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‎Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

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Toke up to this whimsical, narrated Cannabis Column that infuses contemporary observations from an old school perspective. The name Stoney Baloney says it all; a weekly grab bag of ingredients that’s sure to be infused with lots of salty flavors to make it taste delicious. Continue Reading >>
Toke up to this whimsical, narrated Cannabis Column that infuses contemporary observations from an old school perspective. The name Stoney Baloney says it all; a weekly grab bag of ingredients that’s sure to be infused with lots of salty flavors to make it taste delicious. << Show Less
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#177 - Tacky Khaki Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.   Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences.  I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store.  Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar? Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is.
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#177 - Tacky Khaki Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.   Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences.  I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store.  Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar? Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is.
#176 - Sex Is Like Baseball To be great at America’s favorite pastime, you only need to succeed three out of every ten attempts. We’re talking about getting hits in baseball here, not getting lucky between the sheets. However, for you men out there, the numbers are pretty much the same. For every ten times you try, if you get action three out of those, you’re doing better than most of your neighbors. Unless, of course, you live next to a college dormitory.  Or a retirement community.  Sorry for the visual.  One reason why getting laid has been compared to hitting a home run is because it’s not always easy. It takes skill and practice. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable in the batter’s box, getting to first base can feel very intimidating, much less advancing to second and third. And none of it matters unless you get to fourth base. That’s called home plate. Which is coincidental, because fourth base is where babies are made. And those babies end up living at your home, endlessly screeching at an empty plate.  Anyway, to effectively score and win, you need to be physically and mentally adept with good timing. You wanna keep the ball in play because that’s where the action is. If you’re swing is too erratic, you’re not going to find the gap on the field. And You only get three strikes until you’re back in the dugout watching the other players take their shot. Also, it’s good to keep the pace moving because the more the game drags on, the longer it takes to get to that victory.  By the way, did you know that the Major League Baseball Player’s Union just announced that each team can now carry 14 pitchers? There are 30 teams in the league. That means there are 420 pitchers overall.  Looks like baseball is catching up with the times.
#175 - Wetting The Bed 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 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 boys 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. But it’s ok, I came to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person.  Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cat Piss.
#174 - Pinky Swears Are Binding 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 them 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 purposefully cut you off in traffic, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle. 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 innocuous pinky can be the secret weapon. Because pinky swears aren’t easy to remember, 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. Like, 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 the 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 overlooked.  So, let’s see if it can handle more responsibility.  Kind of like promoting a budtender to store manager.
#173 - The Shit We Do When We're Drunk 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 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 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. 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 beautifully 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 scraggly joint on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of scoring an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week.
#172 - Flattery Will Get You Everywhere 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 compliment.
#171 - A Jar is Ajar ‘Twasn’t it Shakespeare who wrote ‘a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose’? Whether he did or not, it’s a play on words. And from what the history books tell us, he was the best at making plays out of words. Or organizing words into a play.    What we learn from this is that as useful as language can be, it can also prove confounding. Through all the channeling to the place in the brain where comprehension is gained by translating your senses into images or ideas, there is always the opportunity for misinterpretation.    In the English language alone there currently exists 20,000 words, so chances are very good that a few of them are going to doppleganged. I mean, to a foreigner, it can’t be easy to discern the nuance of building a building, or how to desert a desert. Or how minute a minute is, much less how a solution can be a solution.     I know, it’s fucked.    They are called homonyms. And as I’m sure you know by now, the key to differentiating terminology is by understanding the context of the word. Meaning, you just need to know the subject matter you’re talking about.    By the way, did you know that they found a pipe in Shakespeare’s grave and they’re pretty sure the dude smoked weed? So, what did he mean when he wrote that ‘a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose’? Well, there are many ways to refer to a rose in literature. And actually, ‘twasn’t he that wrote that, I just looked it up. He wrote ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’. Which was from Romeo and Juliet and meant love transcends applied labels like Montegue and Capulet.    And speaking of love, if a jar is ajar, it means I’ve unscrewed the cap of my beloved nug jug and ripped another tasty bowl whilst I scribed this stoner prose. Just like Bill Shakespeare would’ve. In case you’re learning English.
#170 - Your Time Is Now 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 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 where 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 something 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.
#169 - Getting Socks As A Gift 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 stinks like fromunda.
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