We’ve all heard those scare
stories about recreational marijuana use.
Over the years I’ve heard government-sponsored horror tales warning
against everything from lung cancer to male breast enlargement. (Yes folks, they once told us that guys who
smoked too much pot would grow tits!)
Of course, none of these turned
out to be true. I’ve known a lot of male
potheads over the years, and nary a one of them had anything approaching a
decent rack. Same goes for lung cancer. The predicted rise in pot-related cancer
cases never materialized. Indeed, some
studies in Europe (pot-positive research doesn’t get funded in the U.S.) have
suggested that marijuana may actually slow or block the growth of some types of
cancers.
And we’ve all heard about its
many benefits for people suffering from a host of painful and debilitating
maladies—from glaucoma to chemotherapy-induced nausea to multiple sclerosis to
menstrual cramps—and all without significant side effects.
I mean, people have been using
this plant for at least the last 10,000 years, so it’s pretty damned hard to
come up with some supposed danger that isn’t easily refuted by its millions of
users. And no one has ever—in all of
those 10,000 years—died of an overdose of pot.
It’s safer than aspirin.
But our governments, who will
prosecute us for using and enjoying this docile plant, don’t mind if we fill
ourselves with other drugs. As long as
they have the approval of the medical profession and the drug industry, hey, no
problem. So we’re bombarded with
advertising for drugs that are considered safe and effective based on five or
ten years of testing, but are given dire warnings about a drug that’s been
safely used for millennia.
…Or so we thought. Several years ago, I discovered a peril that
is never mentioned in the propaganda against pot. It’s one so insidious, so vile, and every
regular pot smoker has either experienced it or knows someone who did. Yet it’s never written or spoken about.
It’s a conspiracy of silence, I
tell you. Potheads know that if this
Dread Peril became known to the wider public, it would be seized upon by those
who seek to preserve and expand prohibition.
They’d finally be able to scare people away with warnings about a
genuine danger, instead of their usual twaddle.
Unlike the anti-drug
propagandists, I’m not merely repeating what some government-sponsored
scientists say. I know of this because
I—personally—have suffered the Horrible Fate that I’m about to reveal. I have experienced the disgusting filth and
utter degradation that can come from the recreational use of marijuana.
Allow me to explain.
Many years ago, I worked the graveyard shift
at one of those gas station/convenience stores.
Because I worked through the wee hours of the morning when robberies are
rife, the store’s doors were locked and I did all my business through a sliding
drawer. My job consisted of punching gas
purchases into the computer that controlled the pumps, making change and
occasionally fetching a soda or pack of cigarettes from the shelves.
The place was well covered by
security cameras, which could be a blessing and a curse. Would-be robbers were dissuaded by their
presence, but it also made it risky to do anything the boss wouldn’t like. He rarely looked at the tapes when he came in
the next morning unless something big happened.
But there was always the possibility that someone would rob you a
half-hour after your girlfriend had paid a visit.
There were only two places in the
store that weren’t covered by the cameras, the employee bathroom off the back
office and the walk-in refrigerator. The
refrigerator had large glass doors opening into the store. Behind the shelves there was a room where you
could stock the shelves from behind.
This was the perfect spot for
anything that demanded privacy. As long
as you could tolerate the cold, you could do anything you wanted, free of
scrutiny. Better yet, you could see out
through the glass doors—so you knew when a customer came to the cash window—but
it was too dark in there for them to see you.
I was introduced to this
information by a co-worker who used the refrigerator for the same reason as I
did: to smoke grass. I liked how, at
around three in the morning when the boredom was well nigh insufferable, I
could become a child; fascinated by all of the bright colors of the store, the
wonderful people who came to my cash window, and the many interesting
conversations I had in my head.
It was much preferable to
spending those lonely hours as a bored, thirty-something earning chump change
in a dead end job.
Whenever I needed to sneak away
for a few minutes—either to smoke or to use the toilet—I taped a handmade sign
on the window saying I’d be back in a few minutes. Often, this was a mere formality because, by
three o’clock, we only averaged one or two customers per hour.
So that was the best time to
sneak off for a bowl—be it a pot bowl or a toilet bowl.
One night after business died
down, I did just that, spending five or ten minutes in the refrigerator getting
high and doing what I call the Bong Hit Shudder. If you’ve ever smoked pot or been in the
company of those who do, you know what I’m talking about. It’s that heaving of the shoulders and the
beet-red face that comes from trying to hold your breath—despite an
overwhelming urge to cough—until all of the active ingredients have been
absorbed into the lungs.
“No cough—no get off,” as
we used to say.
This was amplified by the fact
that you had to cram your smoking into the shortest possible time period, since
a customer might come in at any moment and you didn’t want to risk a complaint
to the boss. Instead of smoking a bowl
slowly, over the period of a half-hour or so, you had to bang it out in five or
ten minutes. Your lungs took an extra beating
because they didn’t have sufficient time to recover between tokes.
So on that particular night, I
emerged from my low-temperature smoking lounge still coughing. I continued to cough sporadically for several
minutes after returning to my stool in front of the cash window. Following a particularly nasty cough I felt a
sort of rushing, a flowing in the seat of my pants.
Oh NO!!!!! The Dreaded Hershey™ Squirts!!!! No, No, No, God No!!! Please, not now!!! Not Here!!!
Only this was more like a Hershey™ Flood!
The combination of the Bong Hit Shudder and the crappy (pun intended)
snack food I ate each working night had wrought an awful toll.
A steady diet of withered hot
dogs, potato chips and Snickers bars doesn’t lend itself to comfortable digestion.
Worse was the suspense, nay!
dread that gripped me once the initial shock had worn off. Would my thin cotton boxer shorts contain
this noxious flood or would I have to lock up the store and slink the three
miles home for a shower and clean clothes?
Needless to say, I fairly lunged
at the crude sign I’d crafted earlier and was about to tape it in the window
and hurry to the bathroom when…a car pulled up.
I was sure he saw me, so it wouldn’t do to slap the sign up and walk
away, especially as I was sure to be gone awhile. No, I had to wait until there were no
customers in sight.
“Gimme ten bucks on pump thirteen and two
packs of Winstons,” he drawled.
I wondered if he noticed anything
strange as I waddled—like a ruptured duck—to the cigarette rack. I cringed as I stretched to get his
smokes. Winstons were, of course, kept
on the very top shelf.
He was followed by a procession
of customers, each perfectly timed to give me hope as one finished pumping his
gas, only to dash it to bits as another customer pulled in. Again and again. Never before had we had such a sales boom at
this hour!
(sigh)
This went on for about forty-five
eternal, agonizing minutes. Every move I
made, each can of soda and each candy bar I fetched became a Death Defying
stunt.
“Will he survive??? Will he make it through the complex physical
maneuvers of his trial period and go on to win our Grand Prize (a sink and
paper towels), or will he plunge headlong
into Shame and Degradation? Can this evil
tide be contained or will his foul affliction be exposed to a host of disgusted
onlookers?
“Watch our hapless contestant squirm in disgust with each new
customer’s request! I tell ya, I can
hardly bear the suspense, folks! Stay
tuned and see what happens on tonight’s hilarious episode of Can You Fucking Stand This?”
To my profound relief and utter
astonishment, when I finally got to the bathroom—miraculously—my once-proud
boxer shorts had contained the deluge.
Nary a spot could be found on my pants!
After about a half-hour spent
with an almost endless succession of paper towels dipped—one after another—into
the tiny bathroom sink and applied vigorously to my backside, I was finally
clean enough to reemerge.
I gave my shorts honorable burial
in a hermetically sealed plastic bag. It
was a brief but heartfelt memorial as I solemnly lowered them into the dumpster
out back. Their noble martyrdom for the
cause of hygiene, personal pride and the integrity of my trousers brought tears
to my eyes.
Alas, the forgotten hero!!! Is it not ever thus? No stirring ballads will be written of your
demise. No headstone will mark your
lonely passing. No one but I shall ever
know of your terrible sacrifice. And yet
you saved me this night. You gave your
very life that I mightn’t stink and offend!
That I might walk proudly with legs outstretched, free of the fear of
scatological migration and befoulment!
That others would not shun me, noses wrinkled and scurrying away in
disgust. This you did for me and I shall
never forget, my ragged old friend, never forget. Too late I realized that you were not just
holey, but holy!
During the time I was washing up,
I heard several frustrated customers pounding on the glass outside, but I
didn’t care. Mine was a more vital
business. And I wasn’t about to explain
to the few who had the patience to wait all that time.
I think you can understand.
So the next time someone tells
you that marijuana is harmless, kids, tell ‘em you know otherwise. If they disagree, you can be sure they’re
either potheads or stealth-marketers for the underpants industry.
