Bong, baby, bong

GayBoy knew I was up late last night. And he knew I planned to sleep in. Still, he calls at 9:30 am and wakes me the hell up. Die, GayBoy, DIE.

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Last night, I was having and chill-at-home night until a midnight walk-n-stone session, and I’d been cleaning up my ProtoPipe--among other things. (Read this.)

It completely dismantles, as I’d mentioned before, and is a gorgeous little brass piece of engineering. I’ve long since run out of rubbing alcohol -- don’t spend $10 or $15 for the crap they sell at dope shops. Spend a buck on rubbing alcohol and grab some Q-Tips and you’re in biz.

So, because I keep forgetting about buying more rubbing alcohol, I’ve merely been scraping all the tar and shit out of my pipe. Frustrated with that ever-present dense, oily taste from the tar, I boiled the bitch up with baking soda and salt.

Then I lost the tar trap.

Now, I wasn’t stoned yet. It took me a good hour of occasionally looking to find that damned thing, but in the meantime, I dug out Baby Bong.

Hand-blown, less than 5” high, with beautiful soft curves, it looks somewhat like an Smurf’s cap. Except that it's glass, and there's no weird blue dude attached.

It’s clear with streaks of mossy green and gold around it, in a psychedelic swirl.

Though I’ve owned Baby Bong for a half decade, I haven’t smoked from it in nearly five years... until now.

In the piece I put a link to up there, “To Pipe or Not to Pipe,” I listed myself as a staunch fan of pipes, not bongs.

I was wrong, people. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Bongs are a hassle, that I grant you, but I was surprised at how much easier it was on my lungs.

I’m no novice here, all right? I’ve smoked pot daily for about six years, with maybe a year off for good behaviour, spread out over that time. I’ve smoked an awful lot of marijuana. (For years, I never paid. I had my generous sources. Amazing what a smile and a sense of humour will get you.)

But I don’t like what pot does to my lungs. If I have to suck a little bongwater from time to time in exchange for less harshness, then that’s what will happen.

And it’s so darned cute!

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It’s funny. There’s a local community for bloggers and I’ve never met them, never hung with them, never went to any of their things. The other day, I log on their site after they sent me an email, and this dude’s looking for an assistant to help with filing and such on a casual, cash basis.

So I thought, “hey, I can do that,” and I emailed him.

An hour later, I get this email back, “I’m sorry. I’ve read your blog, and I don’t think we will work well together.” All righty then.

I was a little pissed off, actually, but hey. I clearly wouldn’t be handing out this URL, let alone my new raunchy site's URL (which I’ll give you when you ask me nicely and is inappropriate for work) to any prospective employer.

But there you have it. Discrimination at its finest. Just because I smoke a little dope and bat around some swear words doesn’t make me incompetent or difficult. In real life, I’m a jovial, easy to get along with chick who fits well into nearly every situation. I’m not unpleasant, nor am I rude, nor am I even unpunctual. I’m a model citizen (albeit a little edgy) with bad habits at home, that’s all.

Silly uptight man. I should’ve known from his ad, since he revealed too much about his stupid allergies to perfume in a “I’m special because I have needs” chip-on-my-shoulder kind of way. (I’m allergic to most perfumes, colgnes, as well, but that’s all you need to know, right? Don’t start listing off a litany of look-at-me-I’m-needy kind of symptoms. We don't care. Jesus.)

I’m probably far better off. I hate anal people.

Loosen up, folks, this ride’s a long one, and if you keep your ass clenched the whole damned way, it could get nasty, like anal-spasms nasty.

(Thank you, Adrian, for the funny little photo.)