Post by Park Sung Jetson on Jul 2, 2023 15:04:21 GMT
He picked me up wearing that Stryper tee shirt of his. To Hell With The Devil. Real tuff guy metal, fer shure.
"Ya got any?" Dan asked, reaching out of his open window to snatch at a falling rearview mirror..
"Maybe a bowl or two," I said. "Just about down to seeds and stems here."
There was a dry spell, a regular Biblical drought, and nobody could find any weed. Even the homegrown dirt weed was not to be had. People claimed to be experimenting with corn silk. You know how it goes.
"My cousin's working down at the auto auction in Philly tonight. He says he can score some real sticky buds from a Puerto Rican guy he knows. If we blaze up tonight I can getcha back with some real primo smokeables tomorrow."
"I guess so," I said reluctantly. I would have preferred to hang on to what I had for emergencies, but I also didn't want to come across as some jackass Bogart who held out on his buddies. So we drove out to the back lot of the ice plant and toked up my entire stash while jamming to Molly Hatchet.
It's been 38 years and Dan still has not replaced my weed.
Who could have seen that coming?
