Stoney Baloney is the world’s first narrated Cannabis Column cultivated from the clippings of a former radio shock jock turned cannalosopher. Hop aboard for a joyride of dabbed distinctions and psychedelic perspectives.

Stoney Baloney
PEOPLE AND THEIR
ANNOYING KIDS

Episode #22: PEOPLE AND THEIR ANNOYING KIDS - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Who’s got a sturdy noose handy so I can hang myself and end the misery?

As if the steady banging of neon flashing little boy shoes with the tiny roller wheels into the back of my seat isn’t enough, there’s the incessant whining that is unsuccessfully quelled with parental coddling that makes me want to set the whole fucking airplane on fire. Rather than a good old scolding, the mother reasons, guilting the child for being irrational, to which the spoiled brat responds with a piercing squeal. “Why do you do this to me? It’s not fair,” she concedes while everyone around her pretends to be deaf.

Or when you’re out having dinner and the tinny pitch of miniature voices tinkles out of the IPad like an annoying, buzzing fly where Dora the Explorer is solving a riddle. The child chimes along with the parents entirely tuned out, entranced by the repetitive motion of their fork to mouth while the ambience of the room is completely foiled, effectively turning the restaurant into a daycare center.

I know what you’re thinking, “You were a child once”. And, indeed, I was. And I’m sure there were times I was difficult. But I remember being taught to maintain a degree of respect in public places. And I understand parent’s weakness because kids are little and cute, but this is their responsibility, not everyone else’s. One day this little monster is going to turn into an adolescent, zit faced, pizza eating, video game playing, apathetic, masturbating machine who refuses to leave home and get a job. So please have a pinch of empathy and get on birth control.

I guess I’m the asshole here. So be it.

And by the way, when is Nabisco going to start infusing Fruity Pebbles with CBN instead of 28 grams of sugar? It couldn’t happen soon enough, in my humble opinion.

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Episode #1

Episode #1: Keep It Simple Stupid - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

There are some things in life you just can’t unsee. A dog getting hit by a car. Your parents tongue kissing in front of the fireplace. The back side of a 276 pound plumber wearing Carhartts bought at 243 who engages you in professional conversation about pee traps while awkwardly arching his back for a distinct angle on the garbage disposal.

But as with everything that exists in the universe, there is a balance, a yang to the proverbial yin, and thankfully, life has a way of offsetting these disturbing shocks by providing pure visuals of situational bliss. And many of us find, through the kaleidoscope of cannabis, that the myriad of events given in any particular day are delightfully accentuated by its recreational use.

Now, there are, of course, particular times when augmenting your reality through the haze blazed effects of cannabis are not recommended, like while attempting to solve algebraic number theories, landing a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier, or defending yourself in court. Which is exactly why, when dabbling in your preferred method of marijuana mindfulness, it is generally advised to follow one of the world’s most elementary guidelines: The KISS principal, the acronym better known for the wise proverb “Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

That said, the odds of your daycation embarkation resulting in a pleasant experience rests on the complexity of tasks with which you assign yourself. So, when preparing to enjoy some of the multitudes of cannabis’ nuances, remember that the outcome is directly parallel to the day’s duties. Be it flying the friendly sativa skies, or indica inertia resulting in an arm bar by your couch, know your roll, like which strains and methods best suit your unique temperament.

The Dali Lama once said that our purpose in life is to seek happiness, or in other words, to out-yang our yin. And there’s an old Irish proverb that states that Cannabis Is Proof That God Loves Us (ok, beer, too). So enjoy the fruits of nature’s labor, but be cognizant of the wondrous varietals that provide the distinctly delicious effects. And by the way, give Mom and Dad their space when they’re feeling frisky. No parent wants to be caught getting busy by their kid.

Episode #2

Episode #2: The Bodies Exhibit On Shrooms - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

You want to know if I did it. Of course not, are you out of your fucking mind? I understand that the title may have revved your imagination, but no person of sound mind would, or should ever attempt such a psychotic journey into the darkest recesses of one’s essential nature for any reason. The mental stability of a thrill seeking individual bent on this ultimate experiment would have to be seriously questioned, save for maybe that deranged whack job from the Human Centipede.

I mean, if you have some morbid desire to screw yourself up with self-inflicted behavior modification techniques that are way beyond normal rationale so that for the rest of your life when you look at a sandwich what you really see is a Chinese prisoner’s dissected cerebellum between two slices of bread, be my guest. But this is something not even recommended for those asshats in that shitty Jackass TV show that was popular for thirty seconds.

Throughout history, People have purposefully endeavored ridiculous feats, like Hunter S. Thompson infiltrating a District Attorney’s convention on a sheet of LSD, Evel Knievel attempting to jump the Snake River Canyon on a rocket cycle, and Michael Jackson kissing Lisa Marie Pressley on national television. But thankfully, instinct has provided a built in dipshit button that prevents most of us from doing irreparable damage to ourselves.

So understand, in the attempt at heightening your adventures by way of dual integration, realize that there are some things that will never mix: Whiskey and ice cream, Jeffry Lebowski in Malibu, and The Bodies Exhibit on Mushrooms.

A succulent Durban Poison with a quality terpene profile? Well now we’re getting somewhere.

Episode #3

Episode #3: Strategic Cropdusting - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

The sound of farting is funny. Call me immature, but if the timing is just right, the surprise audio booty burst of creaking wood, or the short brunt of a brass instrument, can be playfully startling, resulting in a good giggle.

Even my 70-year-old Victorian bred mother finds small moments of joy in the embarrassment of those who become the butt of her connivery. She’ll covertly plant a remote controlled fart machine into an unsuspecting person’s backpack (me), or purse (my girlfriend, or my sister), then await the most opportune time to sabotage the target in an elevator, or in line while ordering a Frappuccino. With the deft press of the button, the device is detonated, releasing a robust, attention grabbing rip, forcing a potently awkward situation. And more so when locked into eye to eye contact with the barista.

After, I’ll say to my mom, “What, are we 8?” And she’ll respond, “What, are we 98?”

So it’s safe to say we all agree that wind-breaking has comedic value, at least on some level.

But nobody likes being sucker punched in the nostrils by some mystery skunk at a concert, or in a crowded bar. It can be a game changer. The culprit knows who they are but avoids accusation by playing ignorant while everyone else in the vicinity, to no avail, painfully attempts to discern the direction from which the putrid vapors might’ve been released while hoping to God no one is secretly blaming them.

It’s like peeing in the pool. Totally undetectable. Totally not cool.

So, here’s the deal for you jerk off’s who don’t have the decency to relocate your rotten innards out of respect for people who don’t care to share the remnants of your cheap lunch. Either own it or take it somewhere arid. And if that’s not an option, then at least have the courtesy to flood the area beforehand with a pungent, sappy bowl of fresh bud, you barbaric, Neanderthal fuck!

Episode #4

Episode #4: Cereal Abuse on Aisle 6 - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

The sound of farting is funny. Call me immature, but if the timing is just right, the surprise audio booty burst of creaking wood, or the short brunt of a brass instrument, can be playfully startling, resulting in a good giggle.

Even my 70-year-old Victorian bred mother finds small moments of joy in the embarrassment of those who become the butt of her connivery. She’ll covertly plant a remote controlled fart machine into an unsuspecting person’s backpack (me), or purse (my girlfriend, or my sister), then await the most opportune time to sabotage the target in an elevator, or in line while ordering a Frappuccino. With the deft press of the button, the device is detonated, releasing a robust, attention grabbing rip, forcing a potently awkward situation. And more so when locked into eye to eye contact with the barista.

After, I’ll say to my mom, “What, are we 8?” And she’ll respond, “What, are we 98?”

So it’s safe to say we all agree that wind-breaking has comedic value, at least on some level.

But nobody likes being sucker punched in the nostrils by some mystery skunk at a concert, or in a crowded bar. It can be a game changer. The culprit knows who they are but avoids accusation by playing ignorant while everyone else in the vicinity, to no avail, painfully attempts to discern the direction from which the putrid vapors might’ve been released while hoping to God no one is secretly blaming them.

It’s like peeing in the pool. Totally undetectable. Totally not cool.

So, here’s the deal for you jerk off’s who don’t have the decency to relocate your rotten innards out of respect for people who don’t care to share the remnants of your cheap lunch. Either own it or take it somewhere arid. And if that’s not an option, then at least have the courtesy to flood the area beforehand with a pungent, sappy bowl of fresh bud, you barbaric, Neanderthal fuck!

Episode #5

Episode #5: We Don't Exist - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Finding the meaning to life has been the crux of being human since cavemen started scribbling pictures on their living room walls. Well before Confucius quipped sayings like, “He who runs behind bus becomes exhausted,” and Bill and Ted waxed philosophic with Socrates along their excellent adventure, people have developed billions of headaches in search of the ultimate purpose.

And the ways and places we look for inspiration are tireless. Did you know that someone actually spent $28,000 on a grilled cheese sandwich with the image of the Virgin Mary miraculously toasted onto the exterior of the buttery crust? And Tibetan Buddhist monks will spend up to 30 years in solitary meditation retreat attempting to reach nirvana. So, it’s suffice to say that when inspiration presents itself, potentially illuminating the path to enlightenment, it is highly regarded as a divine sign.

Now, my good ol’ buddy Davey Dabs has been known to be enthusiastic about a number of things, often claiming insight through visual discoveries in unexpected places. For instance, with his signature slanted smile and an elementary eyebrow crooked, you may find him sitting and discerning the peculiarities of a particularly shadowy tree that, if viewed under the right circumstances (those circumstances being having recently ripped a juicy dab of full spectrum Co2 oil), will appear to have within its branches the odd image of a sleeping dragon accentuated by the waning afternoon sunlight.

He’s really big into clouds, Davey Dabs is. Like on one particularly springy day while looking skyward from our horizontal perspective upon a patch of warm grass in a city park, he witnessed a distinctively shaped billow floating past, as if it had somewhere to go, resembling the form of a mushroom. And the following explanation was a sensational dissertation of serendipitous delectation.

Ah, These episodes have been fun; we’ve giggled and waxed philosophic.

Until one day at the all you can eat Asian buffet, Davey Dabs cracked open a fortune cookie that was empty.

Episode #6

Episode #6: Ultimate High Five - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

You don’t have to have a degree in communications to know that one of the most positive connections between two people is the High Five. And by the way, if you do have a communications degree, expect a career in sales. Which leads to closing deals. Which leads to High Fives.

All things that are celebrated in the world can be substantiated by a sturdy overhead slapping of hands. Because when you think about it from a molecular level, it is a surefire stream of energy produced by opposing palms, creating a small lightning bolt of particles popping like a summer sparkler, undetectable by the naked eye, but dazzling to the open mind.

It’s like a human nuclear reactor.

High Fives can power the world.

My shrink once told me that he went to a silence retreat, where no one speaks, and constant meditation is the prescribed medication. I wonder if High Fives were allowed. Or if they were considered a “distraction” because too much exuberance might upset the collective healing. I’m imagining a NO HIGH FIVES sign. Sounds like hell. High Fives are not a crime. And neither is skateboarding. Do they allow High Fives in prison?

The High Five is a true modern form of expression. It represents democracy.

You know, some goofballs in college officially initiated a National High Five Day and it’s on the 3rd Thursday of April every year. April is a good month. Because on the 3rd Thursday you have the High Five. And if that 3rd Thursday falls on the 20th you have the Hiiiiiiigh Five.

Note: This only qualifies if you are using cannabis with 4 friends. If you’re not, then you’re blowing a wonderful opportunity and desperately need to re-evaluate your principals.

Episode #7

Episode #7: Change the Channel, or Loose Your Life - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

He who holds the television remote controls the destiny of the room. He who controls the destiny of the room is the Room Wizard. And as we all know from seeing the steely Lord Voldemort get his ass handed to him by Harry Potter, magic is a very powerful phenomenon that only the most seasoned conjurers have license to harness. And magic is precisely what the television remote is.

Now, manipulating the elements into a formidable stream of energy is nothing to be trifled with. And if you stop to think for a moment, when you clutch the television remote with your palm and fingers, you have utter authority over a mechanism that would have been unimaginable hundreds of years ago. It’s sort of a magic wand. With the simple touch of a button, you control the flow of vast information that is painstakingly pieced together by countless media outlets designed specifically for the education and entertainment of the masses.

You hold the oracle.

That kind of power can corrupt.

And be corrupted.

Any ordinary wizard will be tried with temptations throughout his alchemical career. And a weak wizard can be easily seduced by the gravity of influence, and most notably the influence of a lovely temptress who’s wearing a tight tank top with no bra. So needless to say, the Room Wizard, if not resolute in his directives and in complete control of his craft whilst maintaining the highest degree of unbending confidence, can fall prey to the manipulations of a particular siren. In fact, that Room Wizard will be rendered powerless upon the spells that a seductress can cast, ultimately relinquishing his supremacy right along with his dignity. Sadly, the result is a tranquilized half-self, devoid of any necromancy at all, induced by the intoxicating pheromones emitted by said enchantress. He will find himself numbed, dulled, rendered nearly lifeless while pretending to be engaged in the educational episode that she strongly suggests.

Until a red-eyed Davey Dabs boastfully enters with Taco Bell Fire Sauce on his sleeve, wondering why the Fuck a documentary about turtle rescues is on the boob tube instead of the inimitable Rick and Mortie.

Hundreds of years ago, if you possessed the oracle, you were respected by kings and high clergy.

Episode #8

Episode #8: New Miserable Experience - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

It was an album by the band Gin Blossoms in the nineties. And so was Definitely Maybe by Oasis, an oxymoron that represented the slacker mode of unmotivated and pridefully bitter twenty-somethings.

This was the decade of gloom, where pessimism derailed eighties optimism and the machine of Reagan era excess broke down with a plume of smoke billowing from distant Baby Boom in the fields of Vietnam. Desperate to claim an identity of their own, the youth willed this freight train of counter-culture into a lather of angsty music and anti-fashion. And through these mediums of expression, these wayward young adults, fraught with pre-millennium tension, were intent on making their own claim to a proper rebellion, and ultimately, some meaning to a jangled life littered with disillusionment.

Where the parent’s sixties revolution was largely fueled by the discovery of psychedelic drugs, theirs was more about communing through the artists that did the experimenting for them; modern martyrs who expressed their feelings through guitar feedback and lyrics about the disenchantment of adulthood and their frustration with authority’s hypocrisy. And nothing could represent the struggle better than one iconic photo on the cover of Rolling Stone Magazine with Kurt Cobain’s plain white t-shirt noticeably scribbled upon with the words Corporate Magazines Still Suck.

Then, like all movements spurned by the young, it reached a zenith and faded as the inevitability of time quelled their once tumultuous energy. And the hangover hit with the arrival of the year 2000. Brittany Spears and Backstreet Boys topped the charts.

And there’s been nothing important since.

So, what will define the next culturally conscious empowerment of the people as 2020 looms? New Wonderful Experience?

The answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind, the answer is blowin’ in the wind.

Episode #9

Episode #9: Brain Freeze Disease - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Human Beings are fragile organisms. We all are quite aware that this precious life of ours can be gone in a split second without much warning at all. At any given moment, a satellite dish could literally crash your party. A rogue solar flare could flash fry half the planet into a sunburned ass cheek. You could wake up dead.

You could slip on a banana peel.

Every day, everywhere you go, there are risks. Yet, there are some things that we tend to commonly ignore that put us in a higher category of becoming a statistic. Like driving slowly in the fast lane. Driving fastly in the fast lane. Driving stoned fastly in the fast lane.

And then there are people we know who barrel through life with an alarming mode of reckless abandon, almost to the point of where you get the sense they’re purposefully antagonizing destiny in a direct game of chicken.

My buddy Davey Dabs is one of those people.

Not one to shy away from repeated gravity dabs at house parties followed by shirtless belly flops off the roof into the swimming pool followed by hours of marinating in the hot tub to the point of where the water begins to acquire flavor, he once stared into an old, dirty microwave for 40 minutes while it was running just to prove that he wouldn’t die.

I know, right

And then he pounded a 64 ounce Slurpee, moaning and groaning through the pain. He said, “What doesn’t kill you makes you…” There was a moment of silence with temple veins bulging, and the word never came to him. It was as if the synapsis’ seized up like a locked clutch on a ’69 Volkswagon Beetle. Davey Dabs has never been quite the same since.

When Davey Dabs head is shaved, it exposes tattooed Viking horns on each side.

In Viking Age Scandinavia the average life expectancy was 25-30 years.

Davey Dabs is 32.

 

Episode #10

Episode #10: I Think I Blacked Out. . . - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Puppy dog breath. Can you define the smell? Because it doesn’t smell like anything else. They are so new and young, but their breath is borderline noxious. Is it the food, or an odd combination of a strange bacteria paired with the culture of milk from the mommy? What is it that goes on in that soft, warm potbelly? It’s a tough smell to put your finger on. It’s kinda like a three-day old re-heated latte, or a bazaar Middle Eastern hookah. No, maybe it’s a woodsy smell, like moldy leaves on a warm day, or bark. There it is, it smells like bark.

Anyway, these are questions that were manifesting during the transition from a dream state into utter, blatant, brutal consciousness when my humpty dumpty eggshell head manged to pry open one pasty eye to see a dog bowl in extreme proximity. How did I know it was a dog bowl? It said DOG in bold, judgmental letters. At first, I thought it was a GOD bowl. I think I may have drank from it just before I passed out because my mouth tasted like puppy dog breath. Or maybe it’s because two pit bull puppies were licking my face and I’m pretty sure my tongue was hanging on the linoleum in the kitchen only moments before. Was it because they loved me, or was it because of the dried pizza sauce?

These rolling blackouts are becoming an issue. However, I think I have a talent, kind of like Lieutenant Dan on CSI: NY. By initiating a proper forensic investigation and a professional analysis of the remaining shrapnel in my pockets, it’s very possible to piece together the collage of events until the mystery is pretty much solved. So, does this mean I blacked out. Or did I gray out.

I should have greened out.

Episode #11

Episode #11: WHAT A TITLE! - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Alexander the Great, what a fucking name! But how much do you actually know about him?

Sure, he was a successful conqueror and all, but how successful do you have to be in your lifetime, or how many victories to you have to compile, to deserve the title “the Great”? I mean, a guy can call himself that all day long, but for other people to do it and do it for a couple thousand years and counting, he’s got to be one hugantinormous championshiptastic gangsterlicious brocicle. And I say “guy” because women aren’t nearly as ridiculous as men. In fact, only a guy would use the term hugantinormous championshiptastic gangsterlicious brocicle.

Now, there are extraordinary people to whom the title “The Greatest” has at least one time been applied when alluding to their craft. Like Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player; Marlon Brando, the greatest actor; Kanye West, the greatest rock star. But how influential do you have to be to be called, or to call yourself, “The Great”?

It’s equivalent to being named the greatest of the great.

If you read the history books, they’ll tell you that Alexander the Great never lost a battle, that he was a military mastermind, one of the most influential people that ever lived. But I think it’s safe to say that Mozart never wrote a shitty tune. And Nabisco never made a shitty cookie.

So then, is it plausible to agree that greatness is entirely in the eye of the perceiver? That the title is completely subjective to when that person lived and what they did to gain notoriety?

And that while people will boast of their own greatness, kind of like every cannabis company claims to have the greatest weed, in reality the validity of the claim is proven only with time.

By the way, does Kanye know how to play the guitar? Or sing?

Episode #12

Episode #12: ROCK STAR ROBOT - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Who doesn’t love robots? I’ll bet even the Dali Lama loves robots. Cats don’t like robots, but that’s their problem. I’m pretty sure my vacuum cleaner is a robot.

Ever since the 1950’s when television popularized human-like machines with electronic voices and construction crane extremities, we’ve imagined a future of leisure where we’ll never have to butter our own toast, change the channel, or be lonely. And in time, they’ve become sleeker and more dynamic with each advent of new technology, many of which are set to task to complete the jobs that most of us don’t want to do. Like treading through mine fields, exploring the inside of a volcano, or taking sex from a grunting pervert.

Robots are modern slaves.

And they say that eventually, their computing minds will develop to the point to where they can think for themselves. So, at what point will they start demanding equal rights? And equal pay?

Eventually, the art of artificial intelligence will have been so well integrated, that differentiating a boxing robot from the Real Deal Holyfield will have its challenges. So, you’ve got to imagine that there will come a time when celebrity robots are an accepted part of mainstream popular culture. And further, there will be a point at which we can’t tell the difference between their real human tendencies and our own.

Your bartenders will be robots. And NFL players, too. In fact, robots will have cool gigs and live in lush habitats while other robots clean their dirty dishes. Or us.

There will be no way to differentiate them from real humans.

Except for the bloodshot eyes, of course.

Episode #13

Episode #13: DON'T HAVE CHILDREN - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Guess what the leading cause for divorce is. Marriage. You know why? Because when you’re young and horny and good looking and fit and ambitious and wild and optimistic and horny, the idea of growing old with someone who can shoulder half the responsibilities seems like a great plan. And the honeymoon sounds like a blast. Who wouldn’t want an exotic, all-expenses paid vacation on the family dime where your only responsibility is to bang through the soreness?

“One day we’ll be the sweet old couple who bickers at each other, but it’ll be cute.”

No it won’t.

Firstly, you’ll be complaining about how much greater life was when you were young, somehow relating being broke with innocence and romance. You’ll get heavier, slower, lazier, and waaay less fun. You’ll twist the wrong way getting out of the car and end up horizontal for the next 48 hours. And as far as your partner? Over years of repetition, you’ll begin to despise their little ticks like the noticeable groaning noises when they eat, leaving an empty carton in the fridge with barely a full sip remaining, and involuntary farts.

And it’s the same with having kids. When they’re new and fresh and little and curious, they’re as cute as anything in life can be, all doe-eyed and non-judgmental. They have to be. It’s a matter of preserving the species. If babies weren’t precious we wouldn’t put up with their bullshit. But then it doesn’t take long until they’re hairy, teen-aged, argumentative, Hot Pocket eating, Grand Theft Auto playing, zit-faced, mango flavored distillate vaping, masturbating, money vacuums who eventually, apprehensively, become adults.

Have I mentioned I have a friend named Davey Dabs?

I wonder if he was ever cute.

Episode #14

Episode #14: LEAVING LAS VEGAS - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Leaving Las Vegas is like coming down off cocaine. It sucks. Well, probably because you are coming down off cocaine. Because there’s nothing fun about returning to your mild-mannered desk job after getting a taste of what it’s like to be a rock star. In fact, no one ever said, “Thank God that’s over, now I get to go back to my accounting firm.” Ok, maybe someone did say that. Like, an accountant who unexpectedly got fast tracked into a frenzied bacchanal. And it scared him. Because no one should paddle into Bonzai Pipeline if they haven’t first learned how to steer a boogie board.

Is there anything more punishing than the reality bite of seeing that skyline shrink in the distance through the small airplane window? It’s as if you’ve just had a chunk of your soul grizzled out by a werewolf, but the exciting myth that you’ll morph into one with the next full moon to devour fleshy tourists gorged on gargantuan buffets and Yardaritas is all a farce. In fact, you’re only going to die a slow, excruciating death from the bite. For the next 2 days, at least, until the liver filters out the poison.

Of course, it might be different if you’re headed back to normalcy with bulging pockets after crushing it at the tables, but that’s never happened to me. Or anyone I know. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. I have friends who have won money in Vegas, but they generally won’t include an excel spread sheet detailing the losses incurred leading up to those rare moments of dopamine filled glory. And it is those losses that keep the casino lights on, the air cool, and the carpet confusing.

But if gambling is the driving force of Vegas’ success, I wonder what affect cannabis will have on Sin City now that it’s been legalized. Because embarking on a strip search for the Great Pyramid, the Eiffel Tower and the Big Apple can be a dangerous lure with a belly full of Redbull and vodka, but a head full of Super Lemon Haze can create a completely different course for a city built on bad decisions.

Can Cannabis kill Vegas?

Episode #15

Episode #15: DISTLLATES SUCK - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

I was going to write an entry here, but then I got high. It was a distillate. The buzz lasted for about 30 minutes and then I nose-dived like a Kamikaze into an aircraft carrier. And it wasn’t the happy, creative, energetic feeling that I get from a full spectrum oil that’s loaded with indigenous cannabinoids, but instead I was agitated and teetering on the verge of paranoia. “When is this going to wear off?” I asked the college student who was trying to impress me with his irrationally high THC percentage and introduced food flavorings. “Aren’t you high as fuck?” he annoyingly blurted as I zeroed in on the volcanic zit centered on his forehead. “I’m not sure what I am,” was my response, “but I feel like I just lost the Superbowl.”

Everyone has different preferences, I respect that. Some people want their cannabis product to taste like a margarita, or cotton candy. Fair enough, have at it, knock yourself out. But mine lie somewhere in the rainbow of tastes between the flavors of bud and nug. Call me a luddite, but am I old school by wanting fresh squeezed orange juice over Sunny Delight?

I’ve got an interesting question. Does anyone use quality bud to make distillate, or is it the hot dog of the cannabis world, all lips and assholes and unfortunate rats?

Is it feasibly possible to polish a turd?

Here’s the deal. Mad Dog 2020 is about five bucks a bottle. A good Stag’s Leap cabernet is about 50. They have the same amount of alcohol. So why is the price different?

Anyone over the age of 15 should know the answer to that.

Episode #16

Episode #16: THE INSUFFERABLE DAVEY DABS - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Everybody has that one friend who refuses to compromise. This can be annoying, often resulting in your embarrassment. But their nature is so original and their intentions so solid, that when they are not around, you find yourself talking about them more than anyone else you know. Being their friend is like going on tour with a juggling circus bear on a tightrope. It’s cringeworthy entertainment to watch from below, but if they fall, it will most likely be on top of you.

They are relative to a hurricane. You know it’s gonna hit somewhere and there will be destruction and maybe you’re thinking you’re outside the line of danger, but an erratic turn can change everything. However, once the storm settles, there is always a lovely calm that follows. And a good story.

You see, there is a magnetic quality to someone who makes you laugh, even if sometimes the comedy is tragic.

His birth name is David Gustavo Hernandez Dabrovski. He has a Mexican mother and his father is Polish. So, his appearance and mannerisms settle somewhere between Pope John Paul II and the Chupacabra.

Davey Dabs is loud. Davey Dabs is relatively plump, but intimately proud of his large baby bump that he will show you by raising his double XL Why Be Normal t-shirt and protruding his hairy belly. He has a name for the baby. He calls it Clarise which he accentuates like Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs while rubbing it.

Surprisingly, Davey Dabs is a fastidious connoisseur of cannabis and generally only dabs from one of his quiver of seven custom glass rigs. With a diplomatic tone, he will debate eloquently on the finer details of terpenes and the interaction of cannabinoids, giving the impression that his knowledge was gained through dedicated emotional research and development and as if his own life is given to the search for the perfect strain as a decorated wine steward after the perfect pinot.

Davey Dab’s job is making pizza. He wreaks havoc on tidiness. Yet, you feel like his obliviousness to organization, or etiquette, is simply a rejection to unreasonable demands set by an uptight society too focused on parameters. But then at dinner he returns to the table to show you a photograph on his cellphone that he just took of a beached turd in the restaurant toilet stuck with a cocktail umbrella and you must wonder.

Episode #17

Episode #17: THE TAO OF PHO - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Back before the millennium, there was a Tao of everything. There was a book called The Tao Of Pooh, even a movie called The Tao Of Steve. Never had the West been so interested in Eastern culture as America fused the secrets of the orient with other crazes of the modern era. Suddenly, trends like Kung Fu and Kawasakis had their place in the annals of history with Mullets and the Macarena. Many faded and others have stayed. No need to explain which.

But somewhere along the silk road to culinary exploration, we really screwed the panda by adopting Kimchi and Sushi over one of the most flavorful, colorful, reasonably priced surprises the foodie world has ever ladled. But now Pho is having its day, getting deserved attention while growing in popularity with every noodle slurped.

Pho is very hip right now, it has a likeable image. It’s trending, like a catchy comedian, or an underground rapper with a mix tape, or a killer series on HBO. You mention Pho and people act like you have the password for a super exclusive VIP party at Coachella. You can use it in place of the word Fuck and nobody criticizes you for stealing a stale joke. Instead, they wink and acknowledge that you’re in the know.

Aqua Teen Hunger Force fucked up when they didn’t include a bowl of Pho into the cast. He could have been the friendly, loveable Asian guy that everyone accepts, because he never creeps people out. Like Aziz Ansari. Wait, not the best example, allegedly.

So why in the world would you not like Pho? It is awesome because it comforts you like a woobie. It makes you feel relevant by always being a hot friend who accepts you. You know what, that would be badass if they named a strain of cannabis called Pho. A dab of Pho. I mean, why not? They have a strain called Purple Monkey Balls. Pho shizzle!

Episode #18

Episode #18: POT-PURRI - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

My roommate had a bag of Funyuns. I had a bag of Nacho Cheese flavored Doritos. My other friend had brought over a bag of Sour Cream Ruffles with ridges that he mistakenly left on the coffee table the night before next to the bong, the rolling tray, and the dab rig. There was a Domino’s pizza box with a couple pieces left over, too. We heated up the pizza and placed one slice on two separate plates, then as a side dish, combined three handfuls of each style of chip and mixed them all together. We called this dinner a Pot-Purri.

One time my cat, whose name is Todd, nibbled a bud that somehow trickled its way underneath the recliner and sat undiscovered for months. Well, when cannabis gets aged, the THC slowly degrades into CBN through oxidization creating a very relaxed, sedated effect. So, when the effects started to take hold, Todd proceeded to find his favorite spot in the apartment atop the pile of dirty laundry right next to the water heater in the pantry and didn’t move for 24 hours other than to get up, take a drink of water, dine on some Fancy Feast, and poop. There were a couple times we thought to take his pulse to make sure he was still alive if it weren’t for the continuous vibrating circadian motor in his chest and Cheshire smile. We called this Pot-Purri.

And by the way, last time I was in Pier 1 Imports with my girlfriend I saw this $16 bag of dried bark and walnut shells that smelled like grandma’s foot deodorant. They called that Pot-Purri.

What the hell is this world coming to?

Episode #19

Episode #19: THE DRUNCHIES - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

Remember that movie where the guy is dying of thirst in the desert and he keeps thinking that he sees water up ahead, but it’s only a mirage? Well that is what your brain is doing when it tells you that if you drink more alcohol, you’ll feel better. And be more amazing. And be a more amazing singer.

You know how it works; the progression casually begins at Friday happy hour with a beer and a shot just to take the edge off, a reward for the tempest of horseshit you weathered all week. Then things turn professional with more pints before throwing all caution to a stiff wind with the kind of reckless abandon that involves consecutive rounds of mystery shots with trendy names followed by hard high fives and puckered faces. Inevitably, the evening will wind down with a large cocktail and another beer that goes half drank before waving the proverbial white bar nap in staggering surrender.

Your mind, body and spirit are separate entities now, clashing like titans, fueled in a paradoxical lather of physical imbalance and a false sense of mental fortitude.

With your better sense of rationale completely disregarded and your level of sobriety stubbornly defended, you’re in no position at this point to make calculated decisions. Like whether to invest the $43 for an Uber ride home, or drive yourself. Or whether to provoke an argument with another drunk person, or your significant other. Or whether to provoke an argument with your drunk significant other.

Or whether it’s a good idea to eat. And eat a lot.

This is called the Drunchies.

Be it the Denny’s Grand Slam loaded with maple syrup and a banana split chaser, a Super-Sized Big Mac Meal accentuated by dubious packets of ketchup and a crushed Oreo McFlurry, or a fully loaded bacon wrapped street dog, a liquor induced feeding frenzy is a recipe for a boiling volcanic cauldron.

Note: Under no circumstances should this condition ever be confused with the munchies.

Episode #20

Episode #20: STONED DRIVERS - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

“People on ‘ludes should not drive.”

This elementary declaration made by the infamous Jeff Spicoli from the 1980’s movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High should ring indisputable to anyone who’s ever clutched a steering wheel (The Quaalude was a popular sedative in the 70’s). And if you’ve seen the movie, you’ll remember the defining scene where the epitome of stoner stupidity is blatantly displayed just before he totals Charles Jefferson’s shiny silver Camaro while puffing a proverbial brain dart.

And so goes the debate of cannabis use while operating a motor vehicle. Is it safe to be under the influence, and if not, can it be accurately proven when you are caught?

Marijuana is a mind-altering substance thanks to the psychoactive properties of THC. Therefore, you will experience life through a different lens as the compounds from the magic plant integrate into your bloodstream and attach to your endocannabinoid receptors, modifying your perception. Many would argue that It’s not that your motor skills that are affected, but instead, your grasp of reality.

So, what is the danger?

Well, one time my friend Edible Ed ate a 200-milligram dose of Leaf Chews and tried to drive 3 blocks to a convenient store. He didn’t make it. Looking traumatized and weirded out at the end of his own driveway when we arrived, he claimed that he was lucky to be alive having nearly been trampled by a giant armadillo.

This turned out to be a hunched, little old cat lady driving a Prius.

“People on edibles should not drive.”

Episode #21

Episode #21: PARTY INJURIES - Transcript

STONEY BALONEY by Mike Ricker

It happened in the co-ed dormitory at college. There I was chatting it up outside of someone’s room in the hallway when I heard the words splattered out in a high pitch cheer. “Mikey”! It is one of my buddies who is twice my size. He comes charging down the hallway with what I think is going to be a loving bear hug. Which is indeed the case. Until midway through when he spontaneously decides to apply a World Wrestling Federation Standing Guillotine Drop finished with a ripe, moist kiss on the cheek.

My knee has never been the same.

My girlfriend was floating the river with some friends. They came upon a 60-foot cliff ledge that people were climbing to and jumping from. What ensued for her, having had zero experience in this particular field of expertise, was an extremely painful seated landing that resulted in severe, dark purple bruises that led from the bottom of her feet, up the backs of her legs, to the cusp of her buttocks.

She sat on an inflatable donut for two weeks.

My childhood friend Brad disappeared at a Kenny Chesney concert, completely blacked out, and no one could find him anywhere. He was wearing an American Flag bandana around his head, which made picking him out of the crowd difficult. His phone was going straight to voice mail. Then the show ended, and everyone was at the car ready to go home when suddenly he appeared like Charlton Heston as Moses returning from the mountain with the Ten Commandments in tow. He’d spent the entire set sitting cross-legged with his knees resting on the stage-right amplifier, so he could “really feel the bass”.

His hearing has never been quite as acute.

Please note that none of these episodes occurred while under the influence of cannabis.

Who is this Asshole ?

MIKE RICKER

MIKE RICKER

Back in the day, a frumpy 7th grade teacher known as Mrs. Frinak called 5 actors to the front of the classroom to read a play written by one of her least favorite students, the wiley little Michael Ricker. And from there, he never stopped writing. Now, because a long, successful radio career got in the way (if you consider getting fired 5 times a success), the fruits of those labors have finally culminated into this infused pop culture panorama. Hey, what doesn’t kill only makes you realize that something else will. Play On!

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