Four Twenty

I’ve never been very good with drugs. You might think a former Mormon would be good at drugs — yea, a born natural — but I’m not. My friend, Joe, however, is.

I guess that’s not entirely true. I mean, I don’t even know if he’s tried any of the major drugs, the drugs they make movies about. I only know a few people who’ve tried those drugs, and most of them aren’t good with drugs at all.

When I say that Joe is good with drugs I mean Joe can function like a perfectly sober human being when he’s passing the dutchie on the left hand side. When I pass the dutchie, I feel like I’m handing it to the law enforcement official sitting across the table.

Smoking pot causes all my shit to hit the fan, my shit being an obsessive paranoia over what is currently a spotless police record. After one successful hit I’m certain that the entire Los Angeles Police Department has spotted my doobie on radar and is on their way to beat me with sticks.

One time when I was high I decided to clean out my refrigerator so that the LAPD wouldn’t bust me for storing perishables beyond their sell-by date. While rummaging through pickle jars, tupperware bowls, and lunch meats that had grown ears and small toes, I found a bottle of A1 Steak Sauce with a SKU that read “BC1422.”

My immediate thought was, “Holy shit, this thing went bad fourteen hundred and twenty-two years before Christ! How did I end up with it?” I was sure that I had stolen it from the Museum of Natural History when I took a trip to Washington DC in eighth grade during those innocent, sober years.

My friend, Joe, however, triumphed over herbal-induced paranoia when he was 15 years old like every other healthy non-Mormon teenager. The dude got a Masters from the University of Chicago, for Christ’s sake, and was required to minor in pot smoking.

What makes Joe so good with drugs is that he’s so fearless in the face of logic. A couple weeks ago Joe sent his friend a sandwich bag of pot. When I say send, I mean he sent a sandwich bag of pot to his friend through the USPS.

To avoid any potentially nasty felony charges, he disguised the bag by stashing it in an empty casette tape case flanked by a copy of Windows 98 and Office 2000 on cd, complete with handfuls of styrofoam popcorn. Before dropping the envelope into a Federally owned postal box, he broke a small ball of incense into the package “to, like, you know, mask the smell of herb and all.”

When I brought up the fact that he might, like, you know, serve time up state and all, he shrugged and reasoned, “Dooce, they’ll see the Microsoft cds and think, you know, ‘Dude totally needs it.'”

And I was all, “Dude, are you high right now? Because that didn’t make any sense.”