Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: marijuana

Fuck Cannabis

It’s called weed. You roll it into doobies. Don’t get fancy, fucker. No one likes fancy fuckers.

Mind The Gap

Mickey’s selling doobies, because of course he is, and I’m not writing about it until I get a sample. Or at least a tin. The tin’s nice.

A Short History Of Marihuana

Marihuana was invented in Switzerland on April 20th, 1922, by Albert Hoffman’s older and less motivated brother, Klaus. He was trying to make a dessert topping, but screwed up somewhere in the process and found that the results were a green and leafy substance. When a miniscule amount made contact with Klaus’ hand, it did nothing at all, so Klaus rolled that shit up and blasted some Hawkwind.

Stop lying.

Cannabis is a trick of the Jew to enslave–

Stop it.

–the working man and rouse the passions of the Negro.

Either be normal or stop writing.

If I was normal, I could stop writing.

Good point, yeah. Still, though: stop being foolish.

Oh, fine. The cannabis plant originated in Central Asia and chose a winning survival strategy, which was being useful to humans, and out of all the plants that adopted this method–wheat, rice, barley–cannabis may have them beat: certain cultures eat wheat, others eat rice, but everybody smokes dope. Evidence of human use goes back just about as far as evidence of human existence. It was a religious sacrament, it was medicine, it was a cash crop. Same as now. Plus, the stalk of the cannabis plant can be turned into paper or rope or trousers; this is called hemp.

But how did we meet, marijuana and humanity, not just a casual glance at a bright green leaf with five serrated shoots; I’m talking about getting stoned. They must have thrown it in the fire, right? Smelled good, so why not?


“Yeah, Og?’

“You feel weird?”

“I feel lovely.”

“Right? Like, super-lovely and good?”

“Have we invented ovens yet?”

“Nowhere near.”

“Okay, cool. Then I won’t say I’m baked.”

“The concept of baking doesn’t exist yet.”

“Did we do something different today? Maybe we invented something without realizing it.”

“We hunted.”


“Then we gathered.”


“Now we’re sitting by the fire. Same ol’, same ol’.”

“We should travel.”

“Take a trip somewhere.”

“Wait, dude.”

“What’s a ‘dude?'”

“I dunno. I just felt compelled to call you that.”

“It fits.”

“It just sounds right, right?”



“I love it. I’m in.”

“The smelly plants.”

“Is that gonna be the name of our band?”

“No, but it should be.”


“The plants we threw in the fire. Doesn’t the smoke smell all weird?”

“I thought it smelled pretty good, man.”

“Right, but weird.”


“Dude, I think we found magic plants.”


“Yup. We’re shamans.”

“We’re totally fucking shamans, bro.”

“Y’know who would love this? Moochie.”

“Oh, no, dude: Moochie got eaten by a sabre-toothed duck.”

“Aw, fuck.”


“Why are we the only animals without sabres for teeth?”

“Excellent question. Throw some more magic on the fire.”

And so on.

The next morning, Thog and Og went back to the spot where they found the plants, picked more, and began experimenting. (Always keep in mind that the so-called “caveman” was your genetic equal, absolutely identical to a modern-day human and capable of the same mental theatrics. A baby from 20,000 years ago, snatched via Time Sheath, could be raised in 2017 with no problem. Our ancestors weren’t dumb, they just hadn’t invented anything yet.) The boys learned some things. For example, cannabis plants are like mosquitoes: only the females will fuck you up; males contain none of the psychoactive ingredient THC that makes smoking doobies a worthwhile pursuit. Evidence shows that farmers in China and the Middle East were separating their crop by sex long before the birth of the Christ.

The Greeks and the Romans and the ancient Indians enjoyed marijuana–let’s just say all of Asia–and Africa, too. Europeans brought it to the New World, and I think that might be the only fair trade that this hemisphere got in the whole sordid history of Colonialism: potatoes for pot. George Washington grew hemp, although I think stories of his toking up are as apocryphal as the tales of him chopping trees down.

Actual pot smoking started in the early part of the 20th century; there had been cannabis-based medicines available for quite a while, but doobies? We’re talking doobies? 1910 or so. After the Mexican Revolution, there was a flood of immigration our way, but the Mexicans were the best kind of guest in that they brought weed. Smokable cannabis had been brought to Brazil by the Portuguese; they found it useful in keeping their slaves mellow.

Never forget: the past was terrible.

So, the pot starts flowing in 1910 or so. Completely legal, but not for long. 1914 saw El Paso pass a ban; other towns followed. Marihuana is grown, sold, and used all over the West Coast, mostly by Mexican-American communities. Meanwhile, reefer is being shipped into New Orleans, where it catches on with the nascent jazz scene and thus propagates throughout African-American communities. Can you tell how this is going to end?

Right: poorly. Prohibition ends in 1933, but there’s a problem: the failed societal experiment had created two opposing, but intertwining, systems. Prohibition created organized crime, so there were markets and delivery routes already in place. But Prohibition also swelled the number of cops and agencies and law enforcement dedicated to, well, prohibiting things.  One of those organizations was called the Federal Bureau of Narcotics (later the Drug Enforcement Agency) and was led by a guy named Harry Anslinger, the pothead’s Voldemort. A bunch of states had outlawed pot, but he got congress to pass the Marihuana Stamp Act in 1937. Instead of an outright ban, which the federal government was not seen as having the power to do, it levied a tax on the sale of pot. Thus, if you were caught holding, you could be thrown in jail for not paying your taxes.

(Those of you noting that the strategy is the same kind of sneaky bullshit the government pulled on Al Capone are correct, and should reward yourself with a treat of your choosing.)

And that was it for a long while.  The substance was forbidden from use, sale, or possession and banned from all 50 states. Pot was stupidly illegal; they’d throw you in jail for a decade for one or two jazz cigarettes. Naturally, people kept getting high. Organized crime had something to do, the prohibitors had something to do; everyone was happy except the poor schmuck who just wanted to smoke a joint.

Weed began to go mainstream in the 60’s; by “mainstream,” I mean middle-class white people found out about it. The rock and rollers wrote songs praising the sweet leaf, and the college kids who went to their shows ate that shit up. You could buy a lid of Maui Wowie, or perhaps some Thai Stick. You could also, still, go to jail for a million years.

Then, it got worse. At the federal level, the government ramped up the War on Drugs, which has gone as well as the Wars on Poverty or Terrorism. Maybe we should stop declaring wars on concepts. Mandatory minimum sentencing laws were passed. Millions were spent on scare campaigns; billions for law enforcement.

But it also got a little better, slowly. States began decriminalizing possession of personal-use weights. (“Yes, officer, all ten pounds are for my personal use.”) Then, one by one and also slowly, states started to allow prescriptions of medical marijuana with varying levels of strictness. Some places require patients to have one of a set list of ailments, and limit the number of dispensaries in each county; and then there was California, where the medical marijuana law was blatantly a de facto legalization.

And now, to the subtle and lasting shock of any Enthusiast over a certain age, a couple states have legalized recreational marihuana. You have to pay your tax on it, too, just like Harry Anslinger wanted.

And here’s where it gets stupid. Marijuana is still illegal at the federal level, so the DEA could shut down the whole industry–multi-billion dollar industry, by the way–tomorrow. Plus, the laws vary wildly from state to state. The Four Corners. Where the square states meet? Stand in Colorado with a duffel bag full of the sticky icky, and you’re good. Walk ten feet to the west, and you’re in Utah; they only legalized trousers for women last year, so it might take a while for pot to become hunky-dory in Utah. Oh, and since the laws are so conflicting, banks won’t do business with the dispensaries so you have an entire industry–multi-billion dollar industry–being run on cash. I told you it was stupid.

This leads us to the current situation: in seven states, marijuana is legal for adults to enjoy for no reason other than it being an enjoyable pastime; in 19 others, it is obtainable under certain conditions. In 24 states, marijuana is still the devil’s weed. The federal government’s current view on pot is, to be charitable, uncharitable. Marijuana’s future, as always, is hazy.

Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

Do’s And Don’ts For Your Asshole

“Rectally is actually a lot more preferred because of the volume of absorption,” Kogan told CBC. “You can put a lot more and [the THC] gets absorbed a lot better, but not everybody is open to this way of administration.”High Times, 3/8/17

What belongs in your butt?

  • Pre-pooped poop.
  • A body part that you and your partner (or partners) have agreed on beforehand.
  • Properly greased-up marital aids.
  • Rabbit. (Magicians only.)
  • Medical device administered by a trained health professional in a professional setting.

What doesn’t belong in your butt?

  • Everything else.

The Best Recipe For Cannabutter On The Internet In Just 66 Simple Steps

You will need:

  • Doobie (A certain amount.)
  • Butter (An amount in the proper ratio to the doobie.)
  • Blender
  • Saucepan
  • Cheesecloth
  • Pyrex measuring cup
  • Ice cube tray


  1. Pour the doobie into the blender, stems and all.
  2. Press “CHOP.”
  3. Press “CHOP” again.
  4. Slap side of blender lightly.
  5. Press “CHOP” once more.
  6. Try “PUREE.”
  7. Walk around house plugging blender into various electrical sockets, slapping the machine every once in a while.
  8. Begin to destroy blender in fit of pathetic rage.
  9. Remember that your doobie is in it.
  10. Empty doobie into cereal bowl.
  11. Finish destroying blender in fit of pathetic rage.
  12. Using small grinder with a Stealie on it, break up doobie while watching YouTube videos.
  13. Deposit ground-up doobie in the simmering butGODDAMMIT I FORGOT TO PUT THE BUTTER ON.
  14. Rummage in cabinet for saucepan.
  15. No, that’s a soup pot, moron.
  16. Yes, that one.
  17. Place on burner set to low.
  18. Add butter.
  19. Add doobie.
  20. Turn on oven vent fan.
  21. Seriously, turn on your fucking oven vent fan.
  22. Read two pages at random from Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  23. Check pan, stir.
  24. Read two pages at random from Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  25. Check pan, stir.
  26. Read two pages at random from Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  27. Check pan, stir.
  28. Decide you’re too obsessive to not check the pan every two minutes; decide to run errand.
  29. Put on pants.
  30. Get halfway out the door before realizing that you’re literally leaving the stove on.
  31. You’re smarter than that.
  32. Remove pants.
  33. Read two pages at random from Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  34. Check pan, stir.
  35. Browse Amazon for blenders.
  36. Remember that you become acclimated to smells very quickly, and wonder if you’re being objective about how bad the house reeks.
  37. Walk outside and begin sniffing like a crazy person.
  38. Say hello to the mother/daughter combo that lives across the street.
  39. Talk to them about professional wrestling.
  40. (The mother/daughter combo are professional wrestling fans.)
  41. Go back inside.
  42. Read two pages at random from Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  43. Prepare receptacle for cannabutter.
  44. Try to think of a better name than “cannabutter.”
  45. Fail.
  46. Check pan, stir.
  47. Cover kitchen counter with paper towels.
  48. Place Pyrex measuring cup and ice cube tray on paper towels.
  49. Where’s the cheesecloth?
  50. You forgot to get cheesecloth, didn’t you?
  51. You dipshit.
  52. Rummage around in closet for an old, thin tee-shirt.
  53. Obviously not the Stones shirt.
  54. Giants shirt is thin as hell.
  55. Think about the Giants for a while, and what a great year they had, and how they’d be unstoppable if they got a running back and a tight end.
  56. Remember you’re in the middle of stinking up your neighborhood with the smell of probable cause.
  57. Lay tee-shirt over top of Pyrex measuring cup, and pour contents of saucepan in.
  58. Squeeze all butter out using your hands.
  59. Burn the fuck out of your hands.
  60. Improvise a squeezy-type situation with a wooden spatula and Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography.
  61. Put empty saucepan in sink to soak.
  62. Throw spatula in, too.
  63. Realize you need the spatula some more.
  64. You dipshit.
  65. Pour cannabutter into ice cube trays.
  66. Launder Giants tee-shirt.

It’s just that simple, Enthusiasts.

Flip Your Lid

We have a question before us, Enthusiasts, and it may be one that we are in a unique position to answer. I’ll go so far as to state that if we can’t figure this one out, then no one can: What was a lid?

For the youth: before Pokemon Go and the innertubes, teens smoked dope and fucked. The carpets were thicker, but the skateboards were skinnier. (Also, the people were skinnier.) On a normal weekend, you would hang out in a parking lot. On a fuckin’ sick party weekend, you would go down to the Sportatorium and see a rock and roll show. You might hitchhike there, because the past is a third-world country. Mostly, you smoked dope and fucked.

The fucking was mostly the same, except that condoms were only used by prostitutes, sailors, and your mom, but the dope was different. There was no shatter, dabs, extract, hash oil, honey oil, truffle oil, dragon eggs, unicorn sweat, or chewy nougat. Nor were there celebrity-endorsed weed strains (Happy birthday, Oteil) or vapes; I mean, the chemical reaction known as vaporization existed, but you couldn’t walk around in public sucking on your skinny robot dick and blurfing out giant clouds of root beer-smelling bullshit.

You rolled joints on The White Album. It was a simpler, seedier time. And stemmier: weed was mostly terrible. On the bright side, it cost a nickel, like everything else back then: until 1973, the US was a nickel-based economy.

Which brings us back to the mythical and morpholinguistical “lid.” I asked about this on Twitter not an hour ago, and have gotten ten different answers:

  • An ounce.
  • 7/8 of an ounce.
  • 3/4 of an ounce.
  • You would hold your hand up to a baggie and measure four fingers worth, like asking for two fingers of scotch. (Do people ever ask for two fingers of scotch in real life?)
  • A lid’s worth: like, you just poured the weed into the top of a coffee can, or a saucepan, or a frisbee.
  • The amount of weed it took to give a picture of G. Gordon Liddy a modest afro.

And, sure: the last one’s made up, but the others are real; I have no reason to think anyone’s lying to me, so there is only one conclusion to be reached: the word “lid” was operating by Smurf rules. It meant whatever you and the person you were speaking with decided it meant. The past just made it up as it went.

(Please chime in in the Comment Section: I’m genuinely interested.)

Joint Press Conference

jerry joint press coference

I guess this is the question of the day, isn’t it? You know he’s got another joint on him. And if he’s out, the person next to him has one. (For a Grateful Dead, it is close to a mathematical certainty that you are standing next to someone with weed.) Look at that itty-bitty thing: it’s more paper and spit than doobie at this point. Why, Garcia?

Also: coal miners’ hands don’t get that dirty.

Also also: is this honestly a press conference? The line of plastic cups of water and the seating arrangement suggest it is. If so, then a rare demerit for Garcia: TotD frowns upon performative doobies. There’s just something so Rebellious™ about it.

Billy Gets Some Trim


Billy has a boat in his pool.

Tell us what he does with it in the Comment Section.


The Three Men I Admire Somewhat

jerry joint mickey phil

At a certain level of financial success, don’t you just stub out the roach and light a new one?

Also: Mickey looks like a PSA about not doing drugs.

Also also: if you tilt your head to the side, Phil’s profile looks like the Andes mountains.