Tag: trixie garcia (Page 4 of 5)

Billy’s Trip to the Cannabis Cup, a Pictorial Essay:

The day started calmly, even congenially. Billy got there on time, walked up to this fellow, and asked him, “Do you consider yourself a Jewish fatty or a fat-assed Jew? Fuck it, let’s get a picture.”

After being shown to his dressing room, complaining about his dressing room, trashing his dressing room, and setting fire to the remains of his dressing room, Billy was shown around the booths to see what was hip and fresh in the world of smoking doobies.

He is here seen staring at a vaping pen like a grandfather examining new technology that frightens him.

Plus, Billy could definitely find a better price if he keeps shopping around: that haircut isn’t going to be giving Billy the proper discount. Find the guy with the Dead shirt, Billy. No, not Mickey. Unless Mickey has become a Denver cannabis salesman. In which case: find Mickey. He will be wearing a Dead shirt.

Also: weed tie. Weed tie or piano scarf: which is getting you laid less?

It was during the Q-and-A with Deal: I’m Not Gonna Come Right Out And Say “Fuck Phil,” But Read Between The Lines co-author Benjy Eisen that the day took a left turn.

Possibly because–upon taking the stage–Billy did this:

And, while not explicitly captured in this image, rest assured that people were handing Billy things and Billy was taking things. Maybe in 1974, with the Wall at your back, you could Grateful Dead your way through a long session of Taking Drugs from Friendly Strangers Indiscriminately, but not now. No one’s Grateful Deaded that hard in twenty years, man.

Billy had also taken a lot of shit himself that day and the session got weird. Billy started answering questions before they were asked, or in fictional but syntactically correct languages. He accused points of being one-dimensional. There were demands for “teenage sushi,” whatever the hell that is; Billy also wanted to eat ortolan, and to wash it down with Mountain Dew.

“Hey, fuckers: it’s go-kart time,” Billy screamed as he removed his clothing and leaped potato salad-first at the small Asian woman in the picture above who had been so excited to see him. There’s no easy or pleasant way to put this: Billy broke her nose with his balls. Some shaft, but mostly balls.

Billy was helped back onto the stage, the woman was escorted out of the room, and the session continued. (Billy was also helped back into his clothing.)

It was at this point that Billy began telling the story of how he knew Benjy Eisen was the appropriate man to help him write Deal: Settling Scores with Uncle Billy. He was smart, of course, and came highly recommended, but Billy was most impressed that Eisen didn’t fall for any of his (and this is from the transcript of the afternoon, so don’t get pissed at me for reporting it) “Jew traps.”

Billy had apparently “left money all around” his house where “your normal person might not see it, but the sharp-eyed Jew will be sure to notice.” Eisen had either resisted or not realized he was playing a game with a crazy person, so Billy hired him and declared him “one of the good ones.”

“You talk. I’m smoking my doobies.”

“Bill, c’mon. You talk: they wanna hear you.”

“Fuck ’em. Give ’em the thing about how your dad would’ve loved this. They’ll eat it up.”

“He would’ve hated this. It’s a convention.”

“Well, he would’ve liked grass being legal.”

“He had trouble getting it?”

“Quit the sass, young missy.”

“What?”

“C’mon, Trix: I’m a drummer, not a talker. I just wanna play that bald fucker’s head, not give a speech.”

At this point in the day, Billy had no goddamn idea where he was, but people were being nice to him and he had won some sort of prize, so he was in a good mood. Delightfully and imperturbably mellow and–again–he had won something, so when the fat guy asked Billy if he had punched any dicks at the Cannbis Cup, he was shocked to realize: he hadn’t.

No, Billy thought. No, I have not punched dick. I’ve been so busy selling the book and getting stoned that I forgot to punch dick.

Jesus.

And then the dickpunching began at the 2015 Cannabis Cup in Denver, Colorado. Billy got white kids with dreadlocks, black kids in hockey jerseys, and many people in baseball caps with strangely straight brims. He punched Governor John Hickenlooper right in his dickenlooper; smacked Peyton Manning in his manhood. (Much like his head, Peyton Manning’s dick is enormous and perfectly rectangular.)

Billy punched that demon horse at the airport’s dick, and he punched many actual horse dicks because it is Colorado and there are horses everywhere, including working at the KFC which is fucked up because horses and chickens are natural allies and to make horses sell chickens for lunch makes horses sad. Chickens, however, would sell horses into sexual slavery without a second thought because chickens are nasty, mean, amoral little fucks.

Billy went up and down the aisles of the Cannabis Cup: he punched the dicks of the businessmen and the entrepreneurs; he punched the dicks of the snobs and aesthetes; he punched the dicks of those who, lacking any natural personality, had assumed the role of “weed person;” he punched the dicks of the semi-celebrity trolling for a ready-made block of fans; he punched the dicks of people who made unreasonable claims about marijuana’s medical uses, like that it shrunk brain tumors or cured polio or made you invisible.

Bros pitched weed-based apps to Billy and Billy punched dick and everything was made out of hemp and Billy punched dick and somehow butane got involved in pot and Billy punched dick and someone’s gonna get stupid rich from weed real soon and Billy punched dick and a teenager tried to explain the difference between wax/oil/shatter and Billy punched dick and everyone was simply covered in tattoos and Billy punched dick.

Trixie found Billy around sixteen hours later, naked and covered in blood on the 50-yard line of Mile High Stadium. He had befriended this dog: