100 episodes

Toke up to this whimsical, narrated Cannabis Column that infuses contemporary observations from an old school perspective. The name Stoney Baloney says it all; a weekly grab bag of ingredients that’s sure to be infused with lots of salty flavors to make it taste delicious.

Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column Mike Ricker

    • Comedy

Toke up to this whimsical, narrated Cannabis Column that infuses contemporary observations from an old school perspective. The name Stoney Baloney says it all; a weekly grab bag of ingredients that’s sure to be infused with lots of salty flavors to make it taste delicious.

    The Meditations of Davey Dabs

    The Meditations of Davey Dabs

    There are people in this world, most in fact, who toil through their humdrum existence with little reach outside the periphery of their familiar surroundings. And then there are those who impulsively thrust their bodies into random situations for the sole purpose of the experience that will inevitably fill the well of curiosity toward further tantalizing teases of possibilities.   
    One of these rare participants is Davey Dabs. 
    In his absurd stratosphere of rationale, that which fluctuates between the calm, enlightened space of gratitude and hairbrained feats of stupidity, is an understanding that without context, life is a sequence of guesses and assumptions mostly leading to inaccurate determinations of fact. And in his relentless pursuit of accumulating knowledge through participation, it is clear to him that no person has ever prevailed at every attempt made toward succeeding. 
    “Wins and lessons,” he likes to pontificate to those who doubt his process. “There are no losses,” he extends, “because each perceived failure is actually an incredible part of creating who you are meant to become.” These words are choked out in a massive cloud of exhaled vapor while visible swirls of broken sunlight peek through the venetian blinds. “There’s not a CEO in this country who hasn’t failed at least once in life.”
    With an avocado mask covered face, these are the last words before he draws a second full gram dab of rosin before politely standing to excuse himself from the table. He proceeds to drop his robe and takes to the sauna for a “chicken bake” with a brewing belly of 1000 milligrams of RSO. He will meditate in the suffocating heat for thirty minutes much like Moses himself, transcending consciousness in the face of the burning bush. 
    His brown body is covered with jet black hair—bunches of it bulging from the edges of his speedo. 
    By the way, Davey Dabs’ favorite thing to eat from Costco is the Chicken Bake. 

    • 3 min
    Tacky Khaki

    Tacky Khaki

    Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.  
    Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences. 
    I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store. 
    Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar?
    Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is. 

    • 2 min
    Sex Is Like Baseball

    Sex Is Like Baseball

    To be great at America’s favorite pastime, you only need to succeed three out of every ten attempts. We’re talking about getting hits in baseball here, not getting lucky between the sheets. However, for you men out there, the numbers are pretty much the same. For every ten times you try, if you get action three out of those, you’re doing better than most of your neighbors. Unless, of course, you live next to a college dormitory. 
    Or a retirement community. 
    Sorry for the visual. 
    One reason why getting laid has been compared to hitting a home run is because it’s not always easy. It takes skill and practice. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable in the batter’s box, getting to first base can feel very intimidating, much less advancing to second and third. And none of it matters unless you get to fourth base. That’s called home plate. Which is coincidental, because fourth base is where babies are made. And those babies end up living at your home, endlessly screeching at an empty plate. 
    Anyway, to effectively score and win, you need to be physically and mentally adept with good timing. You wanna keep the ball in play because that’s where the action is. If you’re swing is too erratic, you’re not going to find the gap on the field. And You only get three strikes until you’re back in the dugout watching the other players take their shot. Also, it’s good to keep the pace moving because the more the game drags on, the longer it takes to get to that victory. 
    By the way, did you know that the Major League Baseball Player’s Union just announced that each team can now carry 14 pitchers? There are 30 teams in the league. That means there are 420 pitchers overall. 
    Looks like baseball is catching up with the times.

    • 2 min
    Wetting The Bed

    Wetting The Bed

    I know, you’re wondering if this is a topic that really needs to be discussed. Or can we just bundle it up and toss it in the washing machine, pretending it never happened. And my response is that it does need to be discussed for two reasons. The first being because it’s good to create healthy discourse about things you are normally embarrassed to bring into public view. And two, because we’ve all peed the sheets. 


    No one is ever proud of this unfortunate mishap, but it’s ok, everyone knows you didn’t do it purposefully, it was just an accident more than once. And either because you were a child traumatized by your divorcing parents, or you simply have an old lady’s bladder. 


    Or you blacked the f**k out. 


    Listen, I’ve had a few hard drinking friends who should’ve had a plastic wrap around their mattress. But can you picture the look on a person’s face when you’re getting romantic and the first sound is that of lying on top of an unopened Amazon package? Talk about a buzz kill. No one wants to feel like they’re about to get busy on a hospital bed. I mean, putting on a condom is awkward enough.


    I’m gonna come clean here. I was a bed wetter until the age of ten. In fact, I soaked my pants during recess in the 4th grade, terrified to re-enter the classroom. Hiding the wet leg wasn’t so difficult in the self-imposed solitary confinement of the boys restroom but passing through the gauntlet to my desk in the back of the room after the bell rung was a different mission. And sure enough, Reggie the class clown caught me dead in my tracks. “You Peed!” he yelped, pointing directly to the massacre. 


    Wetting the bed at that age was humiliating, but peeing your pants was a scarlet letter. But it’s ok, I came to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person. 


    Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cat Piss. 

    • 2 min
    #174 - Pinky Swears Are Binding

    #174 - Pinky Swears Are Binding

    Yes, pinky swears are a lighthearted agreement rarely enforced, but we all know that there exists a code with the intention of not being broken. Because in this sue happy world of painful litigation, if we don’t respect the sanctimony of a real deal, then why agree to it in the first place? 


    Locking pinkies is a silly way to execute blood brotherhood without the pricks. And I’m not referring to the kind of pricks who purposefully cut you off in traffic, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle to draw a drop of blood. I’ve seen blood bonding in movies where two warriors will cement an agreement by slicing a line in their arm before the compulsory forearm broshake, then sealing the bond by wrapping a leather strap.

    The man love is palpable. In fact, you think they might rub beards.  

    Either way, the hand is the tool that secures alliances, and the inconspicuous pinky can be the secret weapon of assurance. Sure, most pinky swears aren’t taken seriously, but if we create a legally binding understanding that once a pinky swear is consummated there is no way to overturn it without going to hell, or some shit like that, they can be enforceable. It needs to matter more. Along with saving polar bears.

    This is good.

    Because even though the pinky is the runt of the litter, it has the plenty of potential. Your ring finger is cool but is basically employed for the purpose of identifying the symbol for a ball and chain called the wedding ring. The middle finger, well, that’s a no brainer—very useful indeed. The index finger is essential for booger harvesting and pointing at cool shit, which is of great importance. But the pinky has been underrated. 

    Therefore, as unlikely as it is that it will work out, sometimes you’ve just got to see how it goes because it’s the best option available. 

    Kind of like when you’re out of weed, but you’ve got a dirty pipe with a bunch of resin collected in it.

    • 3 min
    The Shit We Do When We're Drunk

    The Shit We Do When We're Drunk

    Make bad decisions. End of story. 


    Well, there’s more actually. 


    See, we all know that It’s difficult to think clearly when gazing through the glowing lens of beer goggles. Because when everything in your periphery is enhanced by fuzzy Glamour Shot lighting, the miscalculation alarm can be severely compromised when your weaker senses are enticed. 


    Suddenly, casting caution to the wind makes perfect sense, and you are down because you’ve just unlocked the jailed trap star who runs the city. That antisocial video gamer who clocked in this morning with a Best Buy name tag just got run over by the tank that is the new confident and boastful Chief Executed Baller. With a couple shots and a beer satiating the gullet, the amazing new you has emerged. And this dude is a f*****g player who struts with swagger and makes the calls, ready to order some rounds and make some memories. 


    This is the juncture in the evening where terrible ideas become sound opportunities to prove to the world that the tin man just needed a few drops of oil. A few of these ill-advised decisions include tossing back a fifth shot of Fireball whiskey, doubling up on the stack of waffles, and cranking the ignition on the Hyundai. It all makes beautifully perfect sense. Oh, and hooking up with your childhood bestie. 


    Not all decisions made when drunk are bad, however. The moment you decided to hit a homeless guy’s scraggly joint on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of scoring an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week. 

    • 2 min

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