I know, you’re wondering if this is a topic that really needs to be discussed. Or can we just bundle it up and toss it in the washing machine, pretending it never happened. And my response is that it does need to be discussed for two reasons. The first being because it’s good to create healthy discourse about things you are normally too embarrassed to bring into public view. And two, because we’ve all peed the sheets. No one is ever proud of this unfortunate mishap, but it’s ok, everyone knows you didn’t do it purposefully, it was just an accident more than once. And either because you were a child traumatized by your divorcing parents, or you simply have an old lady’s bladder. Or you blacked the fuck out. Listen, I’ve had a few hard drinking friends who should’ve had a plastic wrap around their mattress. But can you picture the look on a person’s face when you’re getting romantic, and the first sound is that of lying on top of an unopened Amazon package? Talk about a buzz kill. No one wants to feel like they’re about to get busy on a hospital bed. I mean, putting on a condom is awkward enough. I’m gonna come clean here. I was a bed wetter until the age of ten. In fact, I soaked my pants during recess in the 4th grade, terrified to re-enter the classroom. Hiding the wet leg wasn’t so difficult in the self-imposed solitary confinement of the boy’s restroom but passing through the gauntlet to my desk in the back of the room after the bell rung was a different mission. And sure enough, Reggie the class clown caught me dead in my tracks. “You Peed!” he yelped, pointing directly to the massacre. Wetting the bed at that age was humiliating, but peeing your pants was a scarlet letter. It’s ok, I’ve come to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person. Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cheatah Piss.

Humans have been walking upright for nearly 200 million years. The average life span of a Neanderthal was 32 years. The number of people that have existed over this course of time is, well, a shitload. And through all of that, you are here now. The fact that you are reading this now is proof. Yes, your imagination can do wonderous things but transcend the physical plane of time is not one of them. You have consciousness and you have the body to transport it through this reality, which means you pretty much have what we can assume almost every dead sentient being is no longer experiencing, which is life. There is no life in the past, it doesn’t exist. There is no life in the future, it doesn’t exist. What only exists is this moment right now. And you got it, friend. Mozart is not here now. He lived 32 years. Christ, John Smith, Nefertiti--their energy has manifested into other forms. Yet you still possess the core reactor, that spark that sets the heart pumping nutritious blood to every cell in your body. You are surrounded by skin. The entire thing moves at the will of your thoughts. Isn’t it amazing? And a day will come when you will be gone, and time will roll for another 200 million years plus. You are armed with sensors--nose, ears, eyes, mouth, and skin—everything necessary to flow through this one and only journey. Heaven? You mean there’s something better? I’m not convinced. So, let’s apply our focus to what is tangible because time is precious. And that’s waking up tomorrow after a healing rest for another unfolding day of breathing quality air. And while we’re on the subject--you can’t breathe without lungs. And Cannabis gives those sponges a good Rain-X coating of resin, which is good. Hey, Bob Marley did not die of lung disease. And if it didn’t get him, it ain’t gettin’ nobody.

Yes, pinky swears are a lighthearted agreement rarely enforced, but we all know that there exists a code with the intention of not being broken. Because in this sue happy world of painful litigation, if we don’t respect the sanctimony of a real deal, then why agree to it in the first place? Locking pinkies is a silly way to execute blood brotherhood without the pricks. And I’m not referring to the kind of pricks who drive BMWs, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle to draw a drop of blood. I’ve seen blood bonding in movies where two warriors will cement an agreement by slicing a line in their arm before the compulsory forearm broshake, then sealing the bond by wrapping a leather strap. The man love is palpable. In fact, you think they might rub beards.  Either way, the hand is the tool that secures alliances, and the inconspicuous pinky can be the secret weapon of assurance. Sure, most pinky swears aren’t taken seriously, but if we create a legally binding understanding that once a pinky swear is consummated there is no way to overturn it without going to hell, or some shit like that, they can be enforceable. It needs to matter more. Along with saving polar bears. This is good. Because even though the pinky is the runt of the litter, it has plenty of potential. Your ring finger is cool but is basically employed for the purpose of identifying the symbol for a ball and chain called the wedding ring. The middle finger, well, that’s a no-brainer—very useful indeed. The index finger is essential for booger harvesting and pointing at cool shit, which is of great importance. But the pinky has been underrated. Therefore, as unlikely as it is that it will work out, sometimes you’ve just got to see how it goes because it’s the best option available. Kind of like when you’re out of weed, but you’ve got a dirty pipe with a bunch of resin collected in it. 

Make bad decisions. End of story. Well, there’s more actually. See, we all know that It’s difficult to think clearly when gazing through the glowing lens of beer goggles. Because when everything in your periphery is enhanced by fuzzy Glamour Shot lighting, the miscalculation alarm can be severely compromised when your weaker senses are enticed. Suddenly, casting caution to the wind makes perfect sense, and you are down because you’ve just unlocked the jailed trap star who runs the city. That antisocial video gamer who clocked in this morning with a Best Buy name tag just got run over by the tank that is the new confident and boastful Chief Executed Baller. With a couple of shots and a beer satiating the gullet, the amazing new you has emerged. And this dude is a fucking player who struts with swagger and makes the calls, ready to order some rounds and make some forgettable memories. This is the juncture in the evening where terrible ideas become sound opportunities to prove to the world that the tin man just needed a few drops of oil to lube up the joints. A few of these ill-advised decisions include tossing back a fifth shot of Fireball whiskey, doubling up on the stack of waffles, and cranking the ignition on the Hyundai. It all makes beautiful perfect sense. Oh, and hooking up with your childhood bestie. Not all decisions made when drunk are bad, however. The moment you decided to hit a homeless guy’s pinner on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of calling Guido for an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week. Thankfully, the evening wasn’t a complete loss. 

There’s not a damn thing wrong with socks. Hell, life without them just wouldn’t be as cozy. In fact, I can’t say that there’s a more soothing sensation than pulling up a brand spankin’ new pair of cotton fluffiness over the feet. It’s a reward for those soldiers, a way of thanking them for taking a pounding and being the trusted vehicles that get you from point P to point Q.  Did you know that your feet are among the heaviest producers of sweat in the body, and socks are there to soak all that up and prevent the scent of cheese from settling into your shoe? I know what you’re thinking, the smell of cheese in your shoes is not Gouda. So, you better Brie ready to head to Monterrey, Jack. Awkward silence. Anyway, we’ve become spoiled. Because socks are now a commodity we take for granted. What was once a true luxury of the bourgeoisie has become a mass produced, commonplace afterthought found on the discount aisle at Marshals. And getting them as a gift almost feels like a gyp. But you can’t blame grandma, her purpose is to keep you clothed and well-souped. Afterall, her grandmother grew up in the Great Depression, so having the ability to provide comfort for her brood is her way of expressing love. And socks have become cool with their graphic prints of Hindu patterns and weed symbols. In fact, socks are a great way to make a statement. And that statement is that you are so fucking fashionable that when it comes to dressing, no stone is unturnt. “And if they think my socks are dope, wait until they get a look at my underwear.” Now, it should be noted that getting socked in the face sucks. Unless It’s with a bag of weed that smells gouda.  

Everyone loves being told they are wonderful. That simple sound of adulation flowing off another person’s tongue can have the most pleasing chemical rush on the brain, pushing the dopamine swiftly to the receptors, instantly unlocking any tension while lifting the corners of the mouth towards the stars, loosening the jaw, and warming the refrigerated heart. Even the prickliest of Ebeneezers loves to hear how wonderful he is, though you know he’s likely to shrug off the compliment as a waste of air if not ventured for profit. Because somewhere in that hardened soul, there lies the need for love and validation that cracks the rigid conditioning of a Victorian rearing which left the child starved for emotional embraces. But as with anything in life that causes one to crave more, adulation can also be a tool for manipulating. Oh yes, many practice the art of calculating compliments to achieve a desired result that ultimately benefits them personally. Some call that laying the frosting on too thick. And no one is not susceptible to sugar. However, if the delivery is not perceived as genuine, the guise can be uncovered, potentially creating an adverse reaction. Most people know when they are being patronized. By the way, this does not apply to Cannabis growers as they all claim to grow the best weed. Tell them that and often they will place a handful of nugs in your possession. Of course, there is no such thing as the world’s best grower because there is literally no feasible way to accurately determine this. But who cares, you’re getting free nugs and logistics are not your problem. It’s called reverse psychology. And you can never be blamed for complimenting growers. Because when it comes down to it, all weed is the best weed in the world if it is the only weed in your possession, especially when it’s free. Or the price of one complement. 

Who doesn’t love tacos? I mean, this juggernaut of Mexican culture easily rivals the hamburger when competing for most delectable item in the food pyramid. And whether you like your fillings grilled, deep fried, or sauteed, there is only herding the ingredients into a tortilla and wrapping that baby up to convert your hand into a flavor shovel of extreme awesomeness! Think about it. Tuesday would be Bluesday if not for the amazing taco. And not just because the two are alphabetically compatible, but because tacos are so damn cheerful, they turn an ordinary meal into a downright fiesta. And with the deliciousness well in hand, all you need is a bottle of to-kill-ya to quickly transform a mundane weekday into a Satur-type-day? So vamanos on those happy hour Margaritas amigo, because we’re going to need some tang to punctuate the party. Tacos aren’t just yummy for the tummy; they give the meal personality. It’s the rare food item that can relocate your dinner table to a barstool smack dab in the middle of a pinata filled cantina. Suddenly you’re stoned on some pressed brick weed surrounded by a handful of gleeful hombres with frilly tuxedos and giant sombreros strumming guitars, squeezing accordions, and singing like angels and you’ll swear you’ve been transported somewhere south of the border. Every country has their own version of a taco, right? Poland has the pierogi, Italy has the pizza, and Israel has the falafel. And the United States has the taco pizza. Back to the food pyramid. I wonder if that originated in Tenochtitlan. That’s where they used to conduct human sacrifices. Those were some evil bastards. But then, they didn’t have Cinco de Drinko. 

The brain needs oxygen so the body yawns. And upon rising from the pillow one overcast morn, there was a gurgled effect and a peculiar pitch out of the mouth that seeded my core with suspicion. Oddly, it resembled an anxious Chewbacca sending a ‘let’s get the fuck outta here’ to his not so trusted friend Han Solo who invariably induces motion sickness from the erratic movement of dodging asteroids to the smell of burnt Wookie dingleberries from laser beam near misses. I panicked. Had some strange transformation occurred whilst asleep? There was no extraneous fur growing on my body, no foul breath that resembled the remnants of fried Grantaloupe innards, or any other traits of a Chewbacca for which I should be deeply concerned. There must have been in a crazy dream before lucidity resurfaced, so the anxiety began to fade. Nightmare averted. But there is another species of Wookie—sort of the human version of that Sasquatch’s buzzin’ cousin from another mother. Generally unclean, extremely hairy, and housing silver dollar sized earlobe gauges, their look is that of having stolen tapestries from an eastern European gypsy bordello and fashioned the material into pants. You see and smell them at heady Cannabis events toting their wares in a pelican case. I sniffed the underarms, and it was not good. Had I transformed? Was it Freaky Friday? Jumping out of bed, I immediately made a terror run for the mirror where a thorough inspection was in order. The hair was studied for any new emerging dreads, the mouth for any new sores, and the face for any remnants of crumbs in the patchy facial hair. Nope, it was the same dude that passed out drunk the previous night in the middle of the original Star Wars trilogy. So, I relaxed and took a dab, clutching my stuffed Princess Kneesaa Ewok toy that brings me comfort in moments of reality. 

I’ve got a secret for anyone paying attention. So long as you’re alive, you’re always going to be dealing with complications on some level. Yes, sometimes more than others, but there is no avoiding the hard cold fact that there will never be a day when you don’t have to generate a solution of some sort. It’s true. You’ll never be challenge free at any point in your life. And as you resolve things, there will inevitably be fresh obstacles to overcome. That’s actually not a secret at all. Finding weed used to be a big problem. Like, there were times when we stoners were willing to put life and livelihood at great risk just to get a THC fix. And rightfully so—for those who crave the pleasurable acuity that this consummation of Phyto cannabinoids attached to the endocannabinoid receptors invokes, nothing compares. Not one drug in the world, plant derived or synthesized, can replicate the unusual, yet natural euphoria gained from using Cannabis. It’s like a friend. You have a relationship with it. You smile when you think of her. It is love. So anyway, you pretty much trade one obstacle for another. Be it drugs, or logistics, or bills, or partners, there will always be at least one situation in need of your resolve. And money doesn’t fix everything, either. I know this. Not because I have a surplus cashish, but because I’ve never met someone wealthy who wasn’t wearing something of a heavy crown. And in case you’ve been sleeping under a rock, the problem of finding weed has been resolved. And weed can put you in an introspective place of humility, patience, and gratitude, which is the mindset for solving those other seemingly difficult dilemmas. So, get stoned. Because chances are the problem only exists in your head. By the way, I publish a weed magazine. So, I do have a surplus of hashish.

No matter how well you take care of your body, gravity will eventually pull you back to earth to be reclaimed by the soil. And although very smart people on this planet have developed stunning scientific methods to prolong the everlasting blink, when your train is whistling into the station, you’ll need to politely disembark to clear space for new passengers. This is the end of the line--no pill, no surgery--no more birthdays. But you can’t be mad. Being atop the food chain doesn’t mean you live forever, just that you live well longer. In fact, you’ll most likely dwell here about five times longer than the average caveperson ever did, so be grateful that you don’t have to be worried about being eaten by a razor-toothed land shark. That poor hairy dude didn’t have a gun, a car, or an electric razor--much less a Home Depot. Yes, there are clams that live over 500 years and there are some trees that live thousands of years. But for you, large brain or not, 120 loops around the glowing orb are what you get--give or take a decade or ten depending on how well you attract lightning. And that’s a generous estimation, mostly reserved for women living on some isolated island in Japan or Italy with simple diets and a daily glass of vino, sequestered from the instant gratification society of processed foods and secondhand smoke.  So, as there’s no denying that some people have temporarily circumvented death. But as there are clever roundabouts and shortcuts en route to your final destination, the tick of the almighty timepiece will eventually come to a halt. And when that clock finally stops, let’s hope it gets stuck on 4:20. Afterall, the best way to go is up in smoke.