FAMOUS. LAST. WORDS. “These edibles ain’t shit,” I bemoaned many years ago when I had my first taste. IF you ever consumed a [marijuana edible] you know this a false statement. If you have NEVER tried an edible, but are contemplating it, please do not utter that phrase.
The other night over dinner at the Flying Pig Bar, my conversation with my girlfriend organically landed on our first time experiences of consuming edibles.
The following was my story … and no, it’s not a cautionary tale to be heeded. More like entertainment for the masses.
Act I – Here. Try This.
October 2006 – My friend, Sidney, was celebrating her birthday at a local bar called the Giant’s Causeway in Renton (closed many years ago) Amongst the usual fanfare of gifts, cake on the table, the flow of drinks and shots was a pan of homemade brownies. The power of observation is not lost on me so I asked, “Why have the brownies not been touched? Are we waiting for the birthday girl to take the first customary piece?”
Sidney and her room mate / best friend, Lupe, exchanged quick glances. Sidney answers coyly, “Um, Los those are special brownies. You’re welcome to them if you’re curious. I know you like brownies.”
Her words piqued my interest. “Why are they special? Is the alcohol baked into them? Or is it something else that we can’t mention?”
Lupe answered deadpan, “Something else, Los.”
I thought, aiight, chronic brownies. I’ve always wondered what they tasted like.
They cut a small piece, handed it over on a napkin with the words, “Here. Try this.”
I shrugged my shoulders, grabbed the brownie, and plopped it into my mouth. My wife, Charlene, waltzes up from seemingly nowhere, “So? What’s it taste like?”
I replied through chocolate ladened teeth like braces, “Like a brownie.” Please keep in mind my marriage with her was on the decline at this time.
Act II – Happy Birthday, Sidney!
Our server was a mutual friend and co-worker at our place of employment. The drinks arrived like the Fast & Furious but unlike the effects of edibles.
I grumbled to my bro, Scott, “These edibles ain’t shit,” as I popped my 3rd brownie into my mouth. We continued to celebrate with Sidney’s birthday with rum and Cokes (me) gin and tonics (Scott, Charlene) and whatever Sidney wanted.
At one point in the night, I questioned Lupe, “How much chronic did you bake into it? Just a grip to take it easy on us?” I literally didn’t know how these worked.
She laughed softly with her words, “I can assure you these brownies are loaded.”
I was already shit-hammered [shitfaced + hammered = the highest level of conscious intoxication] on beer, rum and Cokes, shots, etc. I didn’t realize just HOW loaded I was at the time or about to be …
ACT III – The Hangover
Thankfully, Charlene drove us home. I managed to exit the vehicle, and stumble up two flights on concrete steps to the front door of our split level house. She scampered up the stairs to wait for me. I stood like a statue on the tiled foyer. Then? It hit me.
IT REALLY HIT ME.
A tsunami of euphoria flooded my brain, so I burst out laughing. No, actually cackling. I kept getting louder and louder until my body was in full animation of my laughing until my world went suddenly dark.
I woke up inside the scene of the movie, The Hangover. My mouth had the dryness of the Mojave Desert, my head wanted to implode crushing my eyeballs into my gray matter. UGH. I raised my head up from the floor to survey the room.
The couch cushions were removed from the couch, but laid down on the ground as a bed because that’s where I woke up. The coffee table was flip over with a saucepan hanging on one of the legs. I am only wearing boxers, and one sock.
Uncooked Top Ramen noodles were strewn as a trail from the kitchen to me.
I crawled to the kitchen as I was unable to walk. The pantry door and several cabinets were open. Another package of uncooked Top Ramen was scattered over the oven and counter space.
I cleaned up the mess I created before Charlene woke up, thankfully. That would be one of the last times I underestimated a foe! To answer the question: I never did find the rest of my clothes.
It’ll just haveta be one of the mysteries of life. Maybe they joined mismatched dryer socks, and 10mm sockets?