Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column Mike Ricker

In case you didn’t know, Davey Dabs has a stomach tattoo.

The tattoo is a realistic portrait of an actual stomach. The stomach is that of his deceased grandmother. And although he was not a witness to the autopsy of his beloved grandma Dombrowski from his mother’s polish side of the family, he did bring a Ouija board to place next to the foot pedal, knowing that the artist rendering this organ would channel her spirit for accuracy. 

The artist, Kenny Ink, was a team player through and through, never complaining or taking deep, impatient breaths during the meticulous process. He’d done several of Davey Dabs’ earlier tattoos, including the golden arches of Macdonald’s across the left side of the neck. His ability to apply precision while maintaining a steady hand is his most excellent skill, highly tested in this one particular instance due to the rise and fall of Davey Dabs’ belly between intervals of his beckoning of his beloved Babusia.

Could he capture an actual resemblance to the late matriarch’s stomach? We will never know, but there’s no denying that the image is strikingly lifelike. It’s the detailed depiction of creases and wrinkles that give it an uncanny resemblance.

“Trust your gut,” Davey Dabs instructed the uncertain tattooist.

Kenny Ink smirked, slightly anxious.

Kenny Ink also did his tattoo of Tattoo, the short and stout Mexican character from the 1970’s television show called Fantasy Island. This tattoo is on the left shoulder. Directly underneath the arm, on the upper rib cage, is a tattoo of a heating pad. The reason is that Tattoo will not get cold, having spent his entire life in tropical climates.

By the way, Davey Dabs has seen every episode of Fantasy Island on Hulu. He is also addicted to Gilligan’s Island.

He always looks for crops in the jungle scenes. 
 

You’ve walked into a room and seen mounted animals peering downward with glazed eyes, yes? Maybe it was a hawk with flared wings and a curved beak, frozen in a statuesque moment. Or a snarling bear, mid-growl, caught in a pose when the hair spiked from the back and the drool dripped over the fangs.

This fantastic plaque is a feast for human curiosity, reminding us that although this beast would rip and mangle our bodies if mistakenly confronted in the woods, evolution has befitted us with the advantage of being properly armed in the wild.

Keeping surveillance from atop the fireplace, the emotion captured from the creature’s expression brings a chill that challenges your love for beauty with fear. It informs you that although it may have been a savage battle, the one with the shotgun walked away unscathed. For a moment, your imagination lands you in the woods where the wind swishes through the evergreens to create the only sound other than your breath and moving feet. Then you hear a fast-approaching, blood thirsty monster with the scream of a thousand banshees…

The cubes rattle while a swallow of scotch lightly burns down your throat. Arrogance and vulnerability intersect in this moment, a parallel to the juxtaposition in this room--that of the feared predator on showroom display amongst the high cedar ceilings and soothing lapping flames.

The thought enters your periphery that there is something noble about retaining that pose ad infinitum over the dreadful alternative of exile to the cold dark earth in a beautiful box where your existence is qualified by a weathered headstone that marks the day the worms and fungi began to slowly feed upon your bones.

I personally see this choice as a no-brainer.

There’s only one thing I ask. Please place a smile on my face, a joint in my mouth, and a lighter in my hand.

Just in case I ever come back to life. 
 

I know, not cool.

It’s just that I was looking for a towel because you told me I could grab a shower since we just returned from the gym, and you ran to grab a six pack. There wasn’t a clean one in the bathroom, so I checked your bedroom closet. 

I wasn’t entirely sure what to think upon first sight because it’s totally fine, and there’s no judgement for what you do in the privacy of your own crib, but I couldn’t help from feeling a little awkweird.

And no, I didn’t want to tell you about it. However, we’ve been friends so long, I feel that it might’ve been necessary.

It affected me. I think it’s because of that visual that hits you with a shock when you accidentally witness people you know getting it on. And I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes, but I’m realizing that this can’t be unseen. In fact, upon this unfortunate discovery, I wanted to get dressed immediately, sneak out, and tell you I had to handle a work thing.

This is entirely my fault. I mean, it’s not the same thing as finding your mother’s dildo in a drawer after she’s passed, thank God. That’s Aunt Cathy’s job. But it’s still an area in which I have no context from which to draw for coping and I just don’t want this uneasiness to linger.

We’ve known each other since middle school and I kind of think you like a cousin. Like, we’ve always been buddies—into shit like hot sauce, mountain biking, and the matching tuxedos in Dumb and Dumber. But this changed things. There’s a line you never want to cross with a bro, and I was uncertain if this might be permanent.

By the way, I also found a prostate massager.

But then I smoked some of your weed. And thank God, because now that I’m stoned the whole thing is f*****g hilarious! 
 

Remember Myspace? Well, in case you forgot, it was the awesome precursor to Facebook. In fact, if they ever have a wing for internet history at the Smithsonian Institute, it is sure to have rightful representation. Because unfortunately, this originator of social media is now obsolete like phone booths, travel agencies, and the group that made the song I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt.

It's kinda like a giant digital meteor exploded into the Great Global Server in 2008, blanketing the fiber optic world with toxic pixels, causing the extinction of this dominion of personal expression. But unlike the doomed dinosaur, future archaeologists will not be unearthing bones as clues that tell the mysterious existence of a prehistoric land ruled by lurking lizards. What they would discover is a fascinating culture of ancient humans whose dwellings were accentuated with filigreed wallpaper, a list of top ten pretend friends, and a cool tune.

Myspace was way doper than Mombook has ever been--one convenient little online brochure that showcased your personal tastes. But sadly, it is now the social media equivalent to Zima.

That was the original White Claw.

F****n bummer.

And potentially the best thing about Myspace was the acknowledgment of gratitude when your friend request was accepted. You would often be purposefully obliged for the add, as if it were a form of currency; that you were so benevolent to entrust them as an inductee into your realm. There was a level of validation that felt new. 

It was more personal. 

But now the friend count is just a numbers game. The individual being a necessary evil to the accumulation of total followers.

And they’re not real friends anyway.

Until you hotbox together.

In a phone booth.
 

Against the odds of physics, I think it’s downright amazing that we have solved many of the mysteries that for millennia prevented us from successfully remaining vertical. Because if you really think about it, there are countless perils that our predecessors learned to dodge enough times to eventually afford us the luxury of conveniently ignoring.

We’ve weathered the disease and the wild beasts. Now we lean on machines for our means.

But It couldn’t have been easy to become breezy. Like, in the old days when we had fur, breaking an ankle by stepping in a saber-toothed gopher hole would have only been the beginning. The challenges created by the injury would have a direct effect on keeping your grunting litter fed. Afterall, you’ve got to be mobile for the morning dung hunt. Because not that flipping over herd patties in search of insect protein and interesting mushrooms for Sunday brunch isn’t gnarly enough, but doing it with branch crutches would make it a real bugger.

And it’s not that we’ve moved past identifying herd dung for our sustenance. Now we just mix it with lard and call it Taco Bell.

Thank god for fire sauce.

Here’s an example of how we’ve overcome the obstacles to prolonging life. Mozart lived about 250 years ago. Out of seven children born to his parents, he was one of only two that survived past infancy. It was a numbers game back then, always juggling the reality that some of the brood wouldn’t make it past the nipple.

But these days Jesus Freaks will breed a dozen disciples and if one of them dies it’s a crippling tragedy. Boy are we spoiled!

Through centuries of trial and error, we have greatly improved our ability to keep the chin raised for at least sixteen hours a day. And we have to throw a nod to those who took an Woolley Antelope horn to the shorts.

And for discovering psilocybin.
 

Apart from the disturbing fact that the drakes are verified gang rapists, these birds are quite wonderful. I know that sounds like a heavy contradiction, but every species has its system for making babies, and we are not ones to judge the unspoken rules of natural selection.

Don’t cancel Donald Duck!

All unsolicited advances aside, we dig these feathered fowl so much that they’ve remained some of the most likeable characters of all time. They’re cool and cute, so of course we would want to animate this tail-shaking, web-footed waddler into any activity where there’s water. And certainly, that does not exclude the most imperative of all sanctuaries known to children--the bathtub.

No kid wants to rub-a-dub-dub with three men in their tub when a flock of pint-sized polymer pets provide all the imagination necessary to make a silly splash. And with a squeak of approval, they are ready and willing to take every cue from a slap happy youngster who would otherwise be fiddling with their wiener.

Since the 1930s, there have been countless gimmicky toys with their mechanical means of moving and talking and squawking, but few reflect the simplicity of early life as these elastic quackers. Because when it’s time to enter the warmth of water with bobbles and bubbles, they accentuate the exciting invitation to playfully pretend. And who can forget Bert and Ernie expressing their musical affection for these plastic rascals?

It's easy to say that no plaything has been loved longer than these buoyant birds. And they are the safest toy in the tub.

Babies even chew on them.

Adults wouldn’t chew on them. Unless you made them into an infused gummy.