The world was made for me!
Seems that way sometimes, huh? On Friday I told myself that my Labor Day weekend resolution was to burn at least five jays a day, on account of I been a total old lady in the weed department lately. You ever go through those phases where you practically never burn one for weeks at a time? It's crazy, since the first instant you bite back into that smoke you're like "man why did I ever quit oh ha ha hee hee oh meeee!" [spins in nutty-ass circle on one foot]. Anyhow, I mucked up a c-bag, rolled some tasty tips with my little machine, and laid in like a soldier come Saturday morning. (I did not get high on Friday night because we were doing a vertical tasting of the current Grgich Hills lineup and if I'm stoned, my notes are completely meaningless. I'll write stuff like, "'99 Cab. brilliant! Main flavor, if likened to sun, surrounded by hazy corona of phosphorus and emergent dry straw. V. emergent.")
I was feelin' good like you do if you just stick with wine the night before, and around 10am I hove the knuckle, you know. I sparked the first of many mean ones.
First order of business was to feel the rush of cool, then look around me and go, "why in hell ain't anybody ordered decent breakfast around here?" It was only seconds before I had the Tiffany all ablaze, Niman sausages on skewers, hella grizzlin' up over the flames. I kicked on the pool house door until Beef answered, and put on my meanest Jamaican landlord voice:
ME: Wot you do, mon! It make me crazy you no cook de breakfas' egg!
BEEF: Oh uh hey uh oh I got to uh listen man I —
ME: You no gon' cook de breakfas' egg you gon' talk til de donkey he lose he back leg mon?!
BEEF: Dogg I got um I got a —
MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is that the guy you called to fix my ten-speed?
ME: Whoah, sorry man. I didn't know you were ballin'.
BEEF: Jesus man don't be crass I mean I uh we uh
ME: Molly! Cook me de breakfas' egg, white woman!
MOLLY: Beef? What's going on? Is everything okay?
BEEF: I'm not sure yet babe
ME: [noticing huge spiderweb in plant by door, with enormous alive spider in the middle] Fuck, dude! Fuck! [jumps back]
BEEF: Oh yeah uh that's the spider
ME: Well no shit, man! Jesus! Hold on, I'm gonna get my shotgun.
BEEF: [slams door] [yells] GET DOWN!
ME: [goes into garage to get 12-gauge]
I got distracted on the way to get the gun and wound up spending most of the morning eating the sausages on the living room floor and listening to old Police albums real, real loud. I didn't remember about Beef and the spider until later, so I gave him a call but they weren't around. Oh well. If I've done my math right, and who cares if I didn't, it is once again time to apply the flame to the drug that absolves all shame, or however that line goes.