The other day I noticed by accident that there are an astounding number of images floating around the Internet that depict Homer Simpson posing as the Buddha. So I decided to go with that as the new visual motif for this site. Until I come up with something better. Or until I get bored with it and decide to change it just for the sake of changing it. Or until I get some nasty-ass letter from Matt Groening’s lawyer. Whichever comes first.
With a heavy heart, I announce that the Blood Bullet is no more. After nearly two years of loyal service, my old sneak-a-toke pipe got lost somewhere in the interdimensional netherworld that is the space between car cushions. Fortunately, smoking implements of this type are as easy to replace as they are to lose, available at many a head shop for a song. I now give you the photographic debut of the Blood Bullet’s successor, which I have christened Jack-in-the-Green. After the Jethro Tull tune.
I typically don’t smoke during the dead of winter. Smoking etiquette of the current day and age mandates going outside prior to lighting up. Or simply opening a window, if it’s not a public place and one can get away with it. I’m reluctant to do such a thing during that time of year when it’s forty below outside and the high winds sting at least as painfully as spider’s venom. It is then when I switch to edibles. Her Majesty spends that time in her winter palace (i.e. in storage), wrapped in her royal bubblewrap for the annual three-month recess of her official duties.
Don’t get me wrong, edibles are great. There’s just no ceremony and ritual in their use. Digestion is one of the most mundane biological functions there is. That piece of wacky granola I would typically have on a January morning for my wake n’ bake is merely part of a complete breakfast. But no winter ever lasts forever (remember that, kids) and nothing says “spring has sprung” to me quite like that moment I bring Her Majesty out of storage to spark her up for the first time in three months. The wake n’ bake instantly becomes an occasion again. An occasion I almost forgot it was. One that sees songs of migratory birds returning from down south easily mistaken for chattering monkeys once I completely forget what continent I’m on.
hear, hear. after liz becomes worm chow, i nominate my bong to become the new queen of canada. it's a concept that would totally work under our present system pic.twitter.com/8ncvoPkV13