It’s all thanks to a little Yes-I-Can-nabis.

Weed.

Who among us has never tried it? It’s the logical step to take after excessive binge drinking but before ecstasy. Though government departments and scientific research will try to convince you that it was forged by Satan and it makes you rape women and carry on like a lumbering fool, it really is quite a harmless way to spend an evening. With drink prices taking a leap towards outrageous, it makes sense to simply stay home and roll a spliff. In fact, I think society would benefit from adopting this line of thought. Your options on a Saturday night are as follows:

1. I could go out and paint the town red. However, I’ll have to get dressed up in jeans and a collared shirt. If I want to drink, I’ll have to arrange for alternative transport. If I’m going to take a taxi, I’ll have to be prepared to get fingered on the fare. And what about the actual drinks? If I’ve gone to all of this trouble to get into the city, I would be a fool not to drink. I’ll have to be prepared to pay perhaps $7 for basic spirits. Will this be an expensive night out? All signs point to yes.
2. I could stay home, invite a friend over and have a couple of cones. I wouldn’t have to dress up, rather I would be wearing comfortable ‘stay at home’ gear, which usually constitutes some sort of flannelette shirt and fleecy pants. I would have to be prepared to laugh my ass off at the most insipid shit, and start musing about how Star Wars could have been better. And if I’m sensible, I can get many nights of fun out of $50 worth of weed.

That certainly is a tough decision. I’ve found myself in the middle of this quandary on a few occasions. I chose option 2 on all those occasions.

I usually like to plan how I’m going to spend my drug induced stupor. It makes sense to me that, since my motor skills and judgment will be greatly diminished while under the influence, I should set everything up before embarking on my trip through time. This is exactly what Sam and I did around July last year. We thought of everything. The food we would eat, the comedies we would watch, the music we would mellow out to… We had our entire night planned with clockwork precision.

It seems funny, then, that upon the execution of this plan everything turned to shit very quickly. We inhaled from the buckets (because we’re hard as fuck), and everything sort of started to unwind and come undone. Sam started coughing violently. I was concerned. He said everything was fine. I was no longer concerned. We both went inside where I sat down on the couch and put The Simpsons on. I have never in my life laughed as hard as I did that day, watching the episode where Willie kills the children in their dreams. When Martin Prince had his sleep time fantasy about being a wizard with ‘one million hit points and maximum charisma’, I lost it. I was laughing for about half an hour before I realised that Sam had been absent the entire time. I was concerned once more. I went up the stairs looking for him when I discovered that he had been in the shower the entire time, possibly crying and clawing at the bugs under his skin. Something is amiss here, I had thought. It wasn’t until I read his transcribed thoughts asking ‘Why am I doing this?’ and announcing ‘I’m dying!’ that I realised that my dear friend was having a bad trip.

I managed to lure him down the stairs to a cosy position in front of the television. The Simpsons was still playing, and it was just what the doctor ordered. Sam, now calm and lucid, was able to look back over the whole thing and laugh.

And now, I invite you to do the same.

Laugh.

………at Sam.