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Jason Lauve The architect of Industrial...
I’ve always been a bit of a people watcher.
Whether waiting in line at the bank, strolling through Sea World with the fam, or cruising around town checking items off of life’s “to-do” list, I’m always psychoanalyzing the heroes, halfwits, gangsters, and sheeple in my path.
I was blessed to have the opportunity to volunteer at one of San Diego’s premiere dispensaries throughout 2011 as a budtender and I’d often help over 100 patients in my 4-5 hour shift – a sweet little gig that provided an overflowing melting pot of varying personalities for me to observe.
There were a few certain types of cannabis enthusiasts that seemed to be reoccurring, not just in the dispensary, but in all aspects of the marijuana culture. That led to me coming up with a few characters, based loosely on slapped-together-aspects of some of the most memorable folks that I have come across in this dank branch of my life.
With the words on the page, I approached an old internet gaming buddy of mine from the UK, by the name of Simon Tye. I knew that Si had recently graduated from art school, and I had seen some examples of his work, in all of his various styles, and knew he needed to be the guy to bring my characters to life. The only disconnect was, Si doesn’t smoke weed, and was very naïve to the pot-themed terms and wacky concepts I was throwing at him.
In the end, his awesome interpretations of what must have sounded like the rants of a lunatic are all hand-drawn, unique, and serve as just another goofy perspective from a people-watcher from across the pond.
So, without any further ado, Si Tye and JD present our 10 Stoner Stereotypes – see how many you recognize!
Some of the most gung-ho patients I came across while working in the dispensary were the college students. Armed with a chai latte, a coupon they clipped from the Reader, and enough Noam Chomsky quotes to make Michael Moore sigh in disgust, this Big Man on Campus thinks that the balance on his Meal Card is somehow congruous to his value in society at large.
Often travelling in packs, carbon copies wearing basketball shorts and TapOut shirts even though they have never played basketball nor put up their dukes, this FratBoy may try to equate the fact that you will not allow him to combine his clipped coupon with his student discount with the current weekday related in-store deal to the plight of the tribal natives in Chiapas, Mexico.
He is the first one to lead the protest on campus when the administration tries to raise tuition…if by “lead the protest” you mean bitching in a Facebook status update about the actual protesters waking him up at 11:45am with all their shouting.
His recent conversion to Pot Head once he hit college is all too obvious…no bro, notebook paper is not ok for a spliff. No bro, we don’t have any “Kim Dog”, but I can show you some ChemDawg. No bro, I don’t want to hear about the Federal Reserve.
Ol’ College Try supports minority rights, education, free thinking, peace, love, and all things about marijuana – until the day he graduates, at which point he considers it all to be a bit juvenile. If only he could roll a fatty with that PoliSci degree, it might actually do him some good.
The pure antithesis and lifelong arch-rival of Glasshole, DabGyver is that stoner we all know who will smoke out of any device you can possibly imagine, and a shitload of things you would never imagine.
Unlike his Over-Geared-Under-Stashed counterpart, DabGyver always has some fire flowers and dank dabs on deck, but never a decent rig to vape ‘em through. One day he’s raiding the garage to dig up his old socket set, the next he is working up a sweat while whittling away at a gnarled chunk of Native American pipestone.
The ropes of nasty black resin beneath his fingernails tell their own tales of past experiments gone horribly awry.
Forgot to bring your torch over to DabGyver’s place for the 7:10 sesh?
No problem man!
Ya see, this little rodent is allergic to habaneros, and if you can get the angle just riiiight as you secure the duct tape to the popsicle stick…
A bit of advice when attending a sesh with a DabGyver; if he tries to hand you a soggy homemade toilet paper roll “Smoke Buddy” stuffed with Snuggle sheets, pass that shit.
No matter how tempting that golden fire Hardcore OG wax looks that he plopped down on his DIY ‘HealthStone’, consisting of 10 stacked up moldy calcified aeration screens he systematically stole from restaurant restroom sinks, let it ride on by, trust me.
And the next time DabGyver tells you to “just lift its tail” while he “blows the smoke in its mouth”…don’t…just don’t
You would think that folks who constantly reek of patchouli might be interested in hash oils, but all too often that’s not the case. Some of the stiffest resistance to the exploding 710 movement comes from staunch old soil-grown hippy tree huggers.
It would be one thing if the trees they were hugging were some blinding OG cut or a tasty mindfucking sativa leaning hybrid of some sort, but no, more often than not, the scraggly plant matter in their crinkled up sandwich baggie serves as evidence as to why we refer to this stuff as ‘weed’.
Their prized and paranoid homegrow consists of some abused amalgamations of cannabis plants sprouting up alongside sage, salvia, and possibly some poison ivy.
“The spiders, mites and caterpillars are our friends and neighbors,” I’m lectured as she puffs steadily on some “sensi” rolled in an all-natural sun-dried lamb’s foreskin.
Between sips of room temperature lumpy raw milk, I am told that it is impossible to purge butane from hash oil, and the residual tane in my lungs is forcing me into government servitude…or some shit. I’m schooled on the dangers of propellants and plant waxes while she tamps down the resin fueled bonfire erupting from her aluminum chillum.
After a while, you realize that her DABstinence is probably for the best. After seeing plenty of dabbers burn their arms on a still-hot-Ti-nail, you’d hate to see her greasy dreadlock’d armpit hair ignite if she got too close.
The sales clerk at the register avoids eye contact as she rings up the pile on the counter in front of her.
“Twelve inch black PVC tube *beep*, two cans camping stove butane *beep*, one zip tie? I didn’t even know we sold individual zip ties*beep*, paint strainer*beep*, gauze*beep*, duct tape*beep* and 18 pack of Natural Ice*beep*…that will be $24.20, will a plastic bag be ok?”
Gathering his items one by one, the Pot Zombie strains to croak, “Naaaah iiit’s coooooooool” as he places his goods in the saggy blackened sacks hanging under his bloodshot eyes. As he shuffles back home, he tries in vain to light a roach he got from some guy, somewhere, several days ago.
Seeking not brains, but a new tolerance level, this Pot Zombie bumps rudely through crowds, moaning and malignant, stinky and smelling foul and frightening folks, generally making the whole 420/710 movement look like a resin smear skidmark to the rest of society.
As the only person in recorded history to be denied a medical marijuana card in Southern California, Pot Zombie disparages all dispensaries and top-shelf herb and extracts, instead pushing praise for his purgeless PVC poison oil.
With no internet connection of his own, he watched one youtube video at the local library and is now a self-proclaimed oil tycoon!
His arms and legs are a patchwork of 2nd and 3rd degree burn scars from trying to boil off butane over the stove’s open flame in his 5th floor apartment kitchen.
With a sound like velcro tearing, he struggles to remove his ever-present beanie from his matted mane, where he hides a half a gram of black/green sludge wrapped in wax paper. He scoffs at your nugrun nectar from up north and swears that “THC is the plant’s natural defense mechanism and so the worse it tastes the better the wax”, and that your source is “adding Kool Aid to their tube to get that flavor”.
Failing to realize that any additional “high” he has achieved is due more to the brain cell blasting fog of butane that surrounds him 24/7 like PigPen, he quickly devolves into a burping drooling slurring alcoholic mess, often threatening to fight you and/or the cops at some point in the conversation.
I’d advise you to torch a dabber till its red hot and aim for the brain, but that withered shriveled pit is too small of a target, and stopped functioning about a dozen dimesacks ago. Instead, flick on his XBOX, crack him a tallboy and heat up the butter knives for his next glob, and make your escape when the sparks start to fly!
We’ve all seen this cat patrolling the interior perimeter of our favorite dispensary, haven’t we?
If his POW/MIA bandana, scraggly salt & pepper beard and ratty ponytail don’t give him away, if his random leather clothing accessories and 1000 Yard Stare still don’t point him out for you, just wait until he finally ambushes the budtender.
He is sure to buy all 20 grams of bubble hash in stock and completely avoid Subcool’s Agent Orange like the plague.
Do not – I repeat DO NOT – make any sudden movements in his peripheral, or you might get a sharpened bamboo shoot to the jugular.
Another tell-tale sign is storytelling about “Charlie”, or about how kids these days don’t even know what “real pot” is. After 10 minutes of listening to him describe “some absolutely perfect Cambodian” that he had in the 70s, you may begin to wonder if he is still talking about weed or an unfortunate villager.
Overall, his service to his country and the atrocities he has faced have earned him our respect…even if he does drive a minivan.
There may be one right behind you.
It might be your kid’s kindergarten teacher, or maybe it’s your neighbor whose lawn is immaculately maintained and who never misses church on Sunday.
It could be the friend you have not seen in years, a successful athlete, or your mother-in-law.
An entire segment of society, silent and secretive, a Fight Club of dabbers and tokers, blowers and growers, who for reasons all their own, cannot talk about Fight Club.
“The middle children of history” as Tyler Durden put it…no purpose or place…no Great War…no Great Depression.
Their Great Depression was their lives. Then they discovered cannabis.
Sporting a reclaim smudge on his white collar and a titanium burn scar concealed by a cufflink, this 9 to 5 cubicle warrior has the entire world fooled into thinking he is a decent, hard-working honest man. Oh wait, he is all of those things, he just so happens to start and end his day with a dab of nectar.
Sure he accidentally eats all of the kids’ Lucky Charms some mornings, sure he might forget to change the oil in his car for 100,000 miles, but he is always on time for Rotary Club meetings and the teeball team he coaches took first place again this year!
After calling a number I got from a carrier pigeon, which led to a pay phone ringing on the street corner ten feet to my left, which I answered only to hear a dial tone and the incessant reverberation of an old school pager buzzing from the shelf under the phone, flashing the numbers 420-411-420-411 infinitely, I turn to exit the booth and bump chests with the man I assume I am trying to meet for an interview…how he got in there, I have no idea.
He leads me to his ’87 Tercel and gestures as to how I am to climb in through the open window, due to the broken door. I unbuckle the seatbelt from around a two hundred pound bag of worm castings and move it to the backseat, then kick off my flip flops to wiggle my toes in the soil and peat moss covering the floorboard.
As we arrive at this local grower’s house for the interview, I can’t help but notice how barren the yard is, given his otherwise green thumb. He unleashes a keyring that would make any janitor jealous, and proceeds to unlock the dozen or so deadbolts and lockable contraptions from his steel security door and reinforced entry door and I follow him into the most humid house I’ve ever been in.
Trying to part the sea of Top Ramen packages to make a seat on the sofa, I accidentally knock over a 5 Hour Energy bottle full of pot seeds, spilling half of the container on the carpet where they instantly start to take root.
“Mmmm, two…yeah, definitely two too many to be funny,” he says as I scramble to gather up the mess I’ve made.
I look up and ask, “Two too many for what? What are you talking about?”
With a sheepish grin, the grower calmly replies, “You spilled 422 seeds, yeah 422….420 would have been funnier.”
As the scene only gets more awkward, I catch this lifelong bachelor shooting glances down the hallway every 30 seconds, getting noticeably more anxious as the interview goes on. No matter the question, every answer from the Strainman is redirected with a mumble back to the topic of his “ladies” and how much he cares for them.
When he just can’t stand it anymore, he excuses himself and hurries down the hallway, flipping off the lights behind him as he goes. He turns the corner and I hear a long, quick, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip sound up, and then back down again…a faint green glow and the soft sounds of some Barry White creeping out as he slides his way in.
A half an hour passes and I pick up what looks like the Sunday newspaper from his coffee table, only to realize it’s just one month’s electricity bill.
Just as I am about to leave, unsure of where he went or if he planned to return, I hear the double zip again and the hall lights come back to life.
From around the corner, wearing nothing but Kmart boxers, sticky fingers and a satisfied smirk, the local grower reappears and I am informed that “fertilization” is complete and that its time for me to leave.
“Only a few minutes till Wapner…” he mumbles as he ushers me out the door.
Can you smell that?
That swampy filthy stench of rot that seems to lurk around the edges of any good conversation about cannabis?
That’s the odor of a Troll.
Don’t get me wrong, Trolls are not exclusive to the world of marijuana, we just seem to have more than our fair share these days. Found most frequently in their natural habitat of the internet, where they gain their strength and feel most secure, Cannabis Trolls rarely display enough courage to venture away from their keyboards and engage others face to face.
Instead, they spend their time refreshing their social media streams just praying to see someone with an opinion – ANY opinion – since opinions are prime Troll bait. When they strike, it is clumsy and predictable, aiming to offend instead of discuss.
Got a picture of some killer errl? Oh, Cannabis Troll has seen better.
Wrote a review about some amazing OG you got from a new shop in town? Hmmm, well Cannabis Troll used to get something similar from a friend of a friend back in the day for $10 cheaper.
Do you blow glass? Cannabis Troll doesn’t, but he sure has a shitload of unwanted advice for what you should be doing differently, and how cheap it should be when its complete.
I once asked Chubbs about the vast amount of Trolls that stand in his way each day and he gave me a great analogy.
“Nuggetry is like a train barreling down the tracks going hundreds of miles an hour,” he says to me. “Now picture a bunch of Indians trying to shoot arrows at the train that’s flying by. The train doesn’t even feel the arrows and it definitely doesn’t have time to stop for every one of them.”
Perhaps one of the most annoying of all stoner stereotypes is the Trustafarian.
Due to some unknown circumstance usually involving someone else’s hard work or untimely demise, the Trustafarian is endowed on their 18th birthday with a pile of question-free cash and the world at their fingertips.
The best part about these kids, typically 18-21 years old, is that they almost always burn that pile down within a year, but it can be quite a blaze in the meantime.
The bass thumping from his tuner whip rattles the windows in what is supposed to be your low-key collective as he illegally pulls into the always vacant handicap spot. Accompanied by a dead-behind-the-eyes skank-in-training trailing behind him like one of Michonne’s trained zombies, he kicks in the door of the dispensary like he owns the joint, and proceeds to order one gram of everything, even though it costs double in those quantities.
So in love with himself, this is a guy who would dab his own farts if someone priced them higher than the nectar on the shelf.
Examining the Mars OG, he demands to know a price for a cut of the fabled strain, but answers his own inquiry by offering $5,000 on the spot, then upping the offer to $10k before the befuddled budtender can even reply.
He pays for his herb by peeling crumpled benji’s out of a wadded up nest of large bills, chewing gum wrappers, and account withdrawal slips. Despite his dwindling funds, he keeps trying to buy buddies, one toke at a time.
By 25, the Beemer is repo’d, the skank is three babies deep with another dude, and the Trustafarian is back to changing grandma’s diaper, hoping to strike gold again.
So there you have it – JD & Si’s 10 Stoner Stereotypes!
Got another Stoner Stereortype you’d like to see come to life? Tweet me @NUGGETRY_JD and tell me all about it
*Originally published in NUGGETRY Magazine January 2013 – All Rights Reserved
**If you were offended by anything you saw here, be sure to let me know, so that Simon and I can put the finishing touches on our “Butthurt Reader” character, toodles!