The Second to Last Time I Smoked Pot, Part One

I don't smoke a lot of pot. I don't mind its effects, but I eat too much as it is without running around all day with the munchies. Also, people who constantly smoke pot tend to get on my fucking nerves; all that bullshit about how legalizing pot "will really help the economy." Blow me while I take a shit, hippie. You just want something you enjoy to no longer be illegal; be honest about it and I'll respect you. I don't want bourbon to be against the law. But it's always "Legalizing marijuana will really help the economy." You know what I think would help the economy? Jessica Alba giving me a blowjob. No, really, I wouldn't enjoy it, I'd be doing it for my country. Imagine the positive effect it would have on our nation's finances.

"Our top story tonight: The Dow closed at a record high today, effectively ending the recession. Analysts attribute this unprecedented increase to the fact that some anonymous fat lump shot a wad down Jessica Alba's gullet. More on this development after the weather with Wacky Joe."

Back to the point of this post. The last time I smoked pot was last summer when I took a hit off a joint while standing on the patio of the Voodoo Lounge, located on the 5oth floor of the Rio Hotel and Casino. That was a dumb thing to do, but we got away with it. There's nothing like a guy a full head taller than the crowd trying to blend in while committing a crime.

The second to last time I smoked pot was a mere postscript to the madness than ensued that night. I went to a bar with my friend Wu, a true Louisville legend. He worked a part-time job that involved hanging out at bars and giving packs of cigarettes to patrons, so he knew every nightclub worker in the city. A couple of packs of Camels got us in the door without paying a cover and a full carton to the bartender provided us with free drinks most of the evening.

A few hours after we got there I was dancing with a drunk ex-boss I hadn't seen in years. She was a short girl with enormous breasts and I was about to ask her why she picked that night to not wear a bra. Those things were going everywhere. That's when she said to me, "I had to poop and they were out of toilet paper." I finally deciphered her intoxicated ramblings to find that she had used her bra to wipe her ass. Yeah, that made sense. Why ask someone for toilet paper when you have an undergarment handy. Oh, was she drunk.

While my former superior was publicly molesting me on the dance floor, Wu was talking to a cute, young girl at the bar. I only mention this because I'm a fan of dramatic foreshadowing.

We stayed until 4am, last call. My ex-boss went home with her sober brother, who I hope didn't see what she had been doing to me, and I went out to the parking lot to meet up with Wu. Little did I know the night had only begun.

Part two tomorrow.