A mystery wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in cigarette papers and stuffed with weed. And thrown at my head.
Now let’s get this out of the way up front: I’m not into drugs. Not a fan. This is a well though-out position based on rational consideration of the evidence. The fact that I vomit significantly whenever I’m around the gear and wake up under trees (or on the 14th floor of a docklands apartment building on one occasion) has nothing to do with it at all. But that's a topic for another post.
But some people are. And frankly, if we’re going to compare weed to alcohol, it’s kinda hard to get all self-righteous. Besides, I’ve got bigger, more important things to complain pointlessly about.
So I caught up with a good friend on Thursday night near my new place – it had been a while so it was great to catch up at one of the funky local pubs and chill for a bit.
One of the beauties of my new area is the old-style architecture around the place: dozen of styles of buildings all crammed together with pathways, alcoves and backyards improvised around the edges. It’s urban jungle at its finest and often you have no idea where one property starts and another finishes.
We were hanging out the back in the beer garden, chatting away. The place wasn’t too full and the vibe was relaxed. Next thing I know, something’s pinged off the top of my head.
I look up, a tad startled, and see a cigarette sitting on the table next to us. A lit cigarette.
Anyone who knows me well knows this is one of my things – I hate cigarette butts. I’ve been observed to spend hours picking the little bastards up and you drop one near me at your peril. Having one hit me in the friggin’ head was asking for it on the same level of bitch-slapping Mike Tyson.
The problem was I couldn’t figure out where it came from. No one was sitting near us, no one was looking our direction, no one seemed embarrassed or in fear of their life. I was perplexed. Even looking around above us yielded nothing – the architecture I mentioned previously meaning there could have been a rave going on within a meter of us without us knowing.
Not only this, but when I picked up the cigarette I discovered it wasn’t tobacco in that thing.
The plot thinkens...
I came to the only conclusion available to me: God is not only real, but is distributing half-finished lit doobies from the heavens. Surprisingly strong doobies as we now know, thanks to extensive research conducted by my friend.
Hopefully there will be no hepatitis-related epilogue to this post. But if there is, stay tuned for photos!
What cheer,
Gordon
Viral marketing.
ReplyDeleteClearly you have imbibed a touch too much of the amber liquor.
Person is smoking in the beer garden, bouncer comes along. They ditch it without regard to direction. You come a cropper.
Simple, elegant, but then I was not there, which makes my observations largely speculative.
Nah, this is the Fitzroy arts-liberal crowd. If a bouncer had come along, they just would have asked for a drag.
ReplyDeletehehehe oh lords, that brings back memories of good ol' metelkova. anyways, always a pleasure to read your blog! good job.
ReplyDeletei was just wondering that the church in europe is doing something wrong...all they try to do to attract members is by raping, mentally or physically for that matter. that god in australia is definitely more to my liking! cheers from london (am stranded for the moment, airline pays, i am actually considering starting a blog on my own...you would not believe what happened to me the last 2 weeks :) ) - toboster, high priest of the order of psychedelic monks