’d love to come to san diego to
see you but I can’t come out if you are in a relationship. You might be
saying, “Who invited Christian to San Diego anyway?” I did. I invited
myself. And as much as I’d love to see you I don’t think it would be
healthy for either or us if I came out there while you were dating
someone. I don’t say that because I want something physical to happen.
I have plenty of bitches here in NY for that. I say that because I like
you. There. You heard it. Hinda N----, I like you.
Now don’t get teary-eyed. this is not a love letter. This is
a “like” letter. The “like” letter always comes before the love letter.
And sometimes after the love letter comes the hate letter, but not all
the time–thankfully. So stop laughing already, I’m trying to be serious
here!
Now I don’t dare look too far into the future. You’ll have to
use my big bald head for that. But if I take a little peek into the
past I see that we had a lot of fun and all I want is to try and do it
again. You know my motto: Let’s do it. Well, I have another one: Let’s
do it again.
So I don’t know what you’re going to think of all this but I
had such a great time with you here in New York that I would regret not
telling you, or worse, not telling you that I want to see you again.
Life is short, we have to take risks. Being honest with you is risky
but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Like I said before, I have no idea what the future holds but
it’s not in my nature to sit back and wait to find out. Everything I
ever wanted out of life I had to go out there and get. Beuatiful women
don’t just come knocking on my door. Well, not all the time. Sometimes
they get the key from the cleaners and let themselves in.
I know we joked about me not making a move….well, now I’ve made
one.
Write back.
Oh, I'm totally going to.
Now, it's not the fact that this guy is trying to get into the pants of some girl on the other side of the country that's embarassing. It's also not the fact that he says such touching things like: "...besides making me want to pimp ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities in me...." Or that he extols such wisdom as: "Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things."
It is the level of commitmment he puts into it. In order to write something this schmaltzy, this cheesy and this grammatically incorrect, one must have no sense of self-awareness. Or, be head over anus in love. It's sickening, really. But you can just tell that this guy's heart is pinned roughly to his sleeve with a safety pin and gum, bleeding all over his Ecko sweatshirt. I hate to admit it, but I almost admire his ability to so thoroughly puss out in the span of one "like letter." If only I had a heart, eh?
Anygay, below is the letter in its entirety, bad punctuation and all. Read it and try not to jack off with your tears later tonight.
Dear Hinda,
forgive me for not calling to tell you this. I don’t think the
phone would give me all the time I need to say what I want to say, and
since I had such difficulty expressing myself the night before you
left, I figured I’d try a different approach here
But don’t be scared. There’s nothing in this letter that will
scare you. I will try to make it as funny as the one I left for you in
New York but there are only so many drawings I can make of your big hair
(insert drawing I love nytshirt).
Do you remember when I said I studied everything about you in a
couple of hours? I was being completely truthful. I have an eye for
detail and a spectacular memory. I always have. I remember exactly what
your hands look like, how your toes are just a little spaced apart from
one another so that they don’t quite touch, and I remember the precise
way you sat on the futon hugging your knees with your arms---you
reminded me of my sister then. I picked all that up in the first twenty
minutes!
What took me a little longer to notice about you was that you
are a complete woman. it was only as we were walking along the river
tossing the apple back and forth that I saw how everything about you
comes together. And I don’t pretend to know you that well, but I think
what I saw in you was real. Do you know what I mean? How do I say this
without sounding ridiculous? Well, being in your presence that
afternoon made me realize what it is like to be completely aware of
another person and at the same time forget about myself. It was a rare
and beautiful feeling. Maybe it was the AA meeting that gave us a
little high or maybe it was the sunshine…I don’t know and I don’t care.
All I know is that afternoon I felt like I really connected to you.
And that is the most amazing thing about life–interacting with
other human beings. Everyone I meet teaches me something. Some people
teach me how to do things, some people teach me how not to do things.
But everyone teaches me something.
From you I learned to live in the moment. Truthfully, it’s all
we have. Sometimes I look into the future and sometimes I look into the
past, and when I do either of those things I miss the absolute beauty
of the present. And yet the present is difficult because it demands
that I be honest. The past and the future allow me to create scenarios
that may not have happened or that may never happen. Living in the
moment does not allow this. And being honest is hard because
sometimes it’s the dream of the past or the dream of the future that I
really like to chase.
Of course you already know that you bring out the gangsta in
me. But I also want you to know that besides making me want to pimp
ho’s and carjack somebody, you bring out some other excellent qualities
in me as well. Basically, you’ve encouraged me to be a better
communicator, and I’ve decided to pay you back with some truly honest
words.
And that’s why I’m writing. I’d love to come to san diego to
see you but I can’t come out if you are in a relationship. You might be
saying, “Who invited Christian to San Diego anyway?” I did. I invited
myself. And as much as I’d love to see you I don’t think it would be
healthy for either or us if I came out there while you were dating
someone. I don’t say that because I want something physical to happen.
I have plenty of bitches here in NY for that. I say that because I like
you. There. You heard it. Hinda N----, I like you.
Now don’t get teary-eyed. this is not a love letter. This is
a “like” letter. The “like” letter always comes before the love letter.
And sometimes after the love letter comes the hate letter, but not all
the time–thankfully. So stop laughing already, I’m trying to be serious
here!
Now I don’t dare look too far into the future. You’ll have to
use my big bald head for that. But if I take a little peek into the
past I see that we had a lot of fun and all I want is to try and do it
again. You know my motto: Let’s do it. Well, I have another one: Let’s
do it again.
So I don’t know what you’re going to think of all this but I
had such a great time with you here in New York that I would regret not
telling you, or worse, not telling you that I want to see you again.
Life is short, we have to take risks. Being honest with you is risky
but it’s a chance I’m willing to take.
Like I said before, I have no idea what the future holds but
it’s not in my nature to sit back and wait to find out. Everything I
ever wanted out of life I had to go out there and get. Beuatiful women
don’t just come knocking on my door. Well, not all the time. Sometimes
they get the key from the cleaners and let themselves in.
I know we joked about me not making a move….well, now I’ve made
one.
Write back.
Oh, I'm totally going to.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Digging My Way Out of the Trenches
Life, as you all know, is riddled with peaks and valleys. The peaks can often get so high you forget how low you were, even if it was only a few days ago. Riding the gnarliest waves of success can leave you unprepared for wiping out in the cruel blue crush of...okay, I lost my way with this stupid surfing analogy. The point is, even when everything seems to be going right, it is best to remember that they can fall apart at any minute. How did I get here?
Conversely, when you're down for the count, what hope is left in your soul? When all you can see for miles are the footprints of your failure, there IS no path to success. Then suddenly....It's all very slow. The road evens out, elevates and next thing you know you're looking out at the world below you and opportunity flows, seemingly, from everywhere and nowhere all at once. How did I get here?
I won't go into details, as it is too early to tell, but for the first time in months (years? decades? fashion eras?) I feel as if things are looking up for me. A part of me is excited at the prospect of regaining my autonomy. If there's one thing I hate, it's depending on anyone for anything. Yet, another part of me is afraid that this is another false safety net and should I continue this high-wire act, there's nothing there to catch me. Wow, I'm really into these mataphors today. Still another, the more bombastic part of me, is ready to take whatever life hands me and run as far as these tremendous gams can take me. How did I get here?
I'm here because of stupid decisions, regrettable mistakes, fortunate mishaps and a dash of destiny. That's solved. The more important matter at hand is, where will I go from here? If I have learned from any of those decisions, et al , which I think I have, anywhere and everywhere. The world is so vast and I'm so young and ALL that good shit. Right now, I don't really care where I'm going, just as long as I have fun on the way.
HAPPY 420, KIDS!!!
Conversely, when you're down for the count, what hope is left in your soul? When all you can see for miles are the footprints of your failure, there IS no path to success. Then suddenly....It's all very slow. The road evens out, elevates and next thing you know you're looking out at the world below you and opportunity flows, seemingly, from everywhere and nowhere all at once. How did I get here?
I won't go into details, as it is too early to tell, but for the first time in months (years? decades? fashion eras?) I feel as if things are looking up for me. A part of me is excited at the prospect of regaining my autonomy. If there's one thing I hate, it's depending on anyone for anything. Yet, another part of me is afraid that this is another false safety net and should I continue this high-wire act, there's nothing there to catch me. Wow, I'm really into these mataphors today. Still another, the more bombastic part of me, is ready to take whatever life hands me and run as far as these tremendous gams can take me. How did I get here?
I'm here because of stupid decisions, regrettable mistakes, fortunate mishaps and a dash of destiny. That's solved. The more important matter at hand is, where will I go from here? If I have learned from any of those decisions, et al , which I think I have, anywhere and everywhere. The world is so vast and I'm so young and ALL that good shit. Right now, I don't really care where I'm going, just as long as I have fun on the way.
HAPPY 420, KIDS!!!
Friday, April 14, 2006
Raising the Gay Bar
Last night, my friend Drunkos and I went out gay barring. Much like gay clubbing, only with less dancing and fewer drugs. We sashayed in, as sashaying is our only means of transportation after a 60 oz bottle of sangria split between the two of us. And as we're both fragile mo's, we were considerably drunk as we sashayed into Phoenix last night.
Within like 5 minutes of us being there, Drunkos gets hit on by a cute-ish 32 year old skater-rocker guy, with one of those adorbale little chain belts for his wallet. They proceeded to talk/make out for the rest of the night and I, being the loser that I seem so intent on becoming, sat in a corner by myself, thumbing through an HX. I did get to read a sassy little interview with Pink, though. Who knew she did a track with the Indigo Girls for her latest album?
As I sat there in the corner, I reflected on my drunken state and the actual social situation I was in. A gathering of gay men, drinking and partaking in flimsy dialogues seems a simple enough situation. However, I could not bring myself to get past the superficialtity of it all. Once the skater man-boy came over and invited me to join the conversation, after Drunkos' unsuccesful attempt, he tried to spur me into action. Going so far as to call me "great-looking." I include that only because I like to read it and hear how it sounds in my head. He went on to say that, "We're all friends here. We all want the same thing."
And he was right. We're all guys. We're all gay or bi or queer in some fashion. So, what's the big deal?
For me, though, I do not see the few, broad similarities between us, but rather the few, albeit significant differences. For me, the queer world is still in black and white. There are the black gays and then there is everyone else. Whether this is a product of internallized racism or actual racist sentiment, I do not know. I rarely find myself attracted to other black gays, and thus I don't feel that anyone will be attracted to me, despite my "great-looking"ness. Then there is the fact that I am still not comfortable with myself or my sexuality. That epiphany of sorts came out, like most do, in an altered state of mind. If you just get lost in your thoughts sometimes, you can find yourself in some place you never expected or realized even existed. But when I can't even bring myself to accept myself for who I am, how can I possibly expect to find anyone to love me? Outside of just paying them, but who has escort money these days?
The differences aren't so important. I know that. I've learned that. Hell, I even teach that. But it's always hardest to take your own advice. Especially since I'm half in the bag most of the time, so how the hell would I know what I'm even talking about? Yet, I know that we are all humans, thus we all have some very important and fundamental needs in common. As in the need to love and be loved, and the need to be happy. So then I should just be able to pick my self-loathing black, gay ass up and start acknowledging our wonderful sameness, no? Fuck you. It's not that easy. But at least I realize what I need to do: Next time at a gay bar, I might just put down my free copy of HX, throw caution to the wind and actually crack a smile. If only at the absurdity of someone actually reading one of those cheap, greeting card-sized faux magazines in a dark, dank bar at 1 am on a Thursday night.
Within like 5 minutes of us being there, Drunkos gets hit on by a cute-ish 32 year old skater-rocker guy, with one of those adorbale little chain belts for his wallet. They proceeded to talk/make out for the rest of the night and I, being the loser that I seem so intent on becoming, sat in a corner by myself, thumbing through an HX. I did get to read a sassy little interview with Pink, though. Who knew she did a track with the Indigo Girls for her latest album?
As I sat there in the corner, I reflected on my drunken state and the actual social situation I was in. A gathering of gay men, drinking and partaking in flimsy dialogues seems a simple enough situation. However, I could not bring myself to get past the superficialtity of it all. Once the skater man-boy came over and invited me to join the conversation, after Drunkos' unsuccesful attempt, he tried to spur me into action. Going so far as to call me "great-looking." I include that only because I like to read it and hear how it sounds in my head. He went on to say that, "We're all friends here. We all want the same thing."
And he was right. We're all guys. We're all gay or bi or queer in some fashion. So, what's the big deal?
For me, though, I do not see the few, broad similarities between us, but rather the few, albeit significant differences. For me, the queer world is still in black and white. There are the black gays and then there is everyone else. Whether this is a product of internallized racism or actual racist sentiment, I do not know. I rarely find myself attracted to other black gays, and thus I don't feel that anyone will be attracted to me, despite my "great-looking"ness. Then there is the fact that I am still not comfortable with myself or my sexuality. That epiphany of sorts came out, like most do, in an altered state of mind. If you just get lost in your thoughts sometimes, you can find yourself in some place you never expected or realized even existed. But when I can't even bring myself to accept myself for who I am, how can I possibly expect to find anyone to love me? Outside of just paying them, but who has escort money these days?
The differences aren't so important. I know that. I've learned that. Hell, I even teach that. But it's always hardest to take your own advice. Especially since I'm half in the bag most of the time, so how the hell would I know what I'm even talking about? Yet, I know that we are all humans, thus we all have some very important and fundamental needs in common. As in the need to love and be loved, and the need to be happy. So then I should just be able to pick my self-loathing black, gay ass up and start acknowledging our wonderful sameness, no? Fuck you. It's not that easy. But at least I realize what I need to do: Next time at a gay bar, I might just put down my free copy of HX, throw caution to the wind and actually crack a smile. If only at the absurdity of someone actually reading one of those cheap, greeting card-sized faux magazines in a dark, dank bar at 1 am on a Thursday night.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
My Favorite Quote Today:
"Two equally racist men, one white, one black, who are habitual pot smokers, even though they hate each other, will still sit down and smoke a joint together without a second's hesitation if the situation arises; they may even invite the Mexican."
--Shoutwire
--Shoutwire
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
The Broke Stoner's Guide to Getting, Staying and Dying High
Hey Kids.
Being a 20 year old college dropout, times often get hard and the purse strings have to be pulled a little tight. So tight that you couldn't squeeze a dime out of your purse's pursed, virginal lips. Now is such a time.
So what is a pothead to do? Sure, one could simply not smoke and wait til one's situation improves...but that would make one a fucking quitter. Instead, here are a few suggestions and ideas to quench your THC thirst:
1. Resin D'etre
Get your bong, water pipe, bowl or whatever paraphanelia have you and let's begin. Resin is gold. Black gold. It's that nasty gunk left over in your piece after you've smoked. The fastidious might be tempted to clean it, but if you're poor like me, that's just dumb. If you scrape it out and let it dry, if it needs to, you can smoke that turdesque matter. Then it's like a "Golden Girls" clip show, where you re-experience all the different varieties of bud you've smoked and you get to see just how many priceless expressions of exhaustion Dorothy has for one of Rose's St. Olaff stories.
2. Roach Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
I know this might be hard at first, but let's all put forward a good effort, hm? Now, when you're swimming in the universe's infinite beauty, just puffing away on that joint and/or blunt, you must resist the temptation to stick it in between your teeth and suck it drier than [insert dirty, preferbly racist, double entendre here]. Instead, tuck that roach away for a rainy day. When the time comes to use it, you can stick in a bowl or just finish off where you started days, weeks, possibly months before.
3. Us and Stem
There's a reason why marijuana has stems. Mostly it's because it's a plant and it needs to grow on something, but the other, more practical reason, is that you can smoke those tiny little green sticks. You just break them up and stuff them into a bowl, light up and then you'll notice a strange scent. It's weed, for sure, but it also has a bit of a lacquer bouquet to it. Like someone just finished shining yourshoes and now you're burning them three inches from your face. It's mildly unpleasant and will most likely leave a hole in your throat, but it gets the job done, Lambs. Well, not really. Smoking stems barely gets you high, but at least it staves off the chills of sobriety.
4. Frontin', Sucker MCs
If you have a special relationship with your dealer, you might be able to front a small amount of pot. I'd gladly pay you Tuesday, for a dime bag today, i.e. the Wimpy Rule. Be careful, though, as most dealers are shiesty little fuckers and before you know it, you'll be sucking him off in the alley way by your job in the middle of the day as a toothless bum jacks off to it, all for your daily fix.
Not that that's a bad thing. Hell, if I could give head for weed, I'd just walk around with knee pads and mouthwash. Then I could use my money to get some new kicks. Sweet.
That's all I can think of/feel like writing right now. If any of my (three) readers has any ideas, post those shits.
Being a 20 year old college dropout, times often get hard and the purse strings have to be pulled a little tight. So tight that you couldn't squeeze a dime out of your purse's pursed, virginal lips. Now is such a time.
So what is a pothead to do? Sure, one could simply not smoke and wait til one's situation improves...but that would make one a fucking quitter. Instead, here are a few suggestions and ideas to quench your THC thirst:
1. Resin D'etre
Get your bong, water pipe, bowl or whatever paraphanelia have you and let's begin. Resin is gold. Black gold. It's that nasty gunk left over in your piece after you've smoked. The fastidious might be tempted to clean it, but if you're poor like me, that's just dumb. If you scrape it out and let it dry, if it needs to, you can smoke that turdesque matter. Then it's like a "Golden Girls" clip show, where you re-experience all the different varieties of bud you've smoked and you get to see just how many priceless expressions of exhaustion Dorothy has for one of Rose's St. Olaff stories.
2. Roach Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn
I know this might be hard at first, but let's all put forward a good effort, hm? Now, when you're swimming in the universe's infinite beauty, just puffing away on that joint and/or blunt, you must resist the temptation to stick it in between your teeth and suck it drier than [insert dirty, preferbly racist, double entendre here]. Instead, tuck that roach away for a rainy day. When the time comes to use it, you can stick in a bowl or just finish off where you started days, weeks, possibly months before.
3. Us and Stem
There's a reason why marijuana has stems. Mostly it's because it's a plant and it needs to grow on something, but the other, more practical reason, is that you can smoke those tiny little green sticks. You just break them up and stuff them into a bowl, light up and then you'll notice a strange scent. It's weed, for sure, but it also has a bit of a lacquer bouquet to it. Like someone just finished shining yourshoes and now you're burning them three inches from your face. It's mildly unpleasant and will most likely leave a hole in your throat, but it gets the job done, Lambs. Well, not really. Smoking stems barely gets you high, but at least it staves off the chills of sobriety.
4. Frontin', Sucker MCs
If you have a special relationship with your dealer, you might be able to front a small amount of pot. I'd gladly pay you Tuesday, for a dime bag today, i.e. the Wimpy Rule. Be careful, though, as most dealers are shiesty little fuckers and before you know it, you'll be sucking him off in the alley way by your job in the middle of the day as a toothless bum jacks off to it, all for your daily fix.
Not that that's a bad thing. Hell, if I could give head for weed, I'd just walk around with knee pads and mouthwash. Then I could use my money to get some new kicks. Sweet.
That's all I can think of/feel like writing right now. If any of my (three) readers has any ideas, post those shits.
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