Stoner Log. Stardate Food Cubes.
I just killed my bong by accident. That’s with the level of sadness a child of five would say when they killed their goldfish by accident, or that they drowned their plants by watering them in the rain.
But, I do have some porcelain repair. Let’s hope it acts like a suitable adhesive.
This new Heinekin ad is really cool. I don’t say that about many averts, but it’s like the person who wrote it gave at least half a shit. And they wanted to have fun with it.
That, or I’m craving a beer even more than ever.
And speaking of giving a shit about what you’re doing, mad props to Simon Pegg for co-writing Star Trek Beyond. That was the closest thing to a Star Trek movie I’ve seen since 1999.
The Pretenders are criminally underrated. I mean, sure, they contributed to The Living Daylights’ soundtrack, with a-Ha, but what else do we really hear from them?
Also, I recall that my cousin had a huge crush on Shania Twain. She’s a cutie.
And Dad had a crush on Angela Anaconda. Or so he said. I was a gullible kid, and couldn’t tell if he was bullshitting or not.
Me, I had a thing for Maid Marian from Robin Hood. The cartoon one, mind. Later on, former Olympic figure skater Jamie Sale.
While I’m keeping with being envious of my peers, a former classmate from Grade 5 is a renown cello player. And the first girl I ever asked out is about to get her Ph.D. And Rupert? Well, I’ve bashed Rupert enough for winning the genetic lottery. Neither of us ever asked to be born.
And here’s Eli, baked, half-cocked, with a creative mind. Lethargically ambling about, with momentary, occassional lightning strikes of brillance.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look back on the small town I left to pursue the career I have in the bigger city. There are days I miss when I didn’t have to worry about where my next meal is going to come from. But, I had to leave. I wasn’t ready, but I had to. If I’d waited till I was ready, I’d be at retirement age and useless.
Of all people, the Klingons had it right: better to die on our feet than to live on our knees.
Goddammit, the truck I wanted on Kijiji got snatched up on me. Gorram it all to hezmana.
Here's something a little more positive. Lighting strikes someone just as they are shocking something with static electricity. The current passes through the guy, into whatever, and causes shit to happen.
Conversely, a plastic surgeon genealogist. Who can tell what kind of ancestors you had by the shape of your face. What kind of marsupial you evolved from, which is why your beard grows the way it does.
Apparently, I have sexual powers.
Make movie about Plan Z. A guy who goes through plans A-Z, trying to keep his head above water.
It’s funny how we proclaim to be an evolved, civilized, advanced society. So much better than the Dark Ages with our shiny new technological sophistication. We are free, no kings to make us do what he wants. To a certain degree, that’s true. And what did we do with our shiny new technological sophistication? We all wanted to be told what to do, so we made the government our new king.
I’ll be goddamned if I ever hear “Long Live The Donald!”
“President Donald Trump has been assassinated. Good fucking riddance.”
Need highly accurate one-shot-one-kill character for our western. Think Lance Henriksen in Hard Target, right down to the single shot target pistol, that takes rifle cartridges for some reason.
It’s also arrogant to think that with that thing, you’re going to hit a low target, travelling away from you, with no proper sights. Fuck it, it’s a John Woo movie. It’s not supposed to make perfect sense. (I'm talking about Hard Target, by the way. Great old action movie.)
“I’ll get over you, I know I will.
“I’ll pretend my ship’s not sinking.
“And I’ll tell myself that I’m over you,
“Cause I’m the king of Wishful Drinking.”
When I get my dream home, I’m going to serve caeser shots inside of hollowed out pickles.
Also, breakfast Caesars are wonderful.
If different parts of the nug were meat, like your dope contains protein, and may or may not have been alive at some point, you know, like delicious fresh meat?
Ok, I need some food. But if I'm using the different parts of bud = different cuts of meat theorem, then I just hit prime frelling rib.
Course, it could also be the fact I’m tired and haven’t smoked properly in maybe 2 days. Gotta balance, space it out, get more fucked up.
Limit Break: TOBIAS MODE!
I just thought my foot passed into a dimensional portal that allowed me to be inside the wall and not. Like something out of that Twilighty Show about that Zone.
"HOLY MACARONI!"
Then, I realised that it was the fact my laundry hamper was at the foot of my bed and I was still outside the wall. IT’s just like “What the? That’s not supposed to be there!”
As I wrote that last part, the hamper played the same trick on me by letting my foot graze something soft and firm. I realised it was the same thing, but with one of my shirts hanging off. Fool me twice, shame on me. Shame on me for getting baked out of my goddamn mind.
To what depths do I plumb? When I’m baked, I have a sinful pleasure for Shania Twain. The same kind of sin you get with a hot tub, bubbly, and truffles. Or a fine merlot, and Belgian choclate cake. Or hell, I’m still in Tobias mode. Give me a dozen chocolate donuts and a goon bag.
I just took a spill. I misheard the lyric “dance floor” as “Death Star”, so I started to roll like an X-Wing. I then made a crash-landing on my floor, and it took Yoda, ghost-Obi-Wan, and a tractor beam from the USS Fearless to get me back up.
RE: my cousins getting married and having kids, even my own brother: “Oh, SHIT! We got tiny people!”
It just occurred to me how macabre that would be for an undertaker to say.
I joke, but life truly is precious. And all too fleeting. A friend I wish I knew better, because she is all different shades of awesome, died recently. Very young, 31. But then, Dad clocked out at 38. That’s a bitter thing, outliving people you’re close to.
I have the oddest desire to pick up a paintbrush and start doing a landscape series. Maybe once I win the lottery or book a role that will keep me in gin and groceries for the rest of my life.
You are a clever, resourceful man, Mr. Jaxon, if you’re able to divine Mexican Sloppy Joes out of your pantry.
(Would those be Messy Jose’s then?)
Put a fried egg in there, and you have some stoner’s huevos rancheros.
"Little tiny fried eggs!"
Much as I enjoy our time together, tomorrow is a work day. So, I will bid you, gentle reader, adieu. Do come again.
- Eli