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A R T S    &    C U L T U R E
Kitty, This Bud's for You
The Dormouse • March 1994

I’ve recently become convinced that the best thing to have around when you’re baked is an animal. I just got a cat, and being that I’m the Dormouse, we have an interesting relationship. Anyway, I was lit the other night when my cat started to chase me around the house (I think that the cat was also baked). I was being terrorized by my feline. It was then that I found the nutmeg-flavored cat treats and subdued the creature. Right about then, my buzz began to wear off and I realized that I was crouching under the dining room table feeding seafood flavored Bonkers to my cat.

Pets and bud make an interesting combo. We had a good-for-nothing dog hanging around the place last year. I hated the infernal hound. He’d nonchalantly slip into my room, find a nice throw pillow, piss all over it and then land a spirally perfect turd right on top of it. It was like something out of a Mapplethorpe photo.

To top it all off, the dog ate two grams of my bud one day. Anyway the dog must have thought he was going insane. He started running around the joint into walls and various stationary objects. I got high just to watch this! I lost my shit when the dog tried to jump over the back of the couch and shanked—sending him spiraling across the floor.

Now, I know that there’s some animal-loving piece o’ shit out there who’s gonna say, “Mr. Dormouse, you’re cruel to animals!” And I tell you it’s not true. It’s just that fuckin’ dog. After all, he did eat two grams of my dope, and I assure you that I would have preferred that he hadn’t. Oh well, you live and learn. Anyway, the dog’s gone and now I have a sweet and tender little pussy cat who loves me.

At this point I must apply the following reasoning. The cat loves me and I love bud, therefore, by the transitive property the cat loves bud. Right? Well, I have put some in his dish, but he won’t eat it. I’ve also had problems with trying to shove a joint in the cat’s mouth. Nothing seemed to work, until I was advised of the very thin membrane of the feline ear. All I have to do is blow out my bong hits into the cat’s ear.

So, think of it—cat in your lap, fat bag on the table, bong in hand and bowl flaring. Life is gooooood, and it only gets better. A good woman… mellow tunes… a door with a lock on it… handcuffs… Ah, but I digress.

What I really wanted to talk about was this very disturbing dream I had. In this dream/hallucination, I met my anti-self, you know, a guy who looks like you but is made of anti-matter. The theory is that if you come into contact with your anti-self, you and your anti-self will be annihilated. Anyway, I met my anti-self, the Backdormouse.

“S’up Mr. D.?”
“Not much, Mr. B….”
“Got a bong hit for me?”

And well, in this dream, I just happened to have a fat sack of ultra-kind Northern Lights #5 (NL-5). This was great! I was going to get baked with my anti-self. Then he asked, “Your bong or mine?” He had a genuine, no shit, never-seen-before-in-our-dimension, Antibong. But now I had to ask myself, what would happen if I put my bud in the antibong? It just so happens that I know something about physics, but I think I missed the lecture on “Anti-bongs, Anti-bud and Anti-beer, Perspectives on Anti-particle Interactions.” Oh well, I knew that I would be annihilated if I touched the Backdormouse, but what about his bong? I figured that opportunities like this come around once in a lifetime, so, bag in hand, I crept toward the mythical Antibong.

I was there but not there. It was all colors, and no colors. It pulsed and glowed with a life of its own… And then I touched it! I, the Dormouse, had bridged the gap. I held the Antibong in my hands, and I saw the fact of God (His eyes were really red. I’ll bet God grows some really divine bud). God smiled, blew a fat cloud of smoke at me, and winked. Whoosh, I was back with the Backdormouse, packing the bowl and getting ready to get really fucked up. We made small talk, and pulled antitubes. Suffice it to say, I got powerbaked.
When the Backdormouse saw that I was really baked, being that I’m unaccustomed to anti-bongs, he started to hit on me. I always thought that having sex with yourself just meant having a little party with Rosy Palmer and her five sisters, but this was certainly something new.

But hey! If I touched him, we’d be annihilated and that would be the end of my charming little column in Yale’s Finest Publication. He suggested that if we used a condom that there would be no contact, no exchange of bodily fluids, no annihilation.

Now, I don’t mind getting hit on by guys—I find it kinda flattering actually—but I happen to be straight. The problem here, though, was that I was not really in full possession of my faculties, and I feared that I might do something I would regret. He wouldn’t leave me alone! It was then that I realized that something was wrong when I pulled out his antigun (looks a lot like mine). Then he cackled, and I knew that cackle well. This wasn’t my anti-self. This was the Anti-Christ! (He’s been taunting me for years.)

I had to wake up and get out of here fast! Fortunately, I awoke startled, but in my comfy bed in my hole-in-the-wall with my cat sprawled out on my chest. What a dream!

But wait a second—I was still baked and I didn’t get stoned before I went to bed…

—The Dormouse is the YFP’s correspondent to the Underworld
 

   
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