The Green Grass of SILVER BROWN

My New Dog Whistle

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My trusty silver bullet. Rest in peace, little guy. 2018-2019

My other favourite holiday is coming up. Merrie 4/20 everybody. At the slight risk of pooping the party, it is with a heavy heart I announce that my go-to smoking implement is no more. Thankfully, I speak not of my bong Her Majesty, who is resting comfortably in her royal chambers until such time that she is summoned by the Parliament of Summer to make her grand entrance and throne speech at the state opening of patio season. No, I’m talking about my other pipe. My trusty silver bullet. I accidentally dropped it in a dumpster.

As many of us know, The Man has been oppressing and persecuting smokers for decades now, and because I’m such a slimy piece of worm-ridden filth, he won’t permit me to partake of my bad habit in convenient areas that are continuously well-sheltered from the wind, like the inside of my own apartment. Hence, I must necessarily go outside to see a man about a dog, regardless of whatever inconveniences the elements pose to hinder or frustrate the smoking experience.

The wind was being particularly inconvenient while I was out having a wake n’ bake in my usual neighbourhood. Inconvenient enough that I couldn’t get my lighter to stay lit long enough to toke. In order to remedy that situation, I tried leaning inside a nearby dumpster, so I could make use of its large lid as a barrier against the tormenting gusts. The ploy worked like a charm the first time I tried it, but when I attempted the same technique to smoke the last of the resin left in the bowl, I accidentally dropped the whole damn pipe. One moment it was clenched in my teeth, so I could have both hands free to work the lighter. The next moment it had plummeted to the bottom of the dumpster like an aluminum stone. There was a layer of negligence somewhere in between those two moments; I was admittedly a lot more mellow on the second attempt.


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The silver bullet’s final resting place. At some distant point in the future when we at long last have world peace, this might be a holy pilgrimage site where people will go to leave offerings of sacred phalluses.

I did briefly consider climbing into the dumpster to retrieve the pipe, but ultimately decided against that. Too legally risky. Especially with all those security cameras around. I can smoke ganja in plain view of those cameras and not get arrested, because this is Canada. But climbing inside a dumpster is another matter entirely. The local authorities might not take as kindly to that.

So instead of going through the trouble to get the old pipe back, I opted to simply buy a replacement. Smoking implements of this type are not expensive; I only paid five dollars for the silver bullet, and it’s not far-fetched to assume I should be able to pick up something similar for similar. Why, there just happens to be a head shop literally right around the corner from that dumpster! Ain’t Canada grand?


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Should you drop in, don’t mention anything to them about me. I’ve been told I’m not young and pretty enough to be a social media influencer.

I would go there later that day to pick up this snazzy new red thing on my keychain…


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If you were born after the summer of 1989, this keychain is most certainly older than you. Now get off my lawn.

This is one of those stealth pipes, of the type that will be increasingly seen as charmingly quaint as more and more people and governments reject Nixonian pruditude and awaken to the healing powers of Our Lady of 420. Not quite an exact replacement, but the closest approximation the local head shop had in stock at the time. It’s similar to the silver bullet in that it’s small and sturdy and can be easily tucked away in a pocket and forgotten about when not in use. Close enough for me.

At first glance, it looks like an ordinary pocket flashlight. Of the type that people are less and less wont to carry these days, on the grounds that flashlights are as common a feature on modern smartphones as cameras. Like I said, charmingly quaint.


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But wait… why does it have a hole in the side of it like that? Aha! It’s not a flashlight! It’s a Transformer!


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This guy packs quite the mean punch for such a little thing. More than the silver bullet did. Way more. After two tokes from this Transformer, it dawned on me immediately that the silver bullet was a very utilitarian pipe. Not a peace pipe. It was not an esoteric whistle to call out to the animal spirits and departed elders who continue to roam Turtle Island. No, it was just a pipe. Just a metal chamber with a rubber mouthpiece, and nothing more. A training wheel the vehicle of my mind no longer had any use for, now that it had grown wings of fire, its motor roaring with the vibrations of ten thousand thunders. Verily, the silver bullet had died and resurrected as a phoenix reborn. I now had a god whistle. Like a dog whistle, only backwards.

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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.

 

The Green Grass of SILVER BROWN

Her Majesty’s High Again, or The Silver Bullet

While we’re waiting for the abomination to hatch out of its cocoon (it’ll start raining dead birds at that point so I hope y’all have your umbrellas ready), let me treat you to a guided tour of my glassware. The use of a bong is my preferred method of smoking these days. I used to be strictly a joint man a few lifetimes ago, but that began to change sometime in the second half of 2013. It had something to do with the shattered remnants of dashed hopes and broken dreams. I shan’t elaborate on the hairy details, but it was in the midst of it all that I gained a newfound appreciation for the more powerful punch that a bong packs, and it’s been my go-to smoking implement ever since.

The first bong I ever owned was this guy. In Toronto, there’s practically a head shop on every street corner. Hell, even the convenience stores sell glassware. They’ve been doing so for years, since long before the herb became legal in Canada. I picked this one up at one of the city’s most well-known head shops. They were having a sale on all their glassware at the time, so this piece was a real bargain…


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Do forgive the surrounding bubble wrap and the unsightly filth and whatnot. At the time this picture was taken, the corrupt Wahhabist dictatorship of a company I worked for had forced me to live in squalor just so they could save themselves a few bucks (and with all that money they saved, they did stuff like this). There’s a compelling story about that somewhere on this site, if you know where to look.

Anyway, in the bad old days when our country was ruled by the Pissed-Off Westerners, having a bong like this was the shit. You could sit on your front porch with this thing in your hand, never having to worry about any police cruisers coming down the street. The cops would just go on their merry way, fully under the impression that you were engaging in the perfectly legal activity of enjoying a cold one on a hot summer’s day.

I would get five years of loyal service out of the Highagain bottle before it unfortunately met its end in September of this year. A guy I was living with at the time destroyed it in a moment of gross negligence. He had moved my bong to the edge of the table so he could make room to set up his Xbox gear, and somewhere in the middle of a game he fell asleep and kicked the table. I would come to the garage the next morning to find him fast asleep with the Xbox on, my bong reduced to a pile of green shards strewn all over the floor. He said he would pay for a replacement, but almost predictably, he never did.


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Speaking of the Pissed-Off Westerners, our former Pastor-President Brother Stephen, Man of God would frequently preach of the supposed evils of the ganja in his sermons. Those of us who don’t wear the love goggles of the Reform Conservative Party and get their news from a source other than The Rebel Media know the reason why. Our so-called leader was nothing but a BITCH of the big oil companies in Calgary and Texas. He acted like a docile and subservient wife to Big Oil, who most certainly would have beaten him to a bloody pulp if he didn’t obey their commands. The spin doctoring job he used was the tired old argument that legalizing ganja would ultimately lead to the ruination of our society. Here’s a picture of him consuming the one substance that statistically has wrought more societal ruin than any other.

I actually went a whole month without a bong, relying entirely on the silver bullet for all my smoking needs…

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i.e. this thing

 

…and once it became clear that the guy who destroyed my first bong would buy me a new one sometime around never, I had to take it upon myself to arrange for a replacement. But oh, what a replacement she was! I picked her up at a head shop just off campus. A little on the pricey side, but worth every dime. The first time I took her for a test drive, she revealed to me her name. She is called Her Majesty. This is Her Majesty’s first official royal portrait…


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