Tuesday, October 7, 2014


There is nothing worse than a bad bag of Big H. I’ve seen it a thousand times. There you are on your futon on a Friday night getting amped for that sweet sweet China white. You’ve wolfed down a cold cut footie knowing that the black pearl will be the only thing on the menu for the next four to seven days. You can almost taste that Mexican mud coursing through your veins as you line up your water jugs so the skunk doesn’t dry you out like Tucson in August. You lick your lips with the excitement of a million sunsets, overjoyed to be hopping on that train for one more trip to Chivatown. But it’s not quite time to dive into the junk drawer because you still have to lay out 20 of your most reliable battery-powered votives to set the perfect mood for dancing with the dragon. Of course, you don’t want actual candles out because you have no clue how hard that gypsy horse is going to buck. Once the brown sugar makes it’s way into the cake, you don’t want flame anywhere around. I mean, why call the fire department when the white nurse is already on call? Then the moment of truth arrives. You’re ready to smack your friend in the face with a monster snowball. So you fire up the shit, take a puff and let out a disappointed cough. “Man, this stuff tastes like farts!” you yell angrily at your ferret as the scag pipe goes flying across the room. 

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