Advertise on podcast: Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

Have you ever heard the phrase for lack of a better word? It means that you're searching your vocabulary to find the most applicable language that best represents what you're trying to convey. Sometimes you don't have the exact word, but by using this phrase, you make it known that your intention is to communicate your thoughts effectively. And it's totally cool. Because it is understood by the person with whom you're interacting that although you don't currently have the best articulation, you are also not trying too hard to impress. And that is what's wrong with how the word perfect is wielded today. People overuse it believing they are demonstrating wisdom by applying it where a less fabulous word would normally go—thinking that it boosts their ability to elocute perfect words. Which makes sense. Because the current me society that displays their filtered flawlessness on the internet as a quantified representation of who they are, is hiding from the word imperfect. That's one you won't hear them use. It's absurd. A trigger. How dare you! The overplay of the word perfect is an encapsulation of this artificially intelligent future we are doing "the robot" into. Perception is largely reality, and the word accentuates the image people pretend to possess. There's this idea that if you say something perfect, then perfection will materialize, which realistically doesn't happen. Just because you use the word to describe something as perfect, it doesn't make it perfect. So, when the woman who answers the phone in customer service gleefully uses the word more than twice for the figurative cherry on the sundae, she is in essence informing herself that not only did she resolve the issue, but it couldn't have been handled any more perfectly. But no, I'm sorry, the last 4 digits of my social security number are not perfect. They are just ok. You know what's perfect? Cannabis. And Agnes, my pet Gerbil.   

The tragic miscalculation of digital driving directions can be the cause of great stress. Because when you're lost, everything appears foreign. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, you find yourself flustered and exposed. This is a dark and confusing place where suddenly every turn, every sidewalk, and every streetlight look identical. Your sense of security vanishes, leaving you vulnerable and frightened, the anxiety heightened. You feel betrayed by the soothing, relatable personality inside of your electronic device as their lack of sound decision-making seemed almost purposeful. The voice you once believed is now a clueless idiot and you are determined to get even with a brazen scolding. You will belittle it, call her a bitch, or him an asshole, condemning their actions with caustic flare while detailing the irreparable hassle and embarrassment you'll endure due to their lack of focus. At some point you may forgive them, but now is not the time. You are lost and late, and the world is in a state of utter peril that may take years to repair. However, although it doesn't feel like it, this is no one's fault. You do feel a sense of responsibility, though, for having blindly trusted what used to be a credible source. So, to rectify the blunder of placing your faith in this digital confidante, you will take uncharacteristic chances in the attempt to absolve yourself of any further regret. There is no time to waste on getting to the original course. So, you will make illegal U-turns across center-dividers and irresponsibly hit the brakes on a busy thoroughfare. You will knowingly break the law, nervously cursing while backing up on a one-way street to return to the exit passed. Ninety-five percent of the time, however, this device is correct. Therefore, you should reward your GPS system. I recommend a digital blow job. You take a puff from a vape pen and exhale it into the screen.   

Autism is not funny. If you're poking at a human being, that is. But if it's an animal (or an insect, or a fish, etc.), you have the license to say whatever you want because the concept seems ridiculous. It's not an official veterinary diagnosis. Cannabis experiences the same plight, in that, if there's little scientific data to back up your claims of medical efficacy, they are generally shrugged off as unsubstantiated. So, no one can accuse me of making fun of something that's not a matter of official record. Now, if you are going to poke fun at an animal for being autistic, it needs to be done as cute and not mean-spirited. And let's be real, the thought of an autistic dog isn't not cute. Because having sympathy for something that is cute is cute by default. So, there ya have it. Now, we all think it's insanely adorable when an animal displays traits of human characteristics. We've been on YouTube to see the Sneezing Panda, the Dramatic Squirrel, and the Chimpanzee who has been trained to do the moonwalk. It melts our hearts. So, it should be ok if I initiate the query of whether a dog can share a friendly disorder with said Homosapien. Because I've got a friend who researched the criteria of what would implicate their pet as having this neurodevelopmental condition that is characterized by anti-social behavior. And I'll be damned if it isn't spot on. Like, if your four-legged beast bestie is generally incapable of making a real connection with you and your friends, it could be that it has this most unfortunate affliction. I would suggest Pet CBD for the little pal, but I am not a vetted vet. By the way, I've never actually seen a chimpanzee do a moonwalk, but that would be sick.   

Since the first Caribbean pirate washed down his minnow stew with peppercorn spiced rum, the mouth mane has stood as a solid sign of masculinity. However, as hair trends wane and wax, the last thirty years or so have not been friendly to the man stache. Like, if you donned a thick one and a person caught a glimpse in their periphery, they might do a double take, curiously considering if they'd just witnessed a caterpillar nesting under a stranger's nose. But the moustache is cool again. Now, this is not to be confused with the molestache. A dude rocking a confident, purposefully maintained lip wig has nothing to hide. But when a dandruff filter protrudes over the orifice like a warning label to hide anything that's pretty, you wonder if twisted thoughts may be at play. This also does not include the Saddam Hussein. That's the abundantly flourishing frown fur that seconds as a push broom. A good example is the wiry-haired Baby Boomer whose peach fuzz began emerging in the 6th grade, eventually blossoming into a thick black pipe cleaner that is as much a part of his appearance as the brown teeth. We're talking about guys who draw attention with intention, celebrating the bro grow as a statement. Be it in defiance to conformity, or absolute ownership of his gender identification, he boldly brandishes his face flag as a male human recognizing gallantry as a virtue. It is proudly presented as part of his personal brand. It's different this time. Call it a comeback. The stigma is ending, and we are entering a new era of acceptance. Kinda like Cannabis.   

Let's face reality. The world is a much less rocking place now that a landfill somewhere is stacked with obsolete Guitar controllers. It's kind of sad that gone are the days when all you had to do was turn on the television, throw a strap around the neck, and instantaneously morph into an imaginary rock god.  With a backflip of the head, an involuntary scrunch of the face, and one long, high-pitched lick on the plastic fretboard, there was no denying that you were meant to headline MSG. That's Madison Square Gardens, not monosodium glutamate. My tummy just rumbled. Just think of how much greater the pandemic could have been if we were still heroic guitarsmiths. Sure, a few fences were repaired, and thousands of poorly written memoirs began, but all at the brutal cost of what could have potentially developed into a new pool of six-string leviathans. You see, instead of developing the rhythmic cadences that become the steppingstones for the next generation's Stairway to Heaven, these future Proud Boys instead spray attacking aliens with automatic rifles and flame throwers while they could be ripping licks. God knows more teenagers need the invaluable knowledge of how to charbroil a burger. Something is missing. And it's the living room stardom that has abandoned us shredders, thanks to the plug being pulled on the proverbial amp. And rock is now officially dead. Because with no practice axe to make the fingers skillfully nimble, the only fire under their asses to seek their rightful heir to the holy rock stardom throne will be from the match that singes their dingleberries from lighting their own farts. Guitar Hero was the initiation into potential immortality, learning music by braille, one imperative note at a time. You could be anyone--Eddie Van Halen, Jimmy Page, Slash. It was so much more than just a video game, but a position on the sacred stage.  And I miss it. So, I smoke Cannabis to quell my sadness. Hey, that sounds like a lyric!  

Have you ever heard a dude say that he would still bed Mary Anne from Gilligan's Island, even if she's currently 110 years old? Well, the same goes for Sandy in Grease. In fact, if those rambunctious teenaged gearheads hadn't soiled her white blouse, she might have remained a virgin. In my mind, she always will be. Youth is eternal in film. Because while Kenickie's Roman hands and Russian fingers were exploring the back seat of the 1939 Packard with Rizzo, Danny was tuning up Greased Lightnin' with nothing but a pink slip in mind. That's the terminology for reigning victorious in a good old fashioned drag race on the streets where the result is transferal of ownership by way of a pink DMV form. And it's also a term for underwear that's never been slipped past the knees. Which sweeps me back to glowing memories of Sandy. But why did they call the movie "Grease" instead of "Motor Oil"? Because grease is to be eaten, not poured into your engine. In fact, grease is one of the tastiest items to have ever pleasured the human palette. It slathers your frying pan. It butters your bread. It styles your hair. Or at least it did in the 1950's. Grease showed us a glimpse into that period's youth movement where sexual repression graduated from soda fountain sips to gyrating hips. It's a musical look into the often-painful process of teen self-discovery against centuries old religious indoctrination. And like all curious yungins, these rambunctious punks were ready to define their own style and music that counteracted the strict boredom their grandparents embodied. It was also an example of the prevailing winds of love as Sandy was hopefully devoted to Danny. I'm hopelessly devoted to this blunt before I watch Grease for the 14th time.  

The union of marriage is a sanctimonious institution that has effectively been the glue that has bound our species for millennia. Without that legal commitment, which has basically stood as a contract between two people to agree to love each other til death do them part, we'd be an eight-billion-person planet full of nothing but singles ready to mingle. That's a scary thought. And we all know that uninterrupted love to the very end is fairly unrealistic, but that's why you've gotta lock that "right one" down before someone else swoops in and changes their mind. And it shows the old man in the golden throne chillin' on cloud nineteen with a Mai Tai in one hand and a heavenly joint in the other that you're a team player who abides by the scriptures. You want to make it past the pearly gates to cloud sixty-nine, right? Because matrimony is a religious indoctrination, not entirely based upon love, but in many ways necessary for the order that allows for our species to proliferate. People respond well to being given directions and told where to conform. But even though every animal in the kingdom requires a mate of opposite gender to make a baby, we are the only ones who feel the vital necessity to ink it onto paper. And even if you're an a*****e like me who believes that this contract is a formality initiated by the church to keep us donating our tithes while raising future tithers, there is no escaping the fact that each and every one of us is beholden to convenience. It's why we sign with blood when committing to our internet provider. Because this is our conduit to most of the world's information. Including websites that contain salacious acts of naughtiness. Which could keep you married. Or not.  

I think it is the devil's candy. Call me broken, but when the thought of black licorice enters my thoughts, I immediately picture the odd f**k from Lemony Snickets hiding a sinister grin behind his outreached hand that is gripping black licorice like it's a bouquet of dying flowers. Or that miserable pedophile in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang who goes Richter when out sniffing for children. Is there one single redeeming quality about black licorice other than the fact that it is candy? At least that's what they call it, but that's a matter of opinion. Because the flavor I get is castor oil, not candy. That's the spoonful of snake pee that children had to choke down when they caught a cold in the days before the cold war. For those of you who skipped American History, it wasn't a war that was cold. Let's move on. Black licorice is even worse than candy corn, which doesn't taste anything like corn. But in its defense, at least it doesn't taste like black licorice. In fact, it doesn't taste like anything at all, but it does look just like a giant kernel of corn, which makes it wonderfully stoney, nonetheless. I think fennel is what gives black licorice this horrific flavor. My guess is that this herb grows in Death Valley, which would constitute it as the birthplace of black licorice. Therefore, I'll bet when you're sent to the fiery depths of hell, it's actually Death Valley where they serve black licorice sandwiches for lunch with black licorice flavored mayonnaise and a fennel leaf instead of lettuce. Sounds like torture. Like when I think of drinking a witch's brew, what appears is the image of black licorice tea with a lizard tail garnish, drunk through a straw from a freshly harvested water buffalo nostril. Hey, red licorice is delicious! Green licorice would be dank. Someone should invent it. Although they'd want to take out the word liquor.   

We've all heard that it takes two to tango. But have you ever known anyone who ever tried tangoing? No, you haven't. Is tangoing even a word? Everyone has tried to Limbo, but even though these two world renowned dances sound like they could be kissing cousins, their originations came from opposite sides of the world and have very little in common. In fact, tangoing appears to be a hell of a lot more difficult. Not that I've ever attempted it. Nor has anyone you and I know. To limbo, it's all about being a little tipsy at a luau. But if you tango tipsy, you're probably going to end up with a concussion. And a busted knee. Not that it can't happen while limboing, it's just less probable. By the way, limboing is a word. Now, if you watch highlights of the summer Olympic games, you might catch the tango competition. Otherwise, there's hardly anywhere to see people tango. Not even in movies really. There was even a movie called Last Tango in Paris with Marlon Brando, but I don't recall any tangoing. And on Nat Geo you might catch a male bird attempting a tango to attract a mate, but for humans that overzealous act would come off as sex repellant. Because I witnessed a hippy dude rocking a tutu while smoking a joint in the city park. He was gyrating like one of those fan-blown air dancers you see out in front of a used car lot. No one would come close to him. At times it might have resembled a tango, but he didn't have a partner. And according to the idiom, it's not a tango unless there's two people. Does that mean he was in limbo? Sometimes I feel like I'm in limbo. So, I smoke two joints. I call it the Tangie Tango.  

The moment your automobile doors are shut with the driveshaft engaged; the contest is underway. Regardless of who is behind the wheel of other vehicles competing for space on the road, your primary objective is to circumvent them to save precious minutes enroute to your destination. And although the unidentified drivers against whom you jockey for position are often good people in your own neighborhood, they have now become faceless adversaries crowding the track. Like the butts of cigarettes, courtesies are flicked out the window. And there's no surprise that this daily race causes tension. Because traffic is a drain on your fragile psyche. And you are not proud of who you become in these moments of frustration when it turns you into a triggered bitch. You see, we all have a threshold of tolerance that, when crossed, causes a discomforting level of anxiety and stress, fueling the impatience and adding to life's pressures. And because there is no immediate resolve, you learn to live with the strangulation while building a resentment that weighs on you like an addict's regret. You blame the other drivers. "Oh, if only those idiots hadn't dug themselves into that inescapable cavern of debt like I did." There's the mortgage, the auto loan, the kids, the boob job—all the shit you have on autopay that prevents you from turning right out of the driveway instead of left. That's the right turn that leaves the city toward a tropical paradise--far, far away from the giant magnet that tugs you into the grind.  Fortunately, Cannabis improves your perception. One small toke from a vape pen makes the speakers speak, the seat heaters glow, and the engine vibrate comfortably for the most optimal enjoyment during your relaxed commute. You are quite aware that it is against the law to drive stoned. Thank God for Visine.  

Anyone who's ever worked in a restaurant knows that when you have two half-empty bottles of the world's most popular condiment, you pour one into the other to make one of them appear fresh and new while the other gets tossed. It's called marrying the ketchup. That's a figurative term. But what if we made it literal? Because let's face it, there are a lot of people on this planet who are unhappily married. And if they could run off with a bottle of ketchup to a tropical island for a glorious honeymoon without the rough repercussions of divorce, most would probably drop everything and go. Think about it, a plush balcony overlooking the crashing waves of a majestic coastline with your culinary love. Where's the sign-up sheet? If I could marry a bottle of ketchup, I probably would. We already share bottley fluids, so why not consummate what you consume? I mean, talk about compatibility, I want succulent tomato flavor and the sauce's only objective is to be eaten. In no time we'll have a small family of packets. And it will never guilt you for inviting other tasty items into the relationship. Like, a greasy burger beckons to be dipping in the dripping. And French fries are lacking the jazz with no sauce to give them pizzaz. Ketchup is good on just about everything. In fact, I'm pretty sure that if you look up the food pyramid from the year 1955, it will tell you that man can survive off ketchup alone. Because we're not just talking about tomatoes and sugar, but onions, cloves, garlic and other healthy items that put the zing in amazing. I understand that there are some cultures that prefer soy sauce, or chili sauce, but I don't get it. You could smother a piece of plywood with Ketchup, and it would probably still taste good. By the way, is ketchup really the world's most popular condiment? For me it's bubble hash.   

Dragon ass should not be confused with dragging ass. Dragging ass is something we all do when our energy is low, especially in the moments upon waking before the requisite black brewed stimulant sparks the body's motor that consumes fuel and burps exhaust. We all know that feeling of lethargy. For so many of us, the first thirty minutes of the day is like boot camp. And if you happen to find yourself in a bizarre situation where that previously mentioned human gasoline called coffee is not available, motivating your brain toward a direction of productivity is like tugging cement through water. You are a recoil starter on the lawn mower with an empty tank. Regardless of how many times you tug on that sucker, the engine ain't turning over until it gets some gas. It's not dissimilar for stoners, you know. Different kind of gas, of course. Anyway, dragon ass is something completely separate. Although they have been known to be unapologetically lazy when perched atop their spoils of plunder enjoying a good snore. At least that's what we learned from the Lord of the Rings. That they're kinda like cats when the belly is full, and the comfort is spa-day level. They will aimlessly drift into a back nap with the loins exposed-- dreaming colorful fantasies of torching small village rooftops while blissfully unaware of the dribble of drool leaking through the muzzle's lower incisors.  But then the interruption can be so very abrupt when the scent of hairy feet fouls the nostrils, alarming the defenses of little pint-sized thieves called Hobbitses. And nothing pisses a dragon off more than getting his favorite hood ornament jacked from his booty. So, with a burst of smoke and a toss of the tail, he boldly rises with awesome drama, and devours him in one swallow. And then he sniffs for a mate. Preferably one with a nice booty.   

If you missed going to Disneyland as a kid, there's a part of you that feels like you got Jipped. Maybe your parents provided a solid upbringing, but if you never felt those nervous butterflies before crossing the threshold into the imaginarium where animation blends with real life, you may be more likely to compensate with unhealthy methods of coping in adulthood. Cannabis is no exception. There just is no more imperative bucket list item for a youth. I mean, even if your only highlight was stepping in Donald Duck's spit fart, at least you had the context to quell your curiosity. Because when your peers came back to school from summer break wearing mouse ears with their name stitched on the back, it meant that while you were mowing the lawn, they were at Mecca, peering into a kaleidoscope of make-believe where each attraction is a highly detailed spectacle designed especially for you.  This is the happiest place on earth. Until nap time, that is. Because happiness isn't a place, it's an energy. And it's not easy to keep the vibe upbeat when your kid is a huge mermaid fan and the only place to see Ariel is in her grotto, which is packed, and the specialness of the theme park is wearing off while the patience transforms into tears thanks to uncomfortable heat and lengthy lines. Thank God for edibles. By the way, when are they going to create a land of make-believe where each segment is a highly detailed spectacle, hyper-designed, especially for adults who missed Disneyland as a kid? Oh wait, they already have that. It's called Las Vegas. Except you get strippers, not cartoon characters. However, it's likely her name is Bambi. And she loves Snow White.   

If you think about it, much of your precious time is spent future tripping over things that have never happened, or most likely will never happen. Because in your mind, living with concern is a necessary means to survival, oftentimes spent devising some sort of escape strategy, calculating the risk of il-preparation. You even commiserate at times, stricken with worry over 'what if' and 'when'. But should the calamity actually take place, it will never affect your space. Now, you may be thinking that this is a misrepresentation of the word commiserate—it's a strong, emotionally charged word. But if you break it down to its etymology, it undoubtedly originated from the Latin equivalent to the word misery. And what you're doing is making yourself unnecessarily miserable simply from fear of the unknown. And largely to blame is the influence of mainstream media with messages of dramatic storylines loaded with cliffhangers, oftentimes hyper focused on one isolated report or opinion. Admittedly, this is difficult to ignore. They are scare tactics. Your attention has great value, and these entities will go to great lengths and compromise integrity in the name of fiscal profit. Which keeps the lights on at Fox News and CNN.  Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe misery provides a familiar comfort space for you. Like, we've all witnessed the odd kitten in a litter, right, where all are normal except for one that is simply evil? And you think to yourself, "why is that cat so mean while the others are friendly and cuddly?" The only explanation is that it must find some purpose in living in a defensive manner. Well, some people are the same way. Except stoners. They commiserate over an empty nug jug. But they are used to it. And they think the news is funny.   

Friendship, it's potentially the most imperative virtue in life. Because without some form of reflective exchange with another living animal, it's nearly impossible to apply meaning to our existence. In fact, since our great grandfather times a hundred Erg the Nomad wandered the plains foraging for mushrooms and crunchy insects wiggling under Woolley Mammoth dung, knowing that another bone-wielding human had your hairy back has always been what keeps us going. Be it a person or a pet, we need to feel as if there is another organism with eyes that finds our existence worthwhile. And one true measure of a real friend is a person who makes the attempt to reciprocate the association. Which often determines the varying levels of friendship. First, you have your pretend friends. These are the ones who are around because you have something to offer. It isn't based on leveling up as much as it is on climbing the social ladder or making their lives better by what you can provide for them. There are also remote friends. These are the pals you communicate with once a year or so, just to re-establish that you still have a connection that is important, albeit superseded by current circumstances that require more immediate attention. And then there's your tribe. These are the peeps on speed dial with whom you counsel for social activities and relationship opinions. They are in your periphery, sharing meals and outings on grassy plots on sunny days, deeply involved in the events of your development, helping to navigate the course of your journey. They are responsible and dependable, having stood the test of time, supportive and aware of some deep secrets. But there is another important friendship that belongs in the upper echelon.  This is the friend that generously reciprocates the bounty of green fluffiness out of the kindness of their supernova heart. They comprehend the commonality that is imperatively based upon positive intentions. Even if for only one sesh, this friend is true and should be revered. They are welcome into your space and judgement should never be passed. Interaction in life is critical. And a friend with weed is a friend indeed.