Yes, Brownies
...or...
The Album That Cost Me The Proper Use Of The Joint Between The Metacarpal And First Philange Segment Of the Pinky Finger Of My Right Hand:
Yes - Tormatos
It was a dark and stormy night, and I had spent the last two days making Kief butter and then nummy hash brownies. I was living in a mobile home about 5 miles outside of Buchanan, Michigan; just across Redbud Trail from the Bear Cave campground. When I say it was dark, I mean no visible light- no sodium or mercury lamps, no car lights on the road, no house lights, no moon for its utter obscuration by dense cloud cover. When I say it was stormy, I mean it wasn't storming, yet.
The brownies were delish and the night wore on... My friend Scottopotomus and I ate most of them, we kept forgetting they were dosed.
There was a small problem in my crackerbox utopia - I had left my copy of Tormatos sitting in the front window, and the summer sun had melted it. It niggled at me, this step short of perception, so I asked scott what we should do.
Scott said, "Let us give it burial by sacrifice - it was a good album." I agreed, and went into the kitchen for the fire extinguisher.
We walked out of the house; me with the 50 pound can, Scott carrying the album. We exchanged items, and he emptied the extinguisher in the driveway, swinging it around until it was exhausted. The lack of wind, the chill pre-storm air, all combined with the low barometric pressure to give us a fogbank of portentous density. I then wandered around until I came upon (kicked) a rock about the size of a baseball, picked it up, and strolled back to scott, handed him the album and told him to hold it over his head.
The night was dark, and I'm half blind, the black vinyl swirled in and out of the fog, but I bravely took aim. "Stop!" Scott shouted, sounding scared and a bit shaken "What the Hell am I doing? You're half blind, give me the rock - I mean it! Please?" I realized the error and laughed, gave him the rock and held the album above my head. "Good-bye old friend, I muttered as Scott took aim. "Good-by old friend!" I shouted and scot let loose the stone.
It tore off the back of my pinky finger at the metacarpal / philange joint - it hurt like holy hell, somewhere in my mind, I could feel it, but the brownies made it OK - barely. We went into the house and I cleaned up my messy hand, ate another brownie, and watched the rain come down. The power went out and we sat, ate the rest of the brownies, talked, smoked, and Scott played his guitar. The pieces of the record lay scattered in the weeds, forgotten.
My finger sticks to this day 22 years later - it aches a bit sometimes, and every time I feel a twinge I remember that album, that dark and stormy night, and those brownies.
The Album That Cost Me The Proper Use Of The Joint Between The Metacarpal And First Philange Segment Of the Pinky Finger Of My Right Hand:
Yes - Tormatos
It was a dark and stormy night, and I had spent the last two days making Kief butter and then nummy hash brownies. I was living in a mobile home about 5 miles outside of Buchanan, Michigan; just across Redbud Trail from the Bear Cave campground. When I say it was dark, I mean no visible light- no sodium or mercury lamps, no car lights on the road, no house lights, no moon for its utter obscuration by dense cloud cover. When I say it was stormy, I mean it wasn't storming, yet.
The brownies were delish and the night wore on... My friend Scottopotomus and I ate most of them, we kept forgetting they were dosed.
There was a small problem in my crackerbox utopia - I had left my copy of Tormatos sitting in the front window, and the summer sun had melted it. It niggled at me, this step short of perception, so I asked scott what we should do.
Scott said, "Let us give it burial by sacrifice - it was a good album." I agreed, and went into the kitchen for the fire extinguisher.
We walked out of the house; me with the 50 pound can, Scott carrying the album. We exchanged items, and he emptied the extinguisher in the driveway, swinging it around until it was exhausted. The lack of wind, the chill pre-storm air, all combined with the low barometric pressure to give us a fogbank of portentous density. I then wandered around until I came upon (kicked) a rock about the size of a baseball, picked it up, and strolled back to scott, handed him the album and told him to hold it over his head.
The night was dark, and I'm half blind, the black vinyl swirled in and out of the fog, but I bravely took aim. "Stop!" Scott shouted, sounding scared and a bit shaken "What the Hell am I doing? You're half blind, give me the rock - I mean it! Please?" I realized the error and laughed, gave him the rock and held the album above my head. "Good-bye old friend, I muttered as Scott took aim. "Good-by old friend!" I shouted and scot let loose the stone.
It tore off the back of my pinky finger at the metacarpal / philange joint - it hurt like holy hell, somewhere in my mind, I could feel it, but the brownies made it OK - barely. We went into the house and I cleaned up my messy hand, ate another brownie, and watched the rain come down. The power went out and we sat, ate the rest of the brownies, talked, smoked, and Scott played his guitar. The pieces of the record lay scattered in the weeds, forgotten.
My finger sticks to this day 22 years later - it aches a bit sometimes, and every time I feel a twinge I remember that album, that dark and stormy night, and those brownies.
posted by b at 5:53 PM
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