The Broad’s Side of Marijuana

There are two legitimate reasons that I no longer smoke pot:

1- I was becoming borderline retarded
2- I didn’t want to be a giant fat-ass

With that being said, I smoked a shit-ton of weed when I was in college. I am thoroughly surprised that I managed to escape with any brain function at all. My family wouldn’t have been as patient and kind as Terri Schiavo’s. I think there were times they wanted to pull the plug just sitting through dinner with me. I distinctly remember the first time my father busted me. Being the genius that I was, I borrowed his leather jacket and left my corn-cob pipe (yep, I smoked it ‘Frosty the Snowman’ style) and a giant bag of weed in his pocket. He was the master of creative, yet insanely cruel punishments. He waited until dinner the next day to bring the hammer down. We’re Italian, so spaghetti was part of the regular rotation. When I sat down, I noticed my snowman pipe and an empty plastic bag by my plate. There was a note that said, “Thanks for bringing home the oregano. Eat up… Love, Dad”. The entire contents of the bag was scattered over my angel hair pasta. I immediately lost it. I was crying so hard that I started to hyperventilate. I picked up my fork and began the spaghetti twirl as I sobbed and snotted uncontrollably. I seriously would have rather ate that recipe for certain death than admit to my dad that it wasn’t a common kitchen spice. I imagined the frantic call to Poison Control that was sure to follow my last supper. He smacked the fork out of my hand and told me I was grounded for a month.

At the time of that incident, I was still in high school and had a part time job at a local restaurant that was connected to a pretty popular bar. I was the hostess, so all of the incoming calls went through me. Evidently, there was a wildly popular drug ring running out of this particular establishment. It all went down through the to-go ordering system. Basically, yours truly became one of the biggest drug dealers in town, due to some slippery behavior on the part of the bartending staff. Degenerates in need of a score would call and place an order using a specified code. I was a stupid kid, so it may have been something as ridiculous as, “hold the cilantro, I’ll have cocaine instead”. The actual drug/money exchange went through me, so technically the bartenders weren’t dealing. There’s nothing quite like being sniffed out by the canine unit and questioned by the police as the brains behind the operation. “Are you kidding me? I’m a retard. Ask my dad!” Oh, and trust me… they did. Thankfully, the authorities realized I was not involved and didn’t send me to the Big House. My dad chose to believe that I was some sort of druggie savant that put one over on the police. It was bullshit… grounded for giving people a god-damned Tuscan chicken sandwich on marble rye. I cursed him up and down for years over that one.

The next time my dad cracked the case that I might be high as a kite was when I was home for the summer from my freshman year of college. I was sitting in the kitchen at 4am, eating spaghettios right out of the pan while talking on the phone. Apparently, the call was frustrating me and I began to get angry. My rant woke my parents from a dead sleep. As pops entered the kitchen, he heard me say “what the hell do you mean what am I wearing? I’m TRYING to tell you what I want… a $10,000 credit limit would be great.” He grabbed the phone and inquired as to the identity of the young lady on the other end, who I was convinced was the worst customer service rep on the planet. By the look on his face, she said something that may have been deemed inappropriate. He politely hung up with a baffled expression, still half asleep. “Why in the world would you call some random sex line?” I was even more perplexed than he was. I had been attempting to apply for a Discover card. For future reference, it’s 1-800-DISCOVER… not 1-900-DISCOVER. That call cost me $60 and my dad thought I was a complete deviant.

I started to notice than my brain might be failing when I started doing things like hitting the power locks before trying to get out of the car. The worst part was that it often took me several minutes to figure out why the hell I couldn’t get out. On one occasion, I thought I had a pretty clear plan in place. I needed to swing by the ATM to get cash and then hit up Burger King for a Whopper Jr. This was before fast food joints took debit cards and prior to BK’s fries starting to suck. I pulled up and attempted to jam my card into the slot, but I couldn’t get it to work. I was startled when an irritated voice came out of the ATM asking if I needed help. I didn’t really care for the tone, so I sneered, “Give me $20”. Come to find out, when you demand cash at a Burger King Drive-Thru they can call it attempted robbery. Oh shit, I skipped a step! Luckily, the manager on duty was a total stoner and let me leave in a car without bars on the windows, flashing lights and doors with idiot-resistant locks. When it was all said and done, I decided I wasn’t going to put up the fight against intelligence anymore. 3 AM taco and cheeto binges are now things of the past because in the words of Shakira… hips don’t lie. Mine were starting to tell a painful tale of twinkie infused excess.


1 Response to “The Broad’s Side of Marijuana”

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About the Broad

A humorous look at dating in your mid-thirties and the other hilarious things that happen around us on a daily basis.

January 2010
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