The Bullhorn of SILVER BROWN

Let Me Rub My Juices All Over You

A peculiar attribute of the technological zeitgeist of this decade (whatever we end up calling it in the end, which will likely be either the #MeToos or the Avocado Toasties) which sets it apart from the Nineties and Noughties is that people today are too lazy to actually surf the Internet. There’s no longer an incentive to do the gruntwork of visiting online forums or Usenet, when technology has evolved to a point where people no longer have to actually do anything to get their daily dose of memes. Now the Internet comes neatly packaged directly to the people, in the form of their Facebook timelines and Twitter feeds, to say nothing of the seemingly endless parade of smartphone notifications.

In recognition of Western civilization’s bold new devotion to intellectual sloth, I would like to remind everybody I have left behind the obligitory urine stain on both Facebook and Twitter. Not Instagram, though. Instagram is just one big digital high school. With a very impressive yearbook. Which is fine, except I graduated years ago.

As much as there is to dislike about social media as a whole, one of its useful aspects is as a supplementary energy to an organization’s already existing web presence. Like an appendage growing out of your website, reaching out to fondle people so it can coat their hair and clothing with its juices.

My twin social media appendages have indeed been doing a lot of fondling. I occasionally do this thing where I take an entire chapter from the book and post one page from that chapter a day, on one platform or the other. I don’t do it all the time, and which platform I end up posting it to depends on a complex schedule based on the time of year and the phase of the moon and the current coordinates of the magnetic north pole. But I do it occasionally, and love to drink the essence of the people’s reactions. The concept started on Twitter and gravitated towards Facebook a few months later. I have way more followers on Twitter †, so it’s a useful avenue for conducting grand sociological experiments. The Facebook page was more of an afterthought.

† I somehow gained a followership of over 1000 people on Twitter without being young, female or pretty. In this day and age, that’s an accomplishment.

 

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The Green Grass of SILVER BROWN

Maui Wowie: A Review

Anybody who knows me well knows I dig the ganja. I’ve smoked it all from Jack Herer to blueberry kush and everything in between. Indica! Sativa! Various hybrid strains! Homegrown! Edibles! Dabs! You name it. I’ve even tried one of those newfangled vape pen jobbies. Yet strangely enough, I’ve never smoked Maui Wowie. Until recently. My usual ganja supplier had it on offer last month, so I picked myself up a few grams of that just because I could.

One of my favourite things about scoring a new baggie is The Ritual. I swear on my mother’s grave there are few non-sexual things in this world more pleasant than inserting your schnoz deep inside that Ziploc receptacle to fully taste it with your nasal hairs. Like smelling God’s vagina. I always do The Ritual before I start smoking it or even grinding it; it should completely go without saying that I performed The Ritual in honour of this new baggie that Nature has blessed me with. If you accented the sweet aroma of the divine naughty bits with faint hints of a scratch n’ sniff version of a vintage bottle of Médoc, you’d have Maui Wowie. This doesn’t even describe how it looks. Tell me this is not a gorgeous bud…


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If you stare at this picture for long enough, it will reveal to you your soul.

I overall found this strain to be not as sticky as some of the other many strains I’ve smoked. I had to pack Her Majesty’s bowl in an indoor area with adequate shelter from the wind, in order to keep that good shit from accidentally blowing away on me. But that’s about the only downside I can think of regarding this strain.


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During a session I arrange all my equipment to honour the four seasons and the four directions, because that’s just how I roll.

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Behold, a picture of Her Majesty with her chamber filled with Maui Wowie smoke. I actually took several better shots than this, but I felt the lighting in this particular image was highly suggestive of butter lamps in an old monastery, so I decided to use it.

This smoke had a noticeable grape flavour to it and a nice cerebral sativa high. Not one of those strains that’ll glue you to the couch; I could still function after the session and perform needful run-of-the-mill activities. But before I started doing those run-of-the-mill activities, I overheard the neighbour’s dog barking, and it suddenly dawned on me that dog language must be far more sophisticated than ours. They can tell an astonishing number of things about a person or another dog just by smelling their urine – a language completely incomprehensible to us. If we could smell that language, we totally would have gotten the dogs to write the Bible for us. It would be the best version of the Bible ever, and we would be so awed and inspired by it that there would instantly be peace on earth and no more wars. But alas, we can’t smell dog language, so we had to write the Bible ourselves and come up with some cockamamie backstory about how it was written by a mythical creature who apparently doesn’t urinate at all. The result? The exact opposite of peace on earth. I was suddenly inspired to shout out unto all the nations of the earth with a voice of triumph:

…and as soon as I tapped on that tweet button, a brilliant idea came to me about the social dynamic between the characters in my book that I couldn’t believe I’ve never considered before, and I thanked the neighbour’s dog for telling me that. Dogs can read people’s brainwaves, I’m pretty sure of it.

A Special Message for Facebook

I know you read all my blog posts, and you’ll probably get up in my business about this one because of your sanctimonious attitude against the depiction of “illegal”† products on your platform. Let me spell this out for you. Remember that old episode of The Simpsons where Mr. Burns tried to block out the sun so that the people of Springfield would be more dependent on him for their illumination needs?†† If you think of the sun as Mother Ganja and Burnsy as a stand-in for the Big Oil corporate lobbyists who own the politicians, that episode illustrates perfectly why ganja was outlawed. Greed and lust for power, and nothing more. Greed I’m personally taking a stand against. So suck it, Zuckerberg.

† I am Canadian. In my country, ganja is not illegal. So again, suck it, Zuckerberg.

†† Not that I’m suggesting anything, but I’d like to kindly remind you that this was the same episode where Mr. Burns got shot.