In Search Of…

August 19, 2016 at 12:10 pm (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers)

…The Lost Joint.

I have a safari vest that carries a bit of everything. When I wash it, the contents fill a plastic grocery bag. It’s much like a woman’s purse: None of your goddamn business what I carry around in it! (I keed, but not really. I learned at an early age to stay out of a woman’s purse, even if she tells you to go into it. No good can come from seeing in there…) I have all kinds of helpful items, and some shenanigans.

Recently one of my shenannigans turned up missing.

War and Peace

War and Peace

I have a clear tube that once contained vapor oil, the perfect size for holding a joint. When I rolled “the perfect cigarette” I put it in the tube and stashed it in a pen-slot on my vest. I called it my ‘In case of emergency, break glass!’ joint. It rode with me until one night, when I was engaged in conversation with a prominent local attorney, who was lamenting the fact that the weed store was closed. I gave him my “Lucky Strike” and made a buddy for life.

I rerolled, but it wasn’t as exactly perfect as the Lucky Strike. Oh well, I’ll be more likely to smoke this one! I put it in the tube, stashed it in my vest, and fuggotaboutit.

About a month ago, I noticed the cap on the tube was gone, and the joint was missing. Oh shit, what happened to my Lucky Strike? I retraced my steps, and remembered I’d been rustling around with my vest a lot recently.

Under the cash register of the Waterfront Store. Gulp.

The next time I came to work, nobody looked at me funny. Master P was upstairs, but I wasn’t given the balls-ascending summons, “See me before you count in!” Uncle Cliffy was his average sedate self. Mrs Brady had cleaned under the register, because she cleans everywhere every day. Her stuff was where mine usually is, and I could see nothing. Nothing! She would have found it, and either returned it or ratted me out.

The only other people who might have found it were Festus or Antknee. Festus would have returned it. Antknee wouldn’t be able to open his eyes.

So what happened to the Lost Lucky Strike Joint?

As I pulled out clean socks this morning, I noticed something white sitting next to a trash bag. Aha! There you are, you little bastard! After a month quietly resting at the foot of the bed, Howdy Doobie is back in my pocket, and doomed to a not-very-long second life as my pocket pal.

Sorry buddy, you ain’t getting away this time.

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