Saturday night, I was out with a bunch of friends, eating Mexican food and drinking fruity bitch drinks, and as we were leaving, one of my pals said, with a contented sigh, “Man. I sure could go for a big ol’ bowl of marijuana right now.” As though discussing a pipe full of tobacky, or a nice cup of coffee. And this cracked me up.
Those of you who know me in real life know that I can’t smoke the reefer, because I am insane. High strung folks should stay away from substances that make people paranoid, especially if those substances are illegal. The last few times I got high, I actually thought at certain points, “This is illegal. I am doing illegal things.” And then I looked around me for cops to appear, Keystone-style, with tall hats like English bobbies and rubber night-sticks with which to beat me about the head and shoulders.
However, I would like to say for the record that I feel that it’s really stupid that I can drink myself into a coma with my beverage of choice, which is beer and not skim milk, in case you were confused, and yet my pot toking buddies can’t enjoy a joint without fear of arrest. Not that they have any fear of arrest. People who continue to smoke into their late ’20s and early ’30s are mellow sorts, generally. But I worry, on their behalf. So it should be legal, is my point, if for no other reason than that I’ve got enough to obsess about, thanks, without worrying about scraping up bail money for my pals.