Glass Pipes | Bongs | vaporizers | Reviews

First off I must say my thanks to weed for all of the fun shit i have done while high.

It was around 98′ or whenever half-baked came out in theatres.. Jeremy came to my house and woke me up at like 12 in the morning like he did every day. We told my grandma we were going to lift weights like Normal (My parents were out of town in like Minnesota or something) which Jeremy probably just did… Then we walked around town through the alleys and stuff and toked up a couple joints… We went back to my house and Jeremy asked out of the Blue, “You wanna go to Mexico?” With no hesitation, I was like, “Yeah, Lets Go!” I said “Hold on, let me wash some clothes and shit” Jeremy was like “Not now dumbass, We don’t even have a car” I was like, “Oh yeah”, but I started washing clothes anyway and started getting packed…

When me and Jeremy were planning to go to mexico, It was Gonna be Were moving to Mexico, Running away from our fucked up little Texas town.. So, I got all my shit packed, Guitar, most all of my clothes, just the shit I needed.. Then we went to Jeremys house and he got his shit packed, by this time We had smoked a lotta weed and it was probably around 4 oclock. We decided that we were gonna steal his parents car, or he decided anyway, and That was cool with me… So around that night We went 15 miles down the road to Our normal little town where we got our weed and I sold my playstation for an ounce of some pretty damn good weed, Morgan gave us the ride and while we were there, or maybe we called ZAK and Jonathan earlier or later They wanted to go with us with no hesitation too… the more the better right.. So before that I think I snuck out my window with my shit then went and got the bud…

When we got back to town, Me and jeremy had like almost Two ounces of bud and we chilled for a little while and waited for his parents to fall asleep So we could get the car, go pick up zak and jonathan and hit the mother fucking open road!! And thats what we did, Me and jeremy went and picked em up,, they snuck out too,, loaded their shit and Hit the road!, it was probably around 2 in the morning by then,, I think they had some more bud too… But when we left. Me and jeremy had my briefcase full of rolled joints 5 packs of camels and 5 packs of Marlboros. So on the road, we toked up and drove and toked up and drove and toked up, and toked up some more, we’d rotate drivers when we could remember or speak anyway, MY ass drove a lotta the way… Shit, ANyway, It was the MOTHER FUCKING SHIT! 15 year old kids on the open road Stoned as hell listening to Tom Petty and the Doors, and Sublime and shit,, It was just the greatest feeling,, like were Fucking Free, ye know? FREE-FALLING!!!, when day time hit, it was fucking awesome, the desert turned to sick ass mountains… we were escaping to the unknown, it ruled! There were some stops along the way, admiring the scenery, toking up, Enjoing our selves… Everything was all good. Shit we got into El Paso TexAss bout an hour before Dark, with a few almost in mexico, not knowing where we were driving before that… We saw a movie theatre with Half Baked playing, so we stopped, stumbled out the car and went in to watch it,,HAlf fucking Baked at that!

I didn’t remember the movie though, i saw it later on and it was like the first time I saw it, I think i passed out in the theatre.. After the movie, we started heading to mexico which was pretty damn close,, Toking up the whole way… I dont know why, but at a rest area, we stopped and stashed our weed under a paper plate,, kissed it good bye and hoped wed meet again,, it was only like a dime bag by now… And bout a mile down the road there was a checkpoint, so we did good by saying bye to our weed. Well, when we got to the checkpoint, Jeremy pulled up, the dude waved him on and Then his Stoned ass rolled his window down. We were like: cking go! he waved us on! SO jeremy took off… Shit our car was Hot Boxed like a mother fucker!! They had to smell that weed! So like a mile down the road, We got fucking pulled over by some border patrol pigs. The reason: they smelled weed from the car… Or maybe they knew the car was stolen, i dont remember,, But whatever the reason, we got dragged out the fucking car, I got thrown on the ground with a gun to my fucking head,, They searched everything, Us, The car, their assholes, whatever… So we get hancuffed, and go sit in the border patrol station With these Pigs talking bout football games and Shit! I was like, Yall are Fucking Assholes, let us go! We were all pissed!,, Anyway, They transfered us to a jail in sierra blanca texas,, like 30 miles from where we were, I don’t know why..they took us there… They let us all call our parents and we got to stay in this little room with blankets and shitty ass pillows in a freezing fucking cold room until they would come and pick us up, Zaks dad was there first, Im sure his ride home was enjoyable,,,Jonathans dad was next, Jeremys parents were next, and My parents all the way from minnesota were last… We stayed in that place for like 2 days, or at least I did……. We got off scott free,, Jeremys parents didn’t press charges and I got grounded for 2 weeks and got my long hair cut…

That was a fun ass time and Ill tell my grandkids bout it: Paul, Jeremy, Zak, and Jonathan… the Almost Mexico crew!

The day was friday so the homies and me were fucking around like always. I was in need of some good yeska so that’s when my homie Silent told me that his grandfather sold bud. I decided to check out what he had told me. We took his cousin cause he was the one who knew my homies grand father more than he did. As we arrived I was already feeling the craving for the bud. I wanted a 40 just 2 check out the bud. He gave us a pretty good amount. I smelled it and right away I knew it was Blue Berry Chronic. Since my homie Silent was the one who told me about the yeska I told him if he wanted to blaze it up (he said orales). So I asked my other homies: Nino Mac, Ricki Ricki Sticki Icki, and Niples. They said that they were down with me. So I went home for my Green Bubonic Bong. We went to my esculita(school) Santa*Ana HIGH. I packed the first boll but VERY packed. I took the first toke and I choked the fuck out(GOD DAMN IT WAS SOME GOOD AS SHIT). My other homies took some to but not like the one I took. But then my homie Silent said that competition none. So he took the best toke ever, but choked like a mutha. To make this story short we were doing some pull-ups when a little boy appeared out of nowhere. I told the homie Silent about the little boy and we started to trip out. The other homies saw him and they were trippin too. So I told the boy to go away but he wouldn’t move from the spot that he was standing on. He would just look away slowly and then look back at us. So we got scared the fuck out and left quick style. So any waze that was my story so keep on smoking the CHRONIC!!!! AND BE CAREFULL CAUSE THINGS YOU MIGHT SEE!!!

Many of us smokers have surpassed the phase of bowls and joint and the homemade devices we all know have saved our life many times before.The final step in getting high is smoking blunts.Everyone should know what a blunt is, but for those of you who dont its about the amount of three fat doobies rolled in a cigar. Very tasty!!. All me and my friends ever smoke is blunts. I smoke on the average of about 4-6 blunts a day. On the weekends ,its a totally different story. We smoke stupid amounts.One friday night me and all of my buddies decided to get a half pound and smoke it all in one night. In order to do this we would have to smoke steadily!!!! We all sat down, stoned out of our minds from the blue haze,and started talking. My friend said “You guys ever heard of an oowop?” None of us had. He said he had heard about it but never tried it. So we went to the stor! e and got a box of swisher sweets.we had an essembley line going. Four people were cutting up the stink nuggets while the other three of us were spliting stogeys. We connected about 5 of them together and rolled over 35 grams in it .It was like an uncooked pretzel when we first rolled it.After being put under a gro-lite, it was dry in about five minutes and hard as a rock!! Ready to smoke!!!We called some more people over to party and in the end 17 people helped consume this massive blunt and twelve of them had to stop smoking it!! Two yaked!! I have never been so high in my intire life!! It is now a weekend ritual and I strongly urge the most tolerant stoners to try it!!! Good luck fellas!

First, to understand the story, you need to understand some background info. Okay, a while back my dad thought I stole some $, and I had bad grades, and etc. so anyway, my dad is really pissed, and violent . . . and tomorrow reports cards are comin’ in. Well, frankly, I’m a little scared, so I decide to sort of runaway and prettymuch spend the night at a friend’s house and not call. So that day I went to my friend Nigel’s and all went according to plan, until my dad called. My friend Aaron told him (turns out probably good). So my dad comes over and tears Nigel’s dad a new asshole.So now they think I’m some angel, who so unfortunatley has an abusive, alcoholic father.(Which he isn’t).

You see, we always thought Nigel was allergic to smoke.
(I know pretty lame excuse, huh?)
Turns out he wasn’t, so me and this dirt-smokin’, dope fiendin’ type of pothead, named Ed, and one of Nigel’s loser friend’s, who also just started smoking went to go smoke. You see, Ed is rich, and had this stupid cell-phone that he kept playin’ with. So anyway we go down under some bleachers at a near-by baseball field and we’re hittin’ a bong, smokin’ some pretty damn good shit, and while Ed’s dumbass accidentally calls Nigel on his fancy speed dial, Caller-ID, automatic, whatever feature on his phone.

So when Nigel comes home, his parents are like; ” Where have you been? Who you been with?” so he says

“I was up at Garrison [Park] with Ed and Rob” so his parents walk over to the counter and fiddle with something. A few seconds later . . . It’s me and Ed, and Nigel, and his stupid friend, all on the answering machine hittin’ a bong, and talkin’ burnt talk. So everyone, except me, got snitched out by Nigel’s mom . . . because they thought my dad would beat me.

So everyone get totally fucked, exept ole Rob [me] who walks away scot free. Life is good.

Anyone who lives in the United States and has been to Amsterdam will relate to this. For those that have not, let it serve as a warning. After a very hazy week of overindulgence, I found myself confronted with less than an hour to reach Schipol Int’l and catch my connecting flight to Brussels. To avoid any potential meeting between my prostrate and U.S. Customs, I diligently checked all my baggage and clothing for stray bits of ganja. Packed and ready to call for a taxi, I realized that I had close to a quarter in leftovers. My friends had departed the night before and left their unfinished stash in my possession So much ganja, so little time. A small ball of King Hassan, a larger one of Tbizla and almost a gram of Nepalse Cream sat on the counter next to various incarnations of White Widow, Super Silver Haze, White Rhino, White Avalanche, Hindu Kush and AK-47. I quickly consolidated all the ganja into one sloppy, massive joint and fired away. After a week of practice, I managed to finish about a third this monster in ten minutes.

I made several failed attempts at calling a taxi and opted for pressing the single button marked ‘front desk’. It took me a few minutes to realize that the very patient woman at the front desk was, in fact, speaking English and that I was simply too stoned to understand what she was saying. I took a moment to try and focus, but could only feel myself getting higher and higher the longer I waited. I was experiencing the fear. A transfer in Brussels and a assload of luggage would not make for an easy, expedited commute in this condition. Twinges of paranoia kept me thinking, ‘did i check my luggage for leftovers?’, ‘what if I missed something’. I called the front desk again and restricted myself to saying only three words, “taxi, room 114″. I still could not understand the woman on the phone, but figured she understood and made my way to the door. What about all the hash on the counter? It seemed rude to leave it out for housekeeping to throw away, but I could not bring myself to throw it in the garbage. (In the U.S. it would have been a very nice tip, but in Amsterdam if seemed like the equivalent of leaving a half-smoked pack of cigarettes). Every second of delay brought another level of certainty that I was never going to make my flight. For some reason the only option I could think of was to eat it all. Grated, I was way too high at the moment, but reasoned that the hash would not kick in for at least an hour…just when I would be able to sit back and enjoy the long flight home.

After a few confusing minutes engaged in the checkout process, I was in a taxi headed for the airport. The driver took one look at me and started laughing. Before I even said a word, he asked where I was from in the States. Apparently, the driver felt some rivalry with the infamous hacks of the Big Apple and decided to prove that the most frightening taxi ride could be had in the Netherlands. I think we peaked at about 135 mph (near 230 kph on his speedometer). I desperately needed to pass out and regroup, but was too terrified close my eyes. To the driver’s credit, he got me to the airport with time to spare. Disoriented to the extreme, I swayed through airport in search of my airbus to Brussels. Ordinarily, if I were this high I would just pass out, but I had to catch my flight. Nothing like having to force yourself to stay conscious when all your brain wants to do is shut off.

My brain and I reached various compromises along the way to check-in. I was allowed limited control over balance and coordination, some verbal skills, but limited vision and absolutely no short-term memory. I had to look at my ticket, when I could find it, every thirty seconds just to remember what airline I was on. I tried to check my bags, but machine gun laden airport security came over and escorted me to a small alcove. I was informed that I could not board until I spoke with someone known as ‘the inspector’. All I could think of was that scene in midnight express where the sweatly warden hung the protagonist upside down and beat his feet with a club. With five minutes left to make my flight, I finally met ‘the inspector’. Turns out that a better translation for ‘the inspector’ would have been ‘the cheese police’. Earlier, my transparent bag alerted secuirty to the fact that I was transporting potentially dangerous, soft-ripen cheeses. Perhaps it was the relief of being busted for mere cheese or the extreme formality and pompousness of the cheese inspector, but I started to laugh uncontrollably to point of insulting this warden of Dutch dairy products.

I made the airbus, minus two wheels of brie, only to find that it would be delayed for half an hour. This would leave me fifteen minutes to transfer in Brussels. I would have been pissed, but I passed out within seconds of taking a seat. I woke to discover three things. First, I was being violently shaken. Second, I had no idea where I was. Third, the hash had fully kicked in. I saw several heads looming over me and heard different voices with the same concerned tone. The problem was that I could not match each voice with correct head, making direct communication impossible. I looked for someone in a uniform, showed my ticket and said, “transfer”. He pointed and I ran. I focused on my legs, thinking out each big stride, thinking ‘be the juice, be the juice!’ (This was before he killed his wife. Remember that old Hertz commercial.) I was pleased with my ability to run in somewhat of a straight line considering my overall disorientation and the fact that I could not feel my thighs. So pleased, that I ran right passed the correct gate to the other side of the airport. Confronted with less than two minutes to board, I picked up the pace to a full out sprint. I came off one of those odd horizontal escalators at full speed and wiped out right in front of the correct gate.

At long last I had made it. Those boarding the plane looked at me like a deranged, clumsy oaf, but I carried the smile of a marathon runner crossing the finish line. This is, until I was asked for my ticket, which was nowhere to be found. I became enraged and started tearing through the contents of my carry-on luggage. I enlisted the unwilling help of those left on line as I opened every conceivable zipper and delayed the flight. It was not until threats of violence were issued from a fellow American that I checked my own pockets and finally uncovered the tickets. Down the boarding tube I think I asked at least five different people if I was on the correct flight. I asked the stewardess at the plane door at least twice before I would even set foot on the plane. It took a nod from the co-copilot just to usher me down the aisle. I saw the sweet seat that was to cradle my corporal form for the next seven hours and almost came to tears. I only woke up twice during the flight. Once, to spill a half-eaten dinner tray on someone who had foolishly tried to pass it to me. And again to confirm that I was on the correct flight.

Late 1970’s I worked as a casual drink waiter, weekends, at one of Sydney’s Rugby League Football Clubs. Balmain Leagues Club actually. In those days the Saturday and Sunday nights entertainment in the Auditorium was free. There was a resident Band and Ballet (chorus line) performing each night plus visiting artists. The Band was excellent and the Ballet didn’t go unnoticed. The band was led by Mike Perjanic and was called the COMPLEX. They were first class. Mike by the way for any British readers wrote the theme music for “Neighbours”. We got bumper crowds every night. The patrons were seated at two rows of long tables with a centre line between them from the stage down the auditorium. Fifty or more people to each table.

By the other staff I was called Marijuana Max because there was seldom a night I wasn’t stoned from start to finish. By the loyal patrons at my two tables I was known as the “singing waiter”. Contrary to what the “straights” might imagine, I had no trouble remembering the drinks individual groups ordered and what I charged them. Remembering what you charged was important because Australia, being a non tipping culture, you added what you thought the traffic would stand to the cost of each round. If you weren’t careful there was sure to be someone in the group who would remember what they paid for the last round.

Anyway before the entertainment started we would spend time picking up glasses around the poker machines. One night there was a particularly “toothsome” lady at one of the machines. Of course I spent quite a bit of time trying to “chat her up” and was disappointed when it came time to go into the Auditorium and I hadn’t made much headway. My charm wasn’t working on her that evening.

The bars were so arranged that when collecting drinks my tables in the auditorium I could see patrons from the pokies getting there drinks at another bar. Early in the piece before the entertainment had actually started I spied my target at the other bar getting a drink. I continued extolling the wonders of the entertainment particularly how good the band was. I was still hoping to get her onto one of my tables.

Finally we get down to the nitty gritty. When she asked me what the name of the band was, quick as a flash from my subconscious in a loud voice comes, “The CLIMAX” Now for any of you who have read this far and didn’t know at the start what a “Freudian slip” was, that’s about the best example you will ever find. Naturally or unnaturally as the case may be, I didn’t see her in the auditorium. Didn’t really matter as there was a classy young lady at one of my tables that night with whom I formed a very nice relationship.

By the way hope to see you all at the 15th Cannabis (Word Peace) Cup

Mad (Marijuana) Max