Читать книгу Love Punch & Other Collected Columns - Rob Hiaasen - Страница 11

My brain on pot

March 2, 2014

Normally I don’t take positions on issues because that requires thinking about issues, and frankly my time is better spent binge watching “House of Cards.”

But given the General Assembly is weighing several pot bills, I feel compelled to speak out.

I urge Maryland lawmakers not to legalize or decriminalize marijuana, which, as we know, leads to massive deaths. But that’s not why I oppose pot.

They say it takes 1.2 million muscles to frown but only four muscles to smile. Some of us are proud of our 1.2 million muscles. My fear is that pot will insidiously attack that muscle group and before I know it, I’ll be smiling, which, as we know, leads to relaxation.

And relaxation leads to happiness, which leads to living longer, which leads to more thinking, which leads to more thinking about issues, which leads to frowning, which leads to unhappiness.

To illustrate this tragic cycle, let me tell you a story about a Baby Boomer who smoked pot three times (I’ll wait until that preposterously low number sinks in). Each incident was more harrowing, more frightening than the next:

Early 1983:

Under the cloak of Daylight Saving time, the Baby Boomer secures pot (quality and origin unknown) from a supplier resembling one of those Duck Dynasty dudes. The transaction is a nervous affair. The young man grossly overpays for he is certain he’ll be captured by the FBI and shipped to a Turkish prison where cable TV is spotty at best.

Safely locked in his apartment bathroom, the young man attempts to roll his first joint. The work does not go well. For sealing purposes, he considers using Krazy Glue before remembering this, too, is a gateway drug and will only compound his Turkish prison sentence.

Somehow, a joint is fashioned. He lights the twisty end. He attempts a puff. The puffing does not go well. He tries again until he finally inhales. He is smoking pot. Alone. In front of his bathroom mirror. It is not relaxing.

Later to friends, he likens the sensation to inhaling bottom-dwelling food scraps found in any kitchen disposal.

Middle 1983:

He has someone (“a friend”) pay for the pot to avoid even a hint of extradition to a foreign prison. His friend proves to be a talented buyer, roller and puffer.

Safely locked in the same Orlando apartment, both young men smoke pot. As Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” shreds their eardrums, a Monopoly board materializes. It is brought out to the pool, where both of them commence a game of floating Monopoly aboard leaky beach rafts. Hilarity ensues over the yellow property “Marvin Gardens.” The name is the funniest thing ever said or heard. They call each other Marvin for the remainder of the experience.

They judge the time as either 2 in the morning or 2 in the afternoon.

It’s a very relaxing time.

Late 1983:

In his last brush with the demon weed, the Baby Boomer finds himself in possession of pre-rolled and pre-paid “marijuana cigarettes.” This time, he fears no Turkish prison. It is an extremely relaxing evening—until a new fear emerges.

What happens if he likes relaxing too much? And then what happens if one day Marvin Gardens isn’t hilarious anymore?

It hurts the brain to think that much.