Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column Mike Ricker

It sure seems like everyone has a trigger or fifty these days. Not to say that people haven’t always been fragile, but now we have classified the proper terminology that pinpoints that moment where something clicks like a slipped disc in your mind and propels you down a rabbit hole of displeasure.

Obviously, the term generates from the trigger of a gun, activating an emotional response that equates to a heightened reaction. The catalyst kind of hits you like a bullet, too, creating an abrupt shock to your mood. You may not be entirely aware that your reaction to the incident stems from something traumatic in your past that is affecting your attitude in the moment, but either way, your current state is altered, provoking an immediate reaction.

In this modern age of psychology, we’ve become very efficient at analyzing nuances in the human temperament and identifying how drastic changes can exacerbate symptoms. Like, a hundred years ago people just called it rattling the nerves, but when you place a validated medical term to it, people clutch onto diagnosis like a life preserver—a safe zone. But the problem with that is we’ve become accustomed to having a technical explanation for everything we feel, raising expectations that since it is well-defined, there must be a simple way to resolve it.

And usually with a pill. Or a drink.

Or a fit of rage.

And the misunderstanding from which most people suffer is thinking that acting out negatively is the most effective way to resolve the situation. But as we all have learned from experience, these confrontational reactions only intensify the problem. And therefore, I would like to share my philosophy to settling an issue before reacting in a way that could prove irreparable.

My lighter is a trigger.

And my bong is my gun. 
 

Most well-rounded people will agree that just because you can effectively navigate your way around a video game, a streaming service, or pretty much anything that has to do with sitting on your ass in front of a screen, it does not necessarily make you worldly. Like, just because you saw a movie scene set under the Eiffel Tower, it doesn’t mean you can escargot there in conversation.

Get it? Whatever Becky.

The world is full of analytical dweebs who can dissect algorithms, but while this ability of moving numbers can equate to more of them in your bank account, too much can result in a complete failure at life. Because one of the most important aspects for being a valued component to this remarkable existence is possessing the ability to socialize with other people.

I mean actual interaction. Face to face. Eye to eye. Not profile to profile.

Behold the modern nerd. It is an individual who, in their mind, is a fun loving, exciting person who fancies exploration. Just so long as it doesn’t mean leaving the house.

But these geeks are having their day because the information age churns them out at such an alarming rate that anti-social behavior is the new black. To them it’s perfectly acceptable to wear a face mask and keep the eyes peeled to the ground in a grocery store while stocking the cart with microwaveable fish sticks and instant mashed potatoes, but if a stranger were to offer to help carry one of the bags to their car, the dweeb might spray them with mace and call the woke police.

Anyway, the real meaning of Big Bang Theory is their concept of finally getting laid.

And Stoney Baloney is the rock-hard remnants of a mom-made sandwich that’s been marooned in the refrigerator for 8 days.
 

People tell me this sometimes. But am I narcissistic, or just eager to be recognized? A little of both, methinks.

Aren’t we all guilty of wanting attention at some level? I mean, at what point are you self-absorbed, or just looking to feel relevant in this glorious human experience of lightning strikes and rolling stones? Because, let’s be honest, every one of us, from an instinctual level, is looking out for numero uno as much as any other living organism. And some of you would argue that you always put your child before yourself, but if that’s really the best means for your DNA reaching the next millennium, then why does the flight attendant instruct you to put your life vest on first?

Because the kid ain’t gonna make it without its momma.

I get it, drawing too much attention to yourself can always be a means for criticism in this environment of acceptance where all people are welcome to share the stage equally. But all people aren’t equal, physically, or mentally.

Just like weed.

And I’m not claiming that I, or my country, race, religion, gender, etc. is better than any other person or living thing on the planet, just that it seems silly that we should consider ourselves the same. In kindergarten they told us we are all unique in our own special way like a snowflake. Right about the same time they told us how to dress, which God to worship and which football team to root for.

Contradictions are everywhere.

I understand that global equality is basically in reference to civil rights, which I’m down with. And I believe we all deserve the same opportunities. And I believe in mixing flower with edibles with dabs.

So, am I still a narcissist?

Or am I an alchemist?
 

Altering your reality by meddling with the synapses in your brain is one of the most common ways to entertainment yourself. Whether you’re poppin’ pills or pounding tequila poppers, bending the senses can bring about the most wonderful, kaleidoscopic effects.

Or getting turnt. Which is the fun, turnt way of saying turned up.

In the early aughts, Allen Greenspan coined the phrase “Irrational Exuberance”. He was the head of the Federal Reserve around the time of the Great Recession. Of course, he wasn’t referring to catching a buzz, but one cannot ignore the correlation that society was “getting drunk” on their own perception of wealth due to over-inflated home values. Or getting turnt. People acted like an ATM machine was sitting in their garage.

Anyway, enough of that boring shit, let’s talk more about getting wasted. Or turnt. There’s a very popular method of achieving one very tasty buzz and that is to “crossfade”. Crossfading is mixing Cannabis with alcohol. And then you add a couple other stimulants or downers to the mix and you’re cross pollinating. That’s not actually a thing, I just made it up. But how you define this is irrelevant because it all resides conveniently under one comfy umbrella. And that is called getting turnt.

Which is fucking fun! Until it’s over and your dehydrated brain and body wonders what the hell you were thinking. Because it’s not easy to brush off the little devil jumping up and down advocating to crank up the fun volume a couple notches with ill-regard to the looming consequences the following morning. Of course, those feelings of irrational exuberance can compound into a full-blown weekend of getting turnt. That’s called a bender. Which rarely ends well.

Too much getting turnt makes you burnt.
 

Amazon screwed the pooch. If your name is Alexa, that is. Because thanks to them, there’s now a glitch in the process of assigning identity to a newborn child, forcing us to rethink how we move forward with the official book of baby names. Now for the next couple generations or five, new mothers will shudder at the annoying thought of confusedly summoning the updated version of Hal from 2001: A Space Odyssey in their living room.

I mean, they could have given any name under the spectrum for their Artificial Bitch, but they chose one that thousands of females already have, really fucking things up for any unfortunate woman with that lovely name. It’s kinda like having the last name Franklin, but your parents still named you Ben for the fuck of it, effectively forcing you to endure an unending punch line. Which is just unjust.

Think of the household in a family who has the Amazon Echo and a child named Alexa. Every time that name leaves someone’s mouth, the surveillance spy is primed for your next cue to immediately spin the wheel of search engines at your command. So, having a child by the same name is only welcoming more scrutiny into your already privacy deprived life.

So, sorry Alexa. You are no longer unique. What was once a flowing word of Greek origination is now a moniker of mediocrity. You’ve been replaced by automation—now the impetus for undeserved snickers galore and relegated to being associated with a virtual butler.

Here’s the good news. You can always change your name in court. And you can reinvent your identity by moving to a new country. And the chances are pretty good that some grower will name a weed strain after you. Like Bubba Kush, or Jack Herer, except you will simply be Alexa. I can envision the bling of your glowing trichomes!

And hey, at least you weren’t named Siri.
 

If it weren’t for the bubonic plague, rats could easily be man’s best friend. And the rat-infested movie Willard didn’t help their reputation, either. You snicker, but what we’re talking about is pretty much just an oversized mouse, right? I mean, if you really put tangible reasoning to our fearful rationale, the rat has never done anything wrong. Like people, they’re hungry, crafty varmints who are scouring the planet in search of leftovers. The biggest difference between us and them is that we have thumbs and bigger melons, making it a helluva lot easier to find food. Without this enormous advantage, you’d see people crawling wherever necessary to scour up however many bites as it takes to fill that nagging tummy, too!

Hunger will drive you to do the unthinkable.

And ok, they multiply quickly, but so do we. 

Now, I’m not advocating for new leash laws for these sniffy scavengers, but if you think about it, they’re docile and furry with cute little mouths who pretty much just want to nuzzle up for a good cuddle puddle if you’re down to have a pink potbelly warming the nape of your neck. Sure, that tail is thick, but a dog’s is bigger and whippier.

And so are their farts.

You know, every story needs a villain, so it could be said that the negative light shed on these feral friends has painted them as something to fear. When, they could make pleasant companions for us all after a good snipping of the reproductive organs. 

Rats seem like happy creatures--red eyes and all. And by the way, there is nothing wrong with red eyes. I see them in the mirror every day after a fat bong rip.

And then I nibble on some cheese.