Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

Have you ever heard the phrase for lack of a better word? It means that you’re searching your vocabulary to find the most applicable language that best represents what you’re trying to convey. Sometimes you don’t have the exact word, but by using this phrase, you make it known that your intention is to communicate your thoughts effectively. And it’s totally cool. Because it is understood by the person with whom you’re interacting that although you don’t currently have the best articulation, you are also not trying too hard to impress. And that is what’s wrong with how the word perfect is wielded today. People overuse it believing they are demonstrating wisdom by applying it where a less fabulous word would normally go—thinking that it boosts their ability to elocute perfect words. Which makes sense. Because the current me society that displays their filtered flawlessness on the internet as a quantified representation of who they are, is hiding from the word imperfect. That’s one you won’t hear them use. It’s absurd. A trigger. How dare you! The overplay of the word perfect is an encapsulation of this artificially intelligent future we are doing “the robot” into. Perception is largely reality, and the word accentuates the image people pretend to possess. There’s this idea that if you say something perfect, then perfection will materialize, which realistically doesn’t happen. Just because you use the word to describe something as perfect, it doesn’t make it perfect. So, when the woman who answers the phone in customer service gleefully uses the word more than twice for the figurative cherry on the sundae, she is in essence informing herself that not only did she resolve the issue, but it couldn’t have been handled any more perfectly. But no, I’m sorry, the last 4 digits of my social security number are not perfect. They are just ok. You know what’s perfect? Cannabis. And Agnes, my pet Gerbil.

The tragic miscalculation of digital driving directions can be the cause of great stress. Because when you’re lost, everything appears foreign. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, you find yourself flustered and exposed. This is a dark and confusing place where suddenly every turn, every sidewalk, and every streetlight look identical. Your sense of security vanishes, leaving you vulnerable and frightened, the anxiety heightened. You feel betrayed by the soothing, relatable personality inside of your electronic device as their lack of sound decision-making seemed almost purposeful. The voice you once believed is now a clueless idiot and you are determined to get even with a brazen scolding. You will belittle it, call her a bitch, or him an asshole, condemning their actions with caustic flare while detailing the irreparable hassle and embarrassment you’ll endure due to their lack of focus. At some point you may forgive them, but now is not the time. You are lost and late, and the world is in a state of utter peril that may take years to repair. However, although it doesn’t feel like it, this is no one’s fault. You do feel a sense of responsibility, though, for having blindly trusted what used to be a credible source. So, to rectify the blunder of placing your faith in this digital confidante, you will take uncharacteristic chances in the attempt to absolve yourself of any further regret. There is no time to waste on getting to the original course. So, you will make illegal U-turns across center-dividers and irresponsibly hit the brakes on a busy thoroughfare. You will knowingly break the law, nervously cursing while backing up on a one-way street to return to the exit passed. Ninety-five percent of the time, however, this device is correct. Therefore, you should reward your GPS system. I recommend a digital blow job. You take a puff from a vape pen and exhale it into the screen.

Autism is not funny. If you’re poking at a human being, that is. But if it’s an animal (or an insect, or a fish, etc.), you have the license to say whatever you want because the concept seems ridiculous. It’s not an official veterinary diagnosis. Cannabis experiences the same plight, in that, if there’s little scientific data to back up your claims of medical efficacy, they are generally shrugged off as unsubstantiated. So, no one can accuse me of making fun of something that’s not a matter of official record. Now, if you are going to poke fun at an animal for being autistic, it needs to be done as cute and not mean-spirited. And let’s be real, the thought of an autistic dog isn’t not cute. Because having sympathy for something that is cute is cute by default. So, there ya have it. Now, we all think it’s insanely adorable when an animal displays traits of human characteristics. We’ve been on YouTube to see the Sneezing Panda, the Dramatic Squirrel, and the Chimpanzee who has been trained to do the moonwalk. It melts our hearts. So, it should be ok if I initiate the query of whether a dog can share a friendly disorder with said Homosapien. Because I’ve got a friend who researched the criteria of what would implicate their pet as having this neurodevelopmental condition that is characterized by anti-social behavior. And I’ll be damned if it isn’t spot on. Like, if your four-legged beast bestie is generally incapable of making a real connection with you and your friends, it could be that it has this most unfortunate affliction. I would suggest Pet CBD for the little pal, but I am not a vetted vet. By the way, I’ve never actually seen a chimpanzee do a moonwalk, but that would be sick.

Since the first Caribbean pirate washed down his minnow stew with peppercorn spiced rum, the mouth mane has stood as a solid sign of masculinity. However, as hair trends wane and wax, the last thirty years or so have not been friendly to the man stache. Like, if you donned a thick one and a person caught a glimpse in their periphery, they might do a double take, curiously considering if they’d just witnessed a caterpillar nesting under a stranger’s nose. But the moustache is cool again. Now, this is not to be confused with the molestache. A dude rocking a confident, purposefully maintained lip wig has nothing to hide. But when a dandruff filter protrudes over the orifice like a warning label to hide anything that’s pretty, you wonder if twisted thoughts may be at play. This also does not include the Saddam Hussein. That’s the abundantly flourishing frown fur that seconds as a push broom. A good example is the wiry-haired Baby Boomer whose peach fuzz began emerging in the 6th grade, eventually blossoming into a thick black pipe cleaner that is as much a part of his appearance as the brown teeth. We’re talking about guys who draw attention with intention, celebrating the bro grow as a statement. Be it in defiance to conformity, or absolute ownership of his gender identification, he boldly brandishes his face flag as a male human recognizing gallantry as a virtue. It is proudly presented as part of his personal brand. It’s different this time. Call it a comeback. The stigma is ending, and we are entering a new era of acceptance. Kinda like Cannabis.

Let’s face reality. The world is a much less rocking place now that a landfill somewhere is stacked with obsolete Guitar controllers. It’s kind of sad that gone are the days when all you had to do was turn on the television, throw a strap around the neck, and instantaneously morph into an imaginary rock god.  With a backflip of the head, an involuntary scrunch of the face, and one long, high-pitched lick on the plastic fretboard, there was no denying that you were meant to headline MSG. That’s Madison Square Gardens, not monosodium glutamate. My tummy just rumbled. Just think of how much greater the pandemic could have been if we were still heroic guitarsmiths. Sure, a few fences were repaired, and thousands of poorly written memoirs began, but all at the brutal cost of what could have potentially developed into a new pool of six-string leviathans. You see, instead of developing the rhythmic cadences that become the steppingstones for the next generation’s Stairway to Heaven, these future Proud Boys instead spray attacking aliens with automatic rifles and flame throwers while they could be ripping licks. God knows more teenagers need the invaluable knowledge of how to charbroil a burger. Something is missing. And it’s the living room stardom that has abandoned us shredders, thanks to the plug being pulled on the proverbial amp. And rock is now officially dead. Because with no practice axe to make the fingers skillfully nimble, the only fire under their asses to seek their rightful heir to the holy rock stardom throne will be from the match that singes their dingleberries from lighting their own farts. Guitar Hero was the initiation into potential immortality, learning music by braille, one imperative note at a time. You could be anyone--Eddie Van Halen, Jimmy Page, Slash. It was so much more than just a video game, but a position on the sacred stage.  And I miss it. So, I smoke Cannabis to quell my sadness. Hey, that sounds like a lyric!