sweasel.com

“Honest to god, officer…it’s not mine! I got it from a friend…”

*ball-point pen click*

“And your friends name is?”

Stoaty!!!!

McGoo!!!!

Ummm…what?

I hope you warned your friend you poked it up your nose before you gave it to her. 🙂

I remember walking down some Amsterdam street in 1984 and being a bit shocked when someone pressed an impressively large block of hash into my palm and said “you go in here, try it out, you like it, you buy!” But the Army for some reason didn’t like their people working on nuke warheads and smoking hash, so I had to pass.

That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

One hot night on the streets of Providence in 1970-something, I found a meerschaum pipe on the front stoop of an apartment block, stuffed full of rather good marijuana.

The Wikipedia photo looks much like the pipe I found, only the turban of the carved Arabic man on mine was so excessive, it fell across his head like outsized testicular saddlebags. I carved it down to something more tasteful.

Where did that thing get to, I wonder? I do not recall. Karma’s flotsam.

That was a response to the “cop” question in the previous post, Weas. My bad – not making it clear. Can you imagine stating ones’ source of paraphenalia (sp?) to a cop is a person named Stoat Weasel? The police would definitely look askance at you.

Neat pipe though. Probably still has substance residue in it. A friend of mine still has a hand-made (by him) quartz-glass opium pipe from the 70’s that still smells really “interesting”. Oh, the memories…

BGG – I had once asked one of my mil-employers “IF you do drugs in a country where they are not illegal, and then test positive for recent use back in the States, why should it be actionable? You did it legally.” The first answer I got was “It indicates psychological issues”, but then top management made the drug-test/HR department retract that statement, and I never got another response.

The best answer I heard for your situation is: “They’ll jerk your clearance and you can spend years trying to get it back – and fail. That’s why.”

The best bumpersticker I saw was : “Just say NO to drugs…it’ll leave more for the rest of us!”

What’s the rug made out of, pubes?
Uh, anyway, nothwithstanding the fact that opium pipes and tobacco pipes and so on were crafted out of ivory back in the day, I’d still be very wary of inhaling hot mammal-tooth vapour into my lungs.
Personally, I go for the water-filled-1-litre-bottle-with biro-casing-and-chillum-comprising-a-coaxial-TV-connector-plus-steel-gauze. It lends you that much sought-after ‘crackhead chic’. And basically I think that’s what it’s all about.
Nice pipe though – if you want to bring it to Blighty, just put it in a carved-out Holy Qur’an and cover yourself in traditional Muslim garb and wear a ‘I’m going to sue you and call you a racist if you ask me any questions’ look on your face.

Pubes! That was unexpected. I saw all those stray fibers and braced myself for the “hemp” jokes.

I was at Whole Foods yesterday (AKA the Pretentious Hippie Store). I hate myself for shopping there, but there’s stuff I can’t get anywhere else. They had a bunch of hemp briefcases and daypacks and things; very nice looking, but for STUPID money. Considering it’s just burlap, really. Stupid hippies.

Tried to visit your site, Gibby, but it looks a touch NSFW. As I am at W now, it’ll have to wait until I’m H.

Well, I’m not at work and am pleased to make your aquaintance, Gibby. Nice photo of you, BTW. I like your..um…nails.

You raise valid points as to the esthetic vs. olfactory/ taste & flavor aspects of ivory, vis-a-vis pipes, Gibby. Back before I got old and decrepit, I personally preferred the plumbing-fitting look in dope pipe apparatus, although our tastes converge on the water-cooling aspects. Copper fittings make a manly no-nonsense statement that just screams, “Bogart MY pipe at your peril!”

The pleasure is all mine.
Wow, you guys have jobs? My parol officer won’t return my calls. Apparently what I did was ‘inhumane, immoral and downright evil’. Whatever.

Yes, for herbe ordinaire, I too preferred to pull smoke through water. I do, however, recall sliding down in my seat to such an extent that my position uncorked the bong and thoroughly doused me in bongwater. More than once. Few things in all the world smell as particular and vile as bongwater.

<sigh> I miss marijuana. It was a lovely drug.

Smokum is unlike any other drug, IMHO, and should be treated as such. It’s all-natural, mild in effect compared to essentially all other substances, physically non-addictive, and one cannot overdose. Although – by God! – I tried to several times. Ya just can’t….

Yep. Weed is great. Some of my best experiences have been whilst stoned (sex-related mostly – yeah, I’m shallow – so what). But let’s not pretend it’s 100% safe as the militant pro-cannabis crowd like to harp on about. Sure you can get around the physiological dangers of the act of smoking it with vapourisers &c., but there still remains the psychological dangers from using it. Especially if you’re a psychotic or are particularly susceptible to the pantheon of mental health disorders. And let’s face it – who of us can honestly say that we’re not a psychotic these days, hm?
Still, overall it’s probably the least dangerous narcotic out there, a lot less dangerous than many legal drugs like booze and tranquilizers.
The level of control here in Britain see-saws back and forth from less controlled to more controlled and back again reflecting scientific opinion on the level of danger, but ultimately remains illegal. And I think that’s probably the most sensible outcome.

Eh, I could have whatever opinion I wanted, and the point would still be moot for me. :p I AM a psychotic, in a sense. I’m what you’d call a bipolar nutjob. I take medication that keeps me from having violent mood swings, and as such, I can’t mix it with any “downers,” like alchohol, marijuana, or country music. The first two I don’t care about, since it’s just two more things that’d suck all my monies out of me… but I surely do miss Alan Jackson. 🙁

Oh, and lawl at the pubes in your pipe. I don’t think that’s what they were though… there might be some weaselly nose goobers in there and some stray nasal hairs, but I don’t see how a self-respecting stoat would go fishing around his particulars with such a rudimentary scoop.

This place is so great. Where else can I make a post and use “nose goobers,” “particulars,” and “country music” all in the same post? xD

Hell, I’m an Ace of Spades moron, and a Weasel Maroon; I’m probably psychotic too. And happily so, by God!

Shuko, just wait til you use “@sspat” in a sentence! The intellectual thrill is unbelievable.

I was a full fledged drug addict for years. I did real dirty drugs, too – not the fun hippy stuff you guys are talking about. I used to live on the beach and kept warm by burning trash in the trash cans. I had a car, but no money for gas or tags, so I stored my clothes in it. One day, while sitting on the beach alone, I just got real tired of how I was living and I prayed. I “came down” right then and there. I didn’t feel a single withdrawal symptom and I have been clean (and sober) ever since. It will be 10 years on September 28th. In the past 10 years I have had children, graduated college, gone to grad school, and married a Pastor. Makes for real interesting coffee talk at Bible studies.

You know, a lesser weasel might be worried about attracting such an obvious pack of nutballs and burnouts, but not me. I know a natural constituency when I see it.

I became less obvious when I had the piercings and tattoos removed. 😉
And I’m not judging any of you {only in here *points to head}

My son calls me ‘psycho’ and I never used anything other than Tylenol.

My nutballness is au naturale.

I think the real item of interest here is how common casual drug use was/is in “our” generation(s). Weasel, you know as well as I do that back in the late 60’s, all of the 70’s, and the early 80’s it was simply assumed to occur.

That’s because y’all didn’t have Nancy Reagan telling you to “Just say NO!” while you were in school.

Hells yeah but what I feel embarrassed about now is the disco. Even though I do still sneak some now and then.

Enas – that’s true. I guess it was closer to Tim Leary saying, “Tune in, turn on, and trip out.”, or whatever it was he stupidly uttered.

I think the 60’s is summed up best by that neat tee-shirt the cute babe wears somewhere on the blogsphere: Hippies stink.

Yes, absolutely EVERYBODY of our generation had at least tried marijuana. My parents tried it. Even my grandma tried it.

I was increasingly uncomfortable when that became a routine question asked of politicians. I’m willing to give ’em all a pass on the question.

I just remembered that’s a John Hartford song — Granny Wontcha Smoke Some Marijuana.

Story: when I was graduating from college, a housemate (5 of us rented a house) made some magic brownies. He used a LOT of pot. One would do ya.

My folks showed up the day of the ceremony. No one home. They came in house. Found brownies on table. Ate brownies (Mom=1, Dad=2).

Mom never figured out what happened, but Dad did. He asked about it later. I told him, “Ya eat brownies (uninvited) in a college house, ya take what you get!”

Surprisingly, he saw my point.

So, did they laugh uncontrollably all through your graduation ceremony or make trails with their fingers or stare off into the middle distance or what…?

My mom kept her dope filed under M in the filing cabinet. She didn’t actually like the high (even decades later, when she was terminally ill). She liked the illegality.

Never liked pot; I find the taste revolting, and it nauseates me.

Bizarre, I know, but that’s me. My drugs of choice all made my heart flutter like a headless chicken duct-taped to an engine manifold, which–when you’re 22 and stupid (a redundancy, I know)– isn’t all that alarming, but I had a suspicion that I wasn’t doing myself any good, so I gave them up back in the 70s.

Drug stories. Dangit – no time to type any out and I’m off to the camel races in northern nevada this week. I’ll type at ya next monday.

Here’s a quick one: 1 sherm stick + cooking crew at IHOP + post night shift kitchen cleanup. OMG its amazing we ever got out of there.

Yep jwp – those things that speed up the heart are definitely no-no’s now. A 22-year old can shrug off what would terminate me now. Dope is for the young (and stupid).

But the memories of our profound stupidity are fun to recall – yes?

Weas’ – Dad figured it out quickly, and thoroughly (and quietly) enjoyed the brownie bonus. Mom was very quiet and did a significant amount of navel-gazing and a bit of inappropriate giggling. I think she went thoroughly tharn and didn’t quite realize it.

I – on the other hand – sweated through two shirts. It was a looonnnggg day.

What pray-tell is a “sherm stick”? Sounds vaguely vulgar. Is it an East Coast old-fangled thing?

I wondered what a sherm stick was, too. Maybe it’s like Thai stick. Not that I would have a clue what that is, but it’s some term I heard somewhere. In the 70s.

Huzzah! The home ‘puter is up and running tonight! I can clarify: a sherm stick is a cigarette dipped in liquid PCP (aka Angel Dust) and dried. You smoke the cigarette and BLAMO! higher brain functions mostly turn off. Very powerful. There were several of us 5 – 6 smoking that one cigarette and it kicked all of our asses. I had one guy just staring at the floor and he hollered out – “Enas! I CAN’T THINK MAN! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!” The best I could manage was to tell him to find something dirty and clean it.

I never messed with that shit again.

Whoa. PCP was out of my league. Some smoke and a little coke occasionally, but…

No wonder I never heard of it before.

I love your solution to your friends problem: “Find sumpin dirty and clean it!”

Reasons why I never tried any of that stuff –
1. Fear. My dad was a cop. We got knocked upside the head for breathing, so why give the fates more fodder?
2. Fear. With my luck, one hit would kill me.
3. My classmates were doing dope in the 5th-6th grades. Was sad to see how their lives wound up by high school.

Enas Yorl! I am shocked!
The thing that got me off the pot, so to speak, and all illicit drugs, was I always seemed to get it from some dirtbag who pulled it out of his crotch, right in front of me. Then I always wondered where else it had been.