April 20. Of course. Yes. This matter must be addressed. A reader told me a story over the weekend that got me wondering. He said he’d tell the tale if I let him do it anonymously. Here you go:
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By Anonymous
You’re not supposed to smoke weed right now. Let’s make that clear. COVID-19 attacks the lungs. Weed does something something to the lungs. So don’t smoke weed unless it’s medically prescribed, even though today is 4/20.
THAT said, I tried my best to get some weed Saturday night. Not for myself. I don’t smoke. I don’t like losing control of my emotions. It messes with my nightly routine of a brisk workout, a sensible dinner with my spouse, and slowly, carefully getting drunk enough to pass out.
I tried to obtain a joint because my wife — whom I’ve never seen smoke a joint in over a decade together — told me she really wanted to get high.
“Why are you craving a joint?” I asked.
She pointed to the television. We were watching Basic Instinct. I don’t know if you’ve seen that movie in a minute. You probably remember there is a lot of sex. You’ve probably forgotten that there is a lot of drug use, too. To call it “glamorized” would be an understatement.
Problem: we are strict ClayJenkinsites. We socially distance. We wear masks. Our entryway has been converted to a decontamination room. I don’t engage in contact with the outside world unless we’re meeting basic human needs.
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll find you a joint. In return –” I pointed to the television. I wouldn’t call it a sex scene, technically. But it involved something else that hasn’t gone on in this household in about a decade.
“Deal.”
Wow. She really wanted a joint.
I have several friends who smoke weed. I texted them, although my excitement made it difficult to type with trembling hands. The responses I received made me quite sad for those friends and crushingly sad for me.
“Dude, do you think if I could get weed right now, I’d waste it on you?” my friend texted back.
“I’ll pay you a hundred bucks for one joint,” I told him.
“I’m on it.”
Alas, after much texting (I assume he was texting. Are dealers on WhatsApp?), he came up empty.
The other friends I texted were the same. “I’m all pills now, my friend.” You shouldn’t do that, I told him. “Sorry, it’s dry out there,” said another. “Want some powder?” You really shouldn’t do that, I told him. “I have some tacos,” another offered. I told him I love tacos, but they were not the key to my quarantine bliss.
After hours of futility, the wife reported the mood had passed. Window shut.
There you have it. According to my one-night survey of degenerate friends, weed is not easy to procure in North Texas right now. So best of luck to you 4/20 die-hards, but I think you’re going to find scoring weed just as tough as I did.
Although I’ll bet I was more disappointed than you’re going to be.
