Cannabis enthusiasts Cypress Hill's cameo on The Simpsons.
It’s a hybrid? It’s grown in Southern California? It’s called ‘mango wizzle’? I suppose that's interesting, but I don’t really care. Get me a glass of water because my mouth is extremely dry. And stop giving me a biography of the dope we just smoked, because I’m trying to watch Beverly Hills Ninja.
-One of my least favourite types of people (though I have very few ‘favourite types of people’) are those who get sucked into the pointless discipline of knowing too much about cannabis – proponents of doob scholarship, if you will.
-It’s not that I hate these people, but I have always found them incredibly dull. No prizes for guessing the major contributing factor.
-Every hobby has its enthusiasts, and there’s a fine line between enthusiasts and nerds. I don’t hate nerds either. In fact, I have always felt very comfortable around them, because I am one. However, nerds do have the habit of bending your ear about stuff you couldn’t care less about, and that can be tremendously irritating - even on an interdisciplinary nerd level; an animé nerd will have no time for the ramblings of a military history nerd. Although there are exceptions, such as the nerd I met working in a sex shop in Soho recently. He was, for all intents and purposes, a total nerd, but his niche interest lay in the area of racy things such as lube, pornography and disconcertingly life-like rubber fists, as opposed to warlocks’ incantations and magical elixirs. This made him, in my eyes at least, something of a crossover. I was more inclined to let him guide me through the glass cabinet of jewel-encrusted male urethra enlargers (they’re like the Cartier bracelets of BDSM apparel), than I would have been if he were showing me a selection of replica Viking fantasy weapons. I also found it interesting that his nerdiness probably gets him laid more than the average man – a bit like Neil Strauss, or the bloke who played Seth Coen in The O.C.
-I will put up with – perhaps even enjoy - someone giving me a whirlwind tour through the (thankfully) unfamiliar territory of aggressive sex gear. But I have much less time for nerdy cannabis enthusiasts, who used to bore my buzz into smithereens when I smoked dope, by mumbling away about the name and gender of the strain, where it came from and how fruity/bubbly/dank it was. Let’s get something straight: even if it is the fruitiest, bubbliest, dankest bud ever, and was grown in Indonesia, that just means it spent a long haul flight wrapped in cling-film and buried deep in some poor guy’s arsehole before it found its way to the Carhartt sticker mosaic on your coffee table.
-The last time I remember smoking dope was on my own a few years go, and I spent about 45 minutes in the mirror, combing my hair into a variety of humorous styles. I no longer take any form of drugs or intoxicants. But I do often find myself cornered by a nerdy cannabis enthusiast, providing me with vital information such as ‘ this is the squidgiest Moroccan hash you’ve ever seen, trust me’. Look pal, I trust you alright, it’s just that I just couldn’t give a flying fuck.
In the words of Peter Tosh, ‘legalize it’ (I suppose).
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