*=Regulator=*
Bluelighter
Gravity bongs - very experienced - underneath the concrete
It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in the middle of summer holidays and my friend ‘S’ and I am extremely bored. I turn to my friend ‘s’ and he sees the look in my eyes. Without even mentioning it we get in the car and drive to my dealers house.
“A 50 thanks mate” I say to the extremely paranoid dealer who last time we saw him, smashed his phone with a hammer because he thought the CIA were tapping it (keep in mind I live in Australia!).
He nervously hands us the very potent smelling foil and remarks, as he always does, “this one’s gonna fucken rock ya! The best shit I’ve ever smoked, come back if you want some more!”.
So we go home to ‘s’s house and sit there pondering the bag, wondering how we will cut up the weed, how we will smoke it, and where we will smoke it. At this point his mum - a nurse - comes home from work. She starts grinding up some coffee and then notices the bag of nugs on the bench. To our utter amazement she says: “I don’t want you boys to smoke that in the house, why don’t you go and set up the tent in the backyard, it will make an excellent dutchie. I’ll grind up the pot in the coffee machine while you do it.”
“suuurrreee” we reply, a little phased but happy.
15 minutes lated the tent is assembled, the pot is mulled and the bucket (gravity bong) is prepared. ‘S’ takes the first hit, exhales, looks at me crosseyed and remarks “this is some gooood shit” then collapses. I pack him another, he smokes it, and begins giggling insanely.
I am sitting there, dead straight watching him try to say a sentence then forget it half way through, laugh maniacally and look very, very retarded. I ponder the effects a drug that can do something like this to a person must have on the brain for a very brief second….
“GIVE ME THE BUCKET!”
First hit: “There it is!” I exclaim excitedly and then cough.
“Welcome to my world” my friend slurs.
“Who says it’s yours?” I ask back.
‘S’ sits there for 30 seconds contemplating this thought.
He gets up on his knees, replies dejectedly “You’re right it isn’t my world”, opens the flap of the tent and spews.
We both laugh until our stomachs hurt.
‘S’ is thirsty. He opens the flap and spends a few seconds sizing up the challenge of walking the 3 metres to the basement fridge to get his drink. “Shit, here goes nothing” he says and falls out of the tent.
“What the hell” thinks I and pack another cone into the lid of the bucket. The swirly, creamy goodness enters the chamber, swirls seductively and then in one fluid motion, is hoovered into my lungs. Out of my nostrils it pulsates, taking what is left of my sobriety with it.
For the next few minutes my mind races at an agonisingly slow speed. Various desires enter my head – to move, to speak, to fuck - they are just as quickly consumed by the idea that gave birth to them and manifested into something more abstract. Eventually my mind is a muddy maze of confusion. Suddenly all the thoughts burst and meld and I simply laugh like a lunatic, at nothing, at the ridiculous position I am in.
It occurs to me: “where is ‘s’”? I poke my head out of the tent. ‘S’ is standing on the concrete path unmoving, with a helmet on his head – backwards. I laugh and laugh and laugh. Eventually I regain my composure: “What the FUCK are you doing ‘s’?” He looks at me sheepishly and says nothing. I stare at him again laugh, then repeat the question. ‘S’ blinks twice looks at me and says in a little scared voice:
“Am I underneath or above the concrete?”
He then starts moving very, very slowly towards the gras on the lawn. I look at him curiously and he says in slow motion “Heeeeeelllllpppppp mmeeeeeee geeeeetttt abbbbovvvveee thhheeee grrrrooouuunnnndd.”
I walk over and push his very heavy limbs back onto the grass.
Tears of joy stream down ‘s’s face. “I thought I was gone man!, I thought I wouldn’t be able to get above the concrete again!”
We re-enter the tent and smoke the rest of the weed. Our brains dissolve.
It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon in the middle of summer holidays and my friend ‘S’ and I am extremely bored. I turn to my friend ‘s’ and he sees the look in my eyes. Without even mentioning it we get in the car and drive to my dealers house.
“A 50 thanks mate” I say to the extremely paranoid dealer who last time we saw him, smashed his phone with a hammer because he thought the CIA were tapping it (keep in mind I live in Australia!).
He nervously hands us the very potent smelling foil and remarks, as he always does, “this one’s gonna fucken rock ya! The best shit I’ve ever smoked, come back if you want some more!”.
So we go home to ‘s’s house and sit there pondering the bag, wondering how we will cut up the weed, how we will smoke it, and where we will smoke it. At this point his mum - a nurse - comes home from work. She starts grinding up some coffee and then notices the bag of nugs on the bench. To our utter amazement she says: “I don’t want you boys to smoke that in the house, why don’t you go and set up the tent in the backyard, it will make an excellent dutchie. I’ll grind up the pot in the coffee machine while you do it.”
“suuurrreee” we reply, a little phased but happy.
15 minutes lated the tent is assembled, the pot is mulled and the bucket (gravity bong) is prepared. ‘S’ takes the first hit, exhales, looks at me crosseyed and remarks “this is some gooood shit” then collapses. I pack him another, he smokes it, and begins giggling insanely.
I am sitting there, dead straight watching him try to say a sentence then forget it half way through, laugh maniacally and look very, very retarded. I ponder the effects a drug that can do something like this to a person must have on the brain for a very brief second….
“GIVE ME THE BUCKET!”
First hit: “There it is!” I exclaim excitedly and then cough.
“Welcome to my world” my friend slurs.
“Who says it’s yours?” I ask back.
‘S’ sits there for 30 seconds contemplating this thought.
He gets up on his knees, replies dejectedly “You’re right it isn’t my world”, opens the flap of the tent and spews.
We both laugh until our stomachs hurt.
‘S’ is thirsty. He opens the flap and spends a few seconds sizing up the challenge of walking the 3 metres to the basement fridge to get his drink. “Shit, here goes nothing” he says and falls out of the tent.
“What the hell” thinks I and pack another cone into the lid of the bucket. The swirly, creamy goodness enters the chamber, swirls seductively and then in one fluid motion, is hoovered into my lungs. Out of my nostrils it pulsates, taking what is left of my sobriety with it.
For the next few minutes my mind races at an agonisingly slow speed. Various desires enter my head – to move, to speak, to fuck - they are just as quickly consumed by the idea that gave birth to them and manifested into something more abstract. Eventually my mind is a muddy maze of confusion. Suddenly all the thoughts burst and meld and I simply laugh like a lunatic, at nothing, at the ridiculous position I am in.
It occurs to me: “where is ‘s’”? I poke my head out of the tent. ‘S’ is standing on the concrete path unmoving, with a helmet on his head – backwards. I laugh and laugh and laugh. Eventually I regain my composure: “What the FUCK are you doing ‘s’?” He looks at me sheepishly and says nothing. I stare at him again laugh, then repeat the question. ‘S’ blinks twice looks at me and says in a little scared voice:
“Am I underneath or above the concrete?”
He then starts moving very, very slowly towards the gras on the lawn. I look at him curiously and he says in slow motion “Heeeeeelllllpppppp mmeeeeeee geeeeetttt abbbbovvvveee thhheeee grrrrooouuunnnndd.”
I walk over and push his very heavy limbs back onto the grass.
Tears of joy stream down ‘s’s face. “I thought I was gone man!, I thought I wouldn’t be able to get above the concrete again!”
We re-enter the tent and smoke the rest of the weed. Our brains dissolve.
