The only marijuana magazine bringing you the stories of other pot smokers and smugglers.

Growin' Our Own (page 5)

Busted Nuts (final part)

By: General Lee Doofy

(Click here for part two) I crawled from the comfort of my worn black leather bean bag, made my way, on hands and knees, to my olive drab multi purpose foot locker, trunk, coffee table, pulled a key from my belt, unlocked the small master lock, lifted the lid, stuck my hand down into another small box and removed the leather pouch that contained a brass pipe and my best bud.

There is a lot to be said for home nurtured weed from a good seed strain that has had adequate water, fertilizer and lighting.

I opened the baggie, gently removed the bud and laid it on top of the baggie next to my pipe. I pulled the screen from the bowl of the threaded brass pipe fittings, wiggled the residue from the screen into an ashtray and replaced the screen.

I carefully pulled a couple of hairy, orange brown, resin laden, unfertilized seed pods from the bud, placed them on the freshly cleaned screen at the bottom of the bowl and covered them with shake.

Blade was intently looking through the tunes. I doubted that he would agree to listening to Waylon Jennings. He sensed me looking at him and turned to me. "General would you mind listening to some Dylan."

"That sounds good to me Blade. Put in one of his newer ones and one of his early ones, set the player on random and we'll smoke this bowl."

"Okay, General."

I handed the pipe to Blade, flicked the Bic and watched the shake burn down into the buds as he took a long deep pull. Blade locked the back of his throat and passed the pipe back to me. I purged the air from my lungs, put the pipe to my lips and pulled the glowing ember through the buds. I locked my throat and passed the pipe back to Blade. He exhaled and relit the remaining residue. There wasn't much left.

I crawled back to my bean bag as one of the Dylan cds started; with the Tweedlee Dee and Tweedlee Dumb cut. Blade pushed a pillow under his side and sprawled next to the trunk.

Our eyes met. For the first time that afternoon, we saw each other. I knew there wouldn't be any bull shit or pretenses cluttering the remainder of our conversation. We were at that stage of a reality based high that motivates and enables us to move and maneuver through our known and immediate reality at warp speed. The ego was in charge, pushing from the rear. The id was along for the ride. This was the type of high that rode around with a .38 under the seat and kilo bricks in the trunk. This was the type of high that took on the man. The mind moved at mach two plus. The angles to every and any situation flashed to resolution in the blink of an eye. The perceptions to the slightest nuance of any occurrence were always on top.

I recalled watching Blade, when we were young and on this level of high, take two antagonists out with a short police billy. He danced through the moves, hit the first one over the head. The guy dropped like a sack of potatoes. The second guy grabbed and pulled on the billy. Blade pirouetted to the right and helped him with it. He drove the billy into the guys mouth. The guy fell against a yellow brick building. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he slid to the ground. Red blood on yellow brick. Blade was prancing and huffing.

So much for the pot leads to pacifism theories.

"Blade are you ready to tell me what is going on?"

"I am telling you my friend. I will have it all out there real soon."

"When Fast Eddie stopped over looking for some bud; he sent me on a new direction in drug use. Fast suggested that I go to a doctor and tell him that I was having sexual problems. The catch was that I was supposed to tell the doc that viagra wasn't helping, then ask for a testosterone shot."

"I made an appointment. The night before the appointment I made sure to get some pussy from my wife. I got up the morning of the appointment and jerked off. What the hell, I wanted to be sure that my testosterone level was really low."

"The doctor was a nice enough guy. I lied. I told him I was having trouble getting it up. He said he admired my ability to discuss my sexual dysfunction. Things appeared to be looking pretty good. He indicated that he would write the 'script for the testosterone. So far so good. Then he said, "You will have to have a blood test; so I can check your current testosterone level. The nurse will draw a blood sample. I will call in the prescription when I have the results. Call the front desk tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks doc - I followed the nurse to her station. Yes, oh yes, this was going to be alright."

"The following afternoon I called the doctor's office and inquired as to the status of my prescription. The receptionist put the doctor on."

"Mr. B. I have the results from your blood test. You have a higher than average level of testosterone in your system; for your age. With these results; I can not in good conscience prescribe testosterone for you. I will call in an open ended viagra prescription for you. If that doesn't help I would suggest that you see a mental health professional."

"Thanks for your time doc - I hung up the phone."

Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. For my age. What kind of crap was that? Now what to do? I called Fast to let him know what had happened.

"Fast, the doctor said he would not prescribe the testosterone for me." - "Blade, there are ways, other than by prescription, to obtain testosterone. But, that would have been the best. I do not want to tell you about it over the phone."

I went over to Fast's place. He pointed me in the right direction. It took a couple of days and I had a years supply of testosterone, needles included. It is in a small brown bottle containing enough for a monthly injection. The people that provided it are real conscientious. They put in some fat needles to remove the testosterone from the bottle with and some real nice thin ones for injecting. Hell, they even threw in a small bottle of alcohol for cleanup.

"Blade, were you doing testosterone the night you got busted?"

"Yeah. I had taken a fresh shot of the big T about three days prior to that night. It was really starting to kick in. Hell, I felt as if I was twenty six all over again. I had also taken a 100mg of viagra before I left the shop that night."

There I was, loaded up and ready, when that asshole with the badge stopped me. I asked the deputy what the problem was.

"We have you for careless driving. You were weaving in and out of the traffic back there at the fairgrounds."

"Okay. Write me the ticket and I'll be on my way." -

I thought that was a fair enough request. I wasn't disputing that I had been weaving in and out of the traffic. Hell, it was sneak a peak night over at the fairgrounds. All of those damn kids and shit kickers were gawking around as they drove past. Me? I wanted to make it on home.

When he pulled his ticket book from his pocket, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my wife pull up and park about a half a block away. She had stopped at the store for a bottle Merlot and then saw me pulled over.

The main asshole and the back up asshole were looking at me and my bike with a certain amount of derision. I knew damn well that they wanted to search me but they didn't have grounds.

My wife approached the assholes.

"What is going on here?"

The main asshole looked at her and began posturing. Due to the disparity in our ages he didn't realize that she was my wife. That arrogant fuck assumed she was interested in him.

"I am taking care of a jackass."

That is about all that I remember with any clarity. The situation escalated fairly rapidly after that. I will say that, even though I was feeling like a twenty six year old, I felt all of my fifty six years with my face mashed into the pavement. Three cruisers with six cops responded as backup. They took turns pulling me in and out of the back seat like I was a fuckin' yo yo. I finally found myself at the county jail; where they did the finger print and mug shot thing.

Times have changed since the last time I was in there. They no longer use ink for finger prints. That along with the mug shot is now computerized. It is really something. They roll your fingers along a small scanner and the computer files them away. The mug shot is by digital camera. A little networking and I am sure big brother can pull your complete file anywhere at anytime.

"Damn it Blade. I knew you would be under the influence of some kind of drug."

"Fuck you General. You want to talk to me about drugs? Then lets call it like it is. At fifty six I have access to just as many, if not more drugs, than were available to me when I was twenty six. It is all a bunch of crap. Hell, everybody is doing something . Behavior modifying drugs are the fuckin' norm. If some crazy bitch is having a bad time she gets a 'script for some shit and she is then smiling her way along. Those assholes that took me down,are getting off on their own fuckin' endomorphs, or some shit like that. Then they are getting loaded at their favorite hangout, or crowing to their women how they took some jackass down. Well fuck those cock suckers and fuck you too general."

"For Christ's sake Blade; calm down. What is with this testosterone? You are wound up tighter than a two dollar watch. I believe that stuff is having more of an effect on you than you realize. You are getting way out of line."

"Fuck it general."

"How can you fuck it, if you can't be sure that it is real?"

"God damn it general. It is what it is and that is what the fuck it is. Someday when your ass is caught in the trap you will realize that. All of your mind bending spiritual shit is just that - shit. Life is a stroll through the freak show and no one is going to get out of here alive."

"That is the point. Maybe none of us really are alive. Possibly we are in existence and life is the next step. Blade, you need to try and make it a little easier on yourself while you are here. Calm down. Remember me? I am your oldest friend."

"I am sorry. I just can't seem to get a grip."

"There is one thing I can tell you. You aren't going to find any answers. Our lives aren't profiled in Aging Horizons or Modern Maturity magazine."

"Okay general. Here is the question. Would you trade, possibly, ten to fifteen years off of the end of your life, for five to ten real quality years here in the beginning of the end? In essence would you like to physically feel as if you are forty to fifty, when you are actually between fifty five and sixty five? Lets face it there is no guarantee that you are going to be here, wherever the fuck you think here is, the next time there is a time. If, and I know you just as well as you think you know me, general, there is any such thing as time."

"I guess you finally got it fairly well laid out for me Blade. Yeah, I now know where you are coming from. On the lighter side, maybe it wasn't the acid we dropped in our twenties, maybe it was the glue fumes we inhaled as pre-druggie white trash kids. I really don't know why we are not in the mainstream. The question that remains for you is, what the hell are you going to do about the bust?"

"There really isn't much that I can do. I will cop a plea, pay my way out, and move on. The current state of affairs in this country, e.g. the rampant paranoia that is gripping this nation due to terrorism, is giving law enforcement unprecedented powers."

"Thanks for the education on the sexual enhancement drugs."

"No problem general. I think that I will point the remainder of this buzz into the wind. Then go home and pat the new wife on the ass. With any luck deputy asshole will not be lurking around. If he is, I can say - yasser boss, yasser boss, I is steppin' out here boss - Quack, Quack, Quack, while I die a little on the inside."

"Take care, Blade."

I turned the stereo off, and reflected on Blade's visit. There wasn't much doubt that he was wired to the max on the testosterone. He was lucky to be in a position where he could make a decision about how he wanted to spend his remaining years.

November 22, 2002 Billings, Montana. Pedro Hernandez, who is serving an 80 year term in federal prison, had an additional 20 years tacked on, bringing his total to 100 years.

Hernandez, 45, was convicted of distributing more than a ton of marijuana in the 1990s and laundering the profits.

November 1976 Clearwater Florida. Marijuana importers - Harry 'The Rock' Hoffman and Marvin Flowers - were sentenced to serve from six months to three years for charges stemming from importing at least 650,000 pounds of marijuana, which they purchased for $20 a pound in the Caribbean.

Does anyone reading this know where Harry and Marvin are now? Did they go on to lead lives of high crime? Should our tax dollars go to the care and maintenance of Pedro Hernandez for the next hundred years? Is that the financial burden that we want to put on our children, and our children's grandchildren?

The drums of the drug war beat on. Those of us concerned with logic and fiscal responsibility continue to lose.

When you get that buzz that you get this holiday season, remember those that daily risk their freedom in the drug war to provide you with that high.

Happy Holidays - Take Care