Pack It Up Pack It In (217 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by The Yellow Dart (View user info) at 2006-09-22 13:28:49 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
I lowered the flame of the novelty lighter shaped like the statue of liberty down to the green forbidden delicacy. Drawing in a steady steam of air with my thumb covering the tiny hole on the side of the red and black glass-blown pipe, I watch the bright glow of a temporary burn. Releasing, it charges down my throat like a dark army whose ideals seem pretty damn splendid to me.
"Fuck, man," I turn to my buddy Charles and hand him the effects. He insists on being called 'Charles' even though his birth certificate clearly says 'Charlie'. I look past that about him. Sometimes you just got to give up and look past things about people. I'm probably too critical about the people near me, but I manage to look past that too.
This is how we spend our nights: smoking this "substance" like giddy school kids as if it actually is affecting us in any substantial way. I still maintain it's not worth the money some people are willing to dish out for it, but then again people tend to raise their expectancy of something when they put down more cash than the thing's actually worth. Maybe eagerness and the satisfaction of giving up hard earned money raises the potency level in some way. It's been a long time since I got it that way.
Charles, the borderline queer, sells it and smokes me for free because I'm such a good friend. The best friend anyone could ask for.
"Shit," Charles breaks the silence and starts laughing like he always does. I wish he would actually laugh. Instead it's just this half-creepy giggle to himself that severely crescendos. Stimulating conversation, you can clearly see.
I grab the remote and turn on the television and switch over to the news.
News has always fascinated me; especially when I'm pretending to be stoned. There's one newscaster in particular that still makes my skin crawl when I watch him. I can never remember his name, it's something boring; an appropriate name, you'd agree, if you ever saw this guy in action. The only movement in his body is his jaw, mouth, and hairline.
A mobile forehead that gently rocks back and forth in a mesmerising manner while the mouth stammers on and on about people dying or going to jail or growing corn more successfully this year than last. It's reassuring, I think. Kind of like "the world has problems, let me ease your mind with this gentle rocking hairline, my child". He doesn't even blink.
The stories aren't consequential to me. I mean, I'm really daft when it comes to newsworthy issues. Despite this about me, I give myself credit because I ensure that I watch the news every night. Tonight the forehead was telling us about some local boys returning from service in Iraq.
Out of nowhere Charles blurts out "how about that fucking Iraq thing, huh?" I roll my eyes at him and grab the pipe. Packing more green into the bowl I finally turn to him, in all my wisdom, and say, "you know, I think I'm full. No, I haven't eaten a good turkey dinner in too many years and I'll probably have some severe munchies in about an hour, but I'm just full. It's this thing that I'm full of," I say, pointing to the T.V.
"I'm not complaining here Charlie," he puts on an expected disgruntled face because of the name, "but I've been watching and watching and watching this guy's forehead for quite a while now and I think I'm finally done watching. I must know everything and nothing all at once, you know?"
Charles was baked. No, he didn't have a clue what I was talking about, but his disgruntled face changed slowly to a queer smile and he nodded in agreement, because that's what stoners do.
I got thinking about this more, forgetting that I was full and should turn off the T.V.; it's a reassuring background noise that hums its gentle hum to let people like us cramped up in my tiny living room know that the world's still going. People are still on the escalators to Iraq; I can still buy corn tomorrow; gas still costs money, which still infuriates some.
"This..." I trail off for a moment in thought.
"What? Hey dude check out that chick," Charles interrupts by pointing to some blond lady holding a microphone in front of a house in a predictable attempt to show me that he isn't the gay I know he really is.
"No, I'm full of that, remember?" I correct him, "As I was saying... the world is too much like some big vacuum that just loves to take it all in. No, wait, the world's more like a fish bowl that's just building up more and more grime because of the farts of politicians, school teachers, and farmers who keep it running."
Everything's a metaphor when you slowly glance around the room of a crappy apartment whose stuffy air is probably getting you higher than the delicate delicacy did. I was really full though. Glancing towards my kitchen I saw the garbage was overflowing onto the floor.
"That place looks familiar, huh? Where is that? Wait... it's coming to me... oh fuck, dude." Charles was trying to warrant my attention.
"That's it!" I said, probably more excited than I should be, all the while ignoring Charles. "The world is like a fucking garbage can that's packed to the brim but everyone's either too damn lazy or too damn stupid to change it! It's probably pretty easy to change, but it means dealing with some leftover crap that gets mixed in with other crap. Wait," Charles was tugging my shirt now and repeating my name.
"The world needs a digestive system like one giant stomach or something so when we try to pack all this shit in, it'll actually have a place to go. I think the Earth's anus should be in Antarctica somewhere..."
"Shit man! All my stuff! Holy fuck, this isn't happening. They're going to come for me! Fuck man, they're going to be here any minute!" Charles finally got my attention.
Turning to the screen I saw Charles' small off-white home behind the manly-looking blonde chick (I knew it) where there were police officers walking out his front door with masks and gloves holding Charles' plants. Fuck.
Charles was scrambling around my apartment when the story finished with that always self-masturbatory desperate last grab at importance that field reporters always do to insure that we give them credit for doing as they were told.
"Look, man, just calm down, okay?" I irrationally blurted out suddenly feeling stone sober. I was actually starting to panic too, seeing as my apartment reeks of weed and this was Charles' home away from home most of the time. What was I thinking telling him to calm down anyways? We need to get out of here. Fast.
"Let's pack up what we can and hit the road," I said, "We'll head to my sister's place and lay low for a while. It's only weed, right? It's not like this is some sort of manhunt or anything."
Charles wasn't saying a word. Maybe that's why I questioned his testosterone level at times; he never did well under pressure. I was afraid he was going to burst out in tears, to be quite honest.
After we filled a few bags full of some essential things, we left my apartment. I made sure to let my neighbor know that we were going to Mexico to pick up some things and wouldn't be back for a while.
At the bus station I finally started thinking again, to get my mind off this sudden change of events. I turned to Charles and asked him what he thought about my garbage bag analogy.
"It's definitely packed man. It's really full of shit. We need to pack up like this and just get away from it all more often, man," he said, finally cracking a smile.
"Amen to that."
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Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2007-06-05 12:46:01 EDT (#)
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