Ain’t Just Blowin’ Smoke
by tommy kirchhoff
Herb was a proud member of the US Bong Team. When it came to char-lunging, he was number two in the nation. Though many people believe “if you ain’t the top smoker, you’re just staring up the top guy’s pipe,” Herb wasn’t hung up on being number two.
As a release from the tension of training and competition, Herb skied.
(I think you know why)
When Herb skied, he enjoyed himself. You see, before Herb became a world-class bongaholic, he constantly focused on becoming a better skier. Then one day, by way of chemical emphasis, Herb figured out that skiing is fun.
Herb began to play on the mountain. He liked talking to people on the lift; he generously towed snowboarders across flats—not as a gesture for “Ending Apartheid,” but in his own mind, to trade each tow for snowboarders’ courtesy of moving to the outside to buckle up instead of sitting in the middle of the run. Herb enjoyed himself so much in fact that he rapped while he skied—
“I like the trees ‘cause nobody skis ‘em
Turn with my toe ‘cause round skis will please ‘em.”
Herb liked peeing in the woods. Herb liked hucking carcass. Herb loved to après ski.
One day, while simultaneously training and skiing a sick powder line down Cellphone, a white, furry rabbit jumped into Herb’s arms. The creature was warm and lively, but Herb quickly dismissed the thought of sodomizing it. (He was in the trees—nobody would have known…except the rabbit)
Herb stopped for some paranoiac reason. The rabbit jumped out of his arms
and ducked down the middle of a nearby rotten stump. Herb poled over to the
stump and peered down into what became a large, deep hole. He thought to himself,
“Let’s see: …in the woods… no one’s around… strange rabbit incident…”
Herb’s hands went into action like a navy seal revved up on three pots of coffee. Zipperpocketbowlpackit—and in an instant, Herb was training again. Green grub burned brightly into amber embers.
Just as the next crushing wave of THC broke upon Herb’s forehead, all went
silent but a teeny, tiny little voice coming from inside the stump.
“down here…”
Herb guffawed hard enough to pop a snot bubble, then wiped his lip and continued in genuine stoner snicker. “So that happened,” Herb giggled harder.
A small stone came whizzing out of the stump and pecked Herb right on the
end of his nose. His eyes welling with tears, Herb droned,
“That; fuckin’…hurt.”
And again, a tiny little voice called,
“down here.”
Herb bent down closer to see that the stump opened up inside. He thought to himself—this is like some kind of weird smoke-opium-and-write-children’s-stories-about- rabbits-going-down-in-holes snafu.
Herb looked around. Trees and things looked really cool the way they always do when you’re stoned tits and monkeys. Herb believed in weird shit, and miracles and astrological crap like that, so he said to himself, “why the hell not,” and dove down into the stump using his best “Countrytime Lemonade” form. He still had his skis on.
Seven hours and five inverted bowls later, the rescue team had found him. The first five minutes of Herb’s panicked actions might have reminded you of a Chris Farley skit; but after that, he just regretted it. Herb hung there inside the stump like a 1969 yoga-hippie with a slip and fall settlement, a new pair of gravity boots and QP of expensive dope.
Ladies and Gentlemen: Herb smoked too much pot. Reality isn’t even on the menu for a guy like this. So if you think you perhaps might be maybe, possibly smoking just a mouse-penis too much pot, there’s a support group meeting at the top of Jupiter lift this Thursday at noon. Please come dressed to ski.
