A few mornings ago, I woke up feeling like a rabid moose. It had been a rough, chemical-filled night, to say the least. But with several cups of coffee, I was ready to open up the Daily. And what was I greeted with but the wonderful news that someone had the presence of mind to cultivate a plant of cannabis savita in the moat of Berkeley. I was struck by the fact that this particular specimen was tall enough to ride most roller coasters.
Growing your own cuts costs, I guess. Some people really like getting back to the earth, organic farming, and all that other wacked-out stuff. But all these hippy-trippy types dig the devil weed because it’s “natural” and “back to the earth,” but they should realize that even a kiss from Mother Nature can be enhanced by modern technology.
The summer before my freshman year at Yale, I had quite an experience with a joint, a screensaver, the Chemical Brothers, God, and driving a car. I started the night over at my friend Mike’s house, with a blunt. And this was not just any blunt. This blunt was the blunt of all blunts, like a cruise missile of transcendence aimed at my frontal lobe.
To enhance my smoking experience, Mike thoughtfully turned on the Hypnogenic
screensaver. For those of you who don’t know, this fine species of screensaver
features thousands of swirling, colorful, randomized images, completely
worthy of Timothy Leary. To make a good thing better, the Hypogenic screensaver
can be synchronized with a CD. So Mike put on a Chemical Brothers CD, and
plopped me down in front of his computer.
But then I noticed that it was getting really late, and since I was yet a young Dormouse, I was still living with my parents, who were expecting me home at some time significantly prior to dawn. But even I realized that I was in no state to drive, so I tried to snap myself out of it by thinking of the scariest things in the world. First I thought of my parents getting mad at me for breaking curfew. That didn’t work, so I visualized me getting into a car crash and getting a drug test from the police and getting kicked out of Yale. No dice. At this point, I was desperate. After several minutes of agonizing, I finally conjured up images of Margaret Thatcher as the Hustler centerfold. Suddenly, I was ready to drive.
And drive I did. And slowly. I was averaging five miles per hour in a 45 zone, since everything in my little drugged up world was moving so fast, I was convinced that I was doing about 90. In reality, AARP members were passing me in no passing zones.
Because this is, at heart, a public service column, I will now give a list of tips for driving while stoned:
The Yale Free Press does not endorse driving while stoned.
The Yale Free Press does not endorse getting stoned. In fact, The Yale
Free Press does not recommend anything at all. —Ed.
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