Nestlé and Other Big Food Conglomerates Enter the Cannabis Market
by Chane Leigh
Strange thoughts sometimes appear after consuming cannabis. Depending on the amount ingested, your thoughts may range from an insatiable hunger to absurd paranoia. Let’s look at some ridiculous and entertaining high thoughts.
Have you ever wondered what dogs would be like if they were shoeshines? I have…
Imagine a dog asking if you’d like to “have a shine.” Questionable as that offer sounds, it is of pure intention. The dog appears to be a professional. After all, you think to yourself, I see him every morning on my walk to work.
“Of course,” you say. You don’t wish to be rude to the old pup. You sit down in a big leather chair with a rickety spring, and he slinks over.
The dog—an aging pug—sits proudly with a towel draped over his neck advertising his expertise. He can make all the blemishes of a fine boot disappear. Or so he says.
“A shine for my best bud,” the dog says. His tail wags so fast that it’s a blur. Your bloodshot, dry eyes have a hard time focusing on it. “Having a job keeps me young,” you hear him mutter between the odd bark or focused sniffle. In due time, your leather boots are fresh as the day that you bought them. You flip the good boy a quarter and go about your business.
On the next corner, you see a band of union dogs protesting their underpayment at the stuffed dinosaur factory.
It’s almost insane how often this one happens. You’re smoking with your friends, and after a big toke, you squint your eyes. Looking at your group, you start to hear exaggerated versions of them cutting up in your head.
This fantasy continues as you picture a conversation about UFOs in your head. Your friends are still busy getting stoned. But then one of them looks at you and asks if anyone has ever been abducted by aliens. They’re convinced that they have.
“How can he hear me?”, you think to yourself, but really, you’ve said it out loud. Your best friend, sitting to your right, puts down the bong. Their eyes grow large.
Extrasensory perception. ESP. You’ve been training for this your whole life.
“Dude,” you say, “pick a number between one and fifty.” You clear your mind.
The best friend puts their long fingers on the cleft of their chin, and their eyes glaze over. They’re reading your mind.
“Twelve,” they say. Their expression is of a person who is not there. But they are there. They’re there.
Of course, you’ve forgotten the number you were thinking of.
Consider all of those times that you took a big puff, sat back, and noticed that you were sinking. This is a common perception whilst under the influence of cannabis. You feel a rush, and then the floor has turned against you. It’s pulled the rug from under your feet, as they say.
Or so you think.
In reality, you’re sitting there, alone or with giggling friends, staring off into the void that is your mind. Thoughts swirl like pancake batter in a big bowl. You consider the formation of the stars as your body drifts down, down, down….
And then you come to. The sound of the beeping microwave caresses your delicate ears, and you rush off to consume the nutritious and delicious food you’ve reheated.
Cannabis is an intoxicating plant, meaning you’ll pass into a trippy headspace at lightspeed if you indulge in a heroic dose of bud.
A fun thought—and one that seems to occur often—is that we are all one. The universe is a big brain and we’re the cells, connected yet independently working together to create a reality in our image. Every action we take feels as if it has a reaction that reverberates throughout all of existence.
Conversations turn sappy at this point as your mind swims through a loving, compassionate field of poppy and honeysuckle. You tell those you’re hanging out with that you love them, that you’re all one. “Life is but a dream, and we’re the imagination of ourselves,” you say, but from where this came from you can’t remember.
You can’t even remember your last name.
You’ve been smoking for some time now. King of the Hill has stopped playing on the T.V., and you figure it’s time for something new. You pick up your remote…but what is time?
You frantically glance at your phone. The dim glow illuminates your face and tells you it is 11:30. But how is that possible? You check it an hour ago and it was 11:20. You tell yourself that everything is fine. Perhaps you got carried away with the show.
Then it dawns on you. Time has stretched. There is no other explanation, for how else could ten minutes feel like an hour?
Being stoned takes time and stretches it out. It whispers that seconds have become minutes, minutes have become hours, and so on. It’s a fun and weird experience. But fear not: time always returns to its proper order. Eventually.
Tommy Wiseau’s The Room is best known as a transcendent comedy that defies normal comedic conventions. However, for those who watch it while stoned, it can turn into the most serious of dramas.
The story of this film follows the bright, successful, and attractive Johnny along with a series of intense encounters with his friends—Denny, Mark, Chris-R, etc.—and his lover, Lisa.
As the film progresses your glazed eyes struggle to find the humor in the breaking down of a man and his relationship. How could his best friend steal his girl? How could Lisa tear Johnny apart? How the heck can Denny get involved with drugs with a shady fellow like Chris-R?
These questions cause turmoil in your fogged mind. The haze of your room gives the impression of a 1940s movie theater at a midnight showing. You cry at the climax as Johnny takes his own life, leaving his friends, his love, and doggy alone in a cruel, cruel world.
The Room has finished playing, and the beeping of the microwave from hours (or years?) before is still playing out in your head like a strange siren calling your waistline toward jagged rocks.
You go into your kitchen and sift through your pantry. Nothing but expired cereal and a can of peas. Even that mixture would be hard to swallow, though your mouth does water at the thought. Your fridge is equally as barren. Shutting the door, you know that in order to feed yourself, you must call delivery or drive somewhere.
No matter how much you eat while high, your stomach forever remains an endless pit, the food bouncing off of the never-ending well into the caverns below. Always keep snacks around, else suffer the agonizing defeat of peas and cereal.
Everyone makes questionable choices. For some, such choices may include:
· Ordering $500 of X-Filesmemorabilia
· Eating seventeen double stuffed Oreos
· Explaining your life plans to your dog and expecting a response
· Asking the audience despite not being on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
But during the course of these decisions, you stop to ask: am I being watched?
A familiar paranoia sets in. Looking out the blinds you see nothing but an empty intersection. Your yard sits calm, littered with fixed-gear bicycle parts and frisbee golf gear. Who would be watching? You rack your brain.
“Big Brother is watching.” The phrase reverberates in your mind. Of course! Orwell predicted this bane upon our society ages ago. There is no such thing as privacy. What a farce the concept even is. And whomever “Big Brother” is, they know how high you are.
You go back to your kitchen to tool around with a blender and some bananas. Acting cool, you feel the ever-present panopticonian eyes drift from your life to your neighbors.
Watering plants is relaxing, therapeutic, and a great way to spend a stoned moment. Plants are interesting little creatures, and studies have even shown that they love to be sung to.
As you’re feeding them with delicious, freshwater you wonder: can these plants sing, too?
Naturally, you brush the idea off. Why would plants sing? They have no lungs. But the more you ponder the question the stranger it becomes. If plants could sing, the world would be a much, much happier place.
Flowers would sing beautiful Swedish mountain songs. Trees would chant just like old Gregorian monks. Cannabis plants would mumble dated reggae hits from years past.
A fine world this would be.
Tucking yourself into bed, you flick off the lights. The only lights are the ones from the streetlamps outside your window and the clock radio on the bedside table.
You begin to meditate on the wonders of cannabis: the uses that it has, the benefits it brings, and the growth that it can offer. Your mind drifts to evolution, down to monkeys and beyond. You back up.
What if monkeys had access to weed?
A fine question. Stretching the imagination, you think that perhaps a bolt of lightning struck a crop of cannabis in pre-ancient times, and the chimpanzees walking through the field were suddenly enlightened with thoughts and concepts and awareness. The chimpanzees slowly began to conquer nature and the world, and before you know it Planet of the Apes is real and humans are booted from the picture.
You force a nervous laugh, turn over, and try to sleep. The only sound left as you begin to doze off is the microwave beep.
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