the inclination had such noble intention. according to The Source (not the magazine, a la Matrix — The Source is the contemporary home of all useful and trivial information alike. it may be more familiar to you as Wikipedia), some bammas in san rafael, california used to meet up daily at 4:20 p.m. around a statue on their school’s campus to — get this — “search for an abandoned cannibus plant they had learned about.”
if that aint some high shit to set out to do.
after time, it dawned on these cats that they probably wouldn’t find said abandoned cannibus plant. so 4:20 simply became the official time of the afternoon-day cypher.
this is precisely the problem with marijuana. cats get distracted; they lose focus. marijuana is most definitely the gateway drug to various disjointed musings and activities. it turns strangers into homies, and makes gibberish seem genius. we musn’t get ourselves caught up in this revelry, as the smoker’s agenda is a stifling one. it is as hazy as the atmosphere in their basements, where they stuff towels under their doors, discriminating against god’s good, clean, and pure air.
their mission, however, is quite clear. they want dispensaries next to every starbucks on every block. they want to “hotbox” in public, and experience heightened senses of awareness for mundane things. they intend to fuel the obesity pandemic, with their muchie cravings, their fucking sweet and salty. they just gotta have sweet and salty. what about those who want salt and vinegar chips just because, huh? might’nt they like to chase their chips with ben & jerry’s americone dream, too? if the smoker’s agenda is met with any shred of legitimacy, rest assured there’ll be nothing sweet or salty left for regular folks to enjoy.
you know, i hear them all the time. extolling the virtues of ganja, talkinbout how much it relieves their anxiety and shit. how it “takes the edge off” their edgy days. they say it keeps them from tellin a bitch to “go somewhere else with that office small talk” on a monday morning. and, when you attempt to appeal to their senses of health and longevity, they say: “i mean, you ever met a cat who od’d on weed?” and when you say, “yeah but i still don’t want nobody smashed up on my couch, eating all my doritos and shit,” they’ve already moved on. they have wished four hundred and twenty times that you would stick the j in your mouth and shut the fuck up. sober criticism blows highs, they say. and you and I both know the smoker’s agenda aint got no love for furniture and dorito decorum…
i say to you, friends, on this April 20th of this year, resist the urge to strengthen the Smoker’s Agenda. tell your stoner friends y’all can’t kick it no more, you have more important things to do. you’ve decided to be a grown-up, and deal with your life like grown people do. with a potent cocktail of bitterness, a bit of fear, a pinch of righteous indignation, a cup of blackberry merlot, and a few muscle relaxers left over from that “injury” you sustained that time doing that thing. Yes, yes, point the finger at them and tell them you will not enable their habit a moment longer. you will not go on “runs” with them to “score” a “nickel sack of dope”. you will not stock your fridge anymore with sweet and salty, and sometimes savory goodies. tell them: you may puff, and you may puff, but you will not pass it to me!
and then you should be like, “…sike nah. where the lighter at, g?”