S........x

I was having a perfectly wonderful day today, and then I smoked some God's Gift. Y'know what happened? My day got wonderfuller! The sun was just out before, but after God's Gift, the sun is SHINING! Look at it shine! SHINE ON, YOU CRAZY SUN, SHINE ON! Oh damn, this is definitely the Indica that it's advertised as. I gave it the ol' one-hit test an hour ago and my ass and this chair still haven't parted company. I think it's a match made in Ass Heaven. I imagine Ass Heaven would be a pretty comfy place, with recliners and soft cushions, while Ass Hell would perfectly resemble the airline seats on Southwest. I never actually thought about there being an Ass Heaven before, but then God's Gift flung that door wide open -- "sometimes the Abyss stares back" kinda thing -- and if there IS an Ass Heaven, does that mean there's Ass Angels? Because, seriously, I want my arrival in the Hereafter heralded by a rank of Ass Angels blowing their Ass Trumpets. My life would be complete at that point. Well, I guess my life would be complete -before- that point, but you get the idea. Oh man, God's Gift, yeeeeah: wouldja just lookit that sun shine?

So I wanted a bong hit the other day, only I don't have a bong because when you're over 50 and sporting a 3-foot-long lung-killer, people either shake their heads sadly at you or try to cop your dope. Shit, what to do? Well, the first thing to do is look around and see if you have an apple to smoke out of, because that shit was the bees knees back in '79. No apple? Alright, what about a nice fat joint? THERE ya go! And what better strain to blast some brain cells with than Grease Monkey? A tubby toober of GM and you're just a short stumble from Happyland. This is some smiley-ass weed. You will wonder why your face is hurting until you realize that you've got the Jokergrin going on and people around you are wondering what the fuck you're so happy about, what with a Cheet-O in the White House and your cat taking its third dump of the day in your potted Hydrangea. So many fucks you will not give that Congress will erect a statue in your honor bearing the plaque, "Dedicated to (Your Name Here): That Dude(tte) HELLA Didn't Give Any Fucks -- thanks to GREASE MONKEY!" For years to come, assorted flavors of stoners, loadies and heads will trek in from miles always to view this wonder of tax-payer-financed piss-art. And there they will toke mightily of the Grease Monkey until they're grinning like a tribe of stoned apes. Thus is the joy of Grease Monkey: you may not have a bong; you may not have an apple, but with GM, you've always got a reason to smile.

T'was the night before Christmas / And I wanna get stoned / 'cept I'm all outta greenbud / you could say I was boned! Then I heard a sound / and it got me all a-tingle / it was that jolly old man / Motherfucking Kris Kringle! Santy Claus brought me / a sack fulla dank / "Lemonder," he called it / and that bag hella stank. It smelled quite like lemons / It smelled like Pine-Sol / and after I blazed that whole eighth / it smell like nothing at all! The high came on mighty / burly and strong / and that high stay with me / damn near all the night long. Then morning came / and Santa was gone / but he left me some papers / and a giant blue bong! / He left me one more thing / right there in my home / a note that said, "Share the love!" / So I give you this poem!

C'mere, you little brat, your old grandpa wants to tell you a story. And the name of this story is "GRANDPA'S FUCKIN' WASTED" It stars your ol' grand-daddy: Grand Daddy Purple (GDP). GDP is what you call 'sneaker weed' because it hits you like the sole of a sneaker right to your cerebellum. I thought, "I'll take a couple hits off'n this bomber of GDP..." and less than two minutes later my head went "Yup -- you're FUCKED". I've had some weed hit me like Ike Turner, but this shit napalmed my cortex and left me plenty crispy. Some highs you question the wisdom of. Some highs are like, "Did I really need to be this high and damn some Porcupine Tree would sound good right about now!". Then there's this high. Daaaaaaamn. GDP is flat-out not fucking around. Gramps was a bad-ass in Vietnam and now he's brought home some of that boot-stomping to your third eye. It's been an hour now and I'm still higher than I've ever been. Not that I'm complaining or anything. As long as you got some good tunes (read: PROG ROCK), you can ride out anything. Also, oddly, it tastes really good, too. Almost like grape juice. That good grape juice that you used to get in little boxes at school, not that shit they sell today that tastes like Tacoma's asshole. That's what makes this weed so diabolical: innocent-sounding name + dee-licious grapey-grape taste and a "mere" 25% THC content; seems harmless enough, right? That's until you find out your Gramps has been at the Wild Turkey all day and he's a MEAN drunk. Someone's gettin' their little ass whipped tonight, and it's going to be your sanity and sense of getting things done. Sorry, that was a little dark and possibly more self-revealing than I expected. Anyway, go buy some Grand Daddy Purple and you won't just be reading this review, you'll be LIVING it!

There once was a pony named Stony and Stony the Pony loved prancing in the meadow, playing games with her pony friends and getting completely loaded off her pony ass. One day, Stony the Pony and her friend Snoop Dawg were blazing up bowls of Super Silver Haze. They agreed that it was very good weed. It smelled like a cross between her other friend, Buddy Skunk, and a hobo's feet. The buds were as snowy as a Christmas tree in winter. And it got 'em hella fucked up. Oh shit, son! They was BLAZED! Snoop was freestylin' to some Deltron 3030 beats and Stony, well stony was just groovin' right along. Then George Clinton showed up and was trying to mack some free buddage, which was totally cool because Snoop always brings extra and hey, the sharing the kind IS kind! Besides, it was George Clinton! If George Clinton shows up and asks to share your weed, you happily oblige. He's all old and shit, but he gave us Motor City Madness, so that's good for a free joint and a bag of Cheetos. Not those nasty-ass hot one, either, just the classic Kraft Mac-n-Cheese-orange kind; the kind that stains your fingers so when you go to jack off, your johnson ends up the color of Trump's hair. At the end of the day, when the fat ol' sun was touching the horizon, Stony the Pony reflected on her day. "I got way stoned on Super Silver Haze!" she thought and smiled silently to herself. Then the Furrys showed up. The End.

Ever hit the Stoner Trifecta: prefect day, perfect music and perfect weed? May 13, 2018, Midlake's 'Trials of Van Occupanther', Lodi Dodi. I have no idea how to pronounce Lodi Dodi -- loady-doh'dee? -- but I sure the fuck know what happens when you smoke it: you float away like you're sporting little cherub wings flap-flap-flapping away, lifting your ample and stoned ass off that second-hand Ikea sofa you bought for $12 off Craigslist and totally overlooked the bloodstains and used syringe buried between the cushions (Hep-C's a bitch, ain't it?) and deposited you bodily in Lodi-Dodi Land where everything is soft and beautiful and smells vaguely like Highland Park 18. And while you're enjoying that perma-grin, your cortex feels like that guy who tied 9,000 helium weather balloons to a lawn chair and earned the undying love of the FAA and probably would have been shot down a F-15 if he tried that stunt today. He'd be dead and being dead sucks because you can't enjoy the heady high of Lodi Dodi or the magical tunes of Midlake. Moral? Don't be dead.

The only royalty I've ever met was a drag queen lingering outside our local 7-11. The meeting was kind of a let down, because on TV, drag queens are always glamorous and witty and fun and don't look like a cross between Don Rickles and Marty Feldman clad in a tutu and smelling like a Frenchman after a 20 mile forced march. Then I met Space Queen. She came to me like a dream rolled in a 1-gram joint and scented like sweet lemons and new-mown grass. "Smoke me! Smoke me, you BITCH!" she whispered softly in my ear as I torched the roller, inhaled deeply, and almost crumpled down on my ass. My chair and I joined forces against the Peggies in Far Cry 5, until I came to the conclusion I was too shtoned to tell cultists from civilians, plus I kept getting mauled by passing cougars. Giving up on the photo-realistic slaughter, I put on some Midlake instead, took another big ol' toke, and leaned back while the music carried me along to the 'fridge where cold grapes awaited. Y'know how good a cold, green grape is when you're totally baked? Very. Ah man, they are SO good! You can sit there and eat those motherfuckers all night long and then spend the next three days glued to the shitter. But that's what happens when you mess with royalty: you get really stoned and then have the trots for a fortnight. Wisdom, G.

Say, feeling tired, run-down and fatigued? Say you're sick of all this bullshit? Say you want to take a three-hour vacation from the hurricane of wet turds that is day-to-day life? Then you want to toke up some Lemon O.G.! Take three hits and watch the fucks you give just float away. Theeeere they go: bye-bye, fucks! Wow, it's like they were never even here at all. That's Lemon O.G. magic. True, it's magic that doesn't come out of a unicorn's ass, like rainbow farts of cotton candy and the occasional bag of Skittles, but it does come from some might-y pretty buddage. Ooo, are those white crystals and red hairs? Oh, yes please! This is the kinda weed that makes people take three hits and hold, not two puffs and pass. It's also the kinda weed that makes you stop and wonder if you've been stoned for two hours 10 minutes after you smoke it. In short: yeah.

CANDYLAND! Candyland is a magical place where diabetes, Big Sugar and the Coca-Cola Company all merge together into a corn-syrup'd hell of stickiness, obesity, corporate abuse and tooth decay. It'll be replaced with Tofu-and-Baby-Carrots-Land where you'd rather shoot yourself in the mouth than eat anything on your plate . . . shit, wait: wrong notes. Hold on. Ah, here we go! CANDYLAND! Candyland is a magical strain that'll pretty much try to tear your face off as if some joker gave bath salts to Bubbles the Birthday Chimp. Y'know, there's many terrors in nature: spiders, spiders, more spiders, but few things invoke the same level of pants-shitting horror as hearing an alcoholic Romanian ex-animal trainer screaming, "AY! SOMEONE-A GIVE MY MUNGEE THE BATH SALTS!" as he runs passed the bounce castle, a 300 pound bad-trippin' simian snapping at his ass the whole way. That's happened to me twice and every time it's a bad scene. Oh yeah, Candyland. CANDYLAND! Candyland is a magical strain that WILL end your ambitions for the day. Best that you not have anything to do once you decide to spark a bowl of this goodness. If you have anything on your schedule that's not "watch Rick and Morty until my eyes bleed" you've aimed too high for that day. I seriously can't remember the last time I was this high for this long off two hits. Not only that, but I was supposed to be doing something and I've totally forgotten what. It might have been writing this. Seriously, Candyland, I never asked to be this stoned, but now that I'm here, I'm kinda glad I made the trip. And so will you.

Now, I'm not too sure about all these "Glue" strains that're cropping up all the sudden -- especially ones with names involving animals. The only animal that should be associated with glue is the horse. Horses are walking glue. Black Beauty, Flicka, Trigger and Silver were all walking glue factories, but you don't see a strain named 'Horse Glue', do you? No. No, you don't. Because the image conjured by the name Horse Glue isn't one of lazing by the river with some Devin Townsend cranking on the ol' car stereo. Nope, you picture someone who masturbates large farm animals for a living. True fact: these people have their own professional association; you've never seen some many limber wrists in your life! I wanted to shake hands with one of them just to see what their grip was like, but then I remembered what they do for a living and I wasn't quite sure whether they used gloves or not, so I just kinda did the fist-bump thing instead. I'm sure it confused a few of them, but fuck 'em -- they jerk-off horses for a living. So, Horse Glue? No. Gorilla Glue? Yes. I've heard you can't get its namesake to unstick to anything, and this strain stuck to my brain like one of those dried boogers that were always lurking under the desk in high school. I guess they call it Gorilla Glue for the effect it has on your ass once it hits the couch. You'd better hope there's something good on Vice because you're gonna be sitting there a GOOD long time. Heck, you might sit there so long you think that another hit is a good idea. If you do this, remember St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes, because if you hear Taco Bell calling your name from across town, un-velcroing your butt from those cushions is truly a lost cause. Taco Bell can just keep right on calling, and you can sit there zoning out to Bong Appetite while your colon and rectum both thank you for not stuffing six bean burritos in your pie hole. That's what kinda weed Gorilla Glue is: she's a cruel mistress, but if you please her just right, she'll give you a gift certificate for a free hand-job from the fine folks over at The Loyal Order of Cattle Masturbators and Dope Growers: "Smoke Some Dank While You're Getting A Wank!"