Another fine Floppotamus Product
A Certain Afternoon
There was a knock at my door, I looked through the peep, it was Tom Snyder. I was thought to myself, isn’t Tom Snyder dead as I answered the door. Tom came in and set down on my sofa. “I’m here to talk to you about your book Future Shock,” he said getting out a pen and paper to take notes. “I didn’t write Future Shock that was Alvin Toffee or Toffler or something,” I said. I was still thinking to myself that Tom Snyder was dead and was wondering if maybe I was dead, too, and this was like a bad episode of the Twilight Zone. The original Twilight Zone, not one of the later ones, I didn’t like those, they were like redoing something really good really bad. But I quickly decided that we were Twilight Zone free, the world was not in black and white. . . . Yet.
I asked Tom if he would like something to drink. “Something cold would be nice,” he said. It was as hot as Virginia Grey in “Target Earth” outside. Global warming was in third gear and I imagined weather like this gave Al Gore an erection as he could just see the money rolling in. Global warming is big business. “How about lemonade aid?” I asked. “I’m from Milwaukee buddy,” he said. “Oh yeah . . Right,”I said, as I headed for the fridge to nab a Pabst Blue Ribbon tall boy.
When I returned to the living room with two tall boys, Tom was gone and Joe Strummer the front man and talent for the Clash was on my couch. “Where’s Tom?” I asked. Joe said, “He said something about the future and going to get coffee with toffee or some shit, it‘s hard to understand Americans, they talk like they have a mouth full of fist. . Those brews for me?” “Sure,” I said handing him both beers, I wasn’t that thirsty anyway. “It’s as hot as rolling joints on the thighs of Cuban women outside,” he said draining his first tall boy in around six seconds, which had to be some kind of American record. I knew the British record was held by John Bonham which was like a second and a half faster, but this guy was in the running.
“So what’s up,” I asked. “I just got this new cannabis, it’s called Alaskan Thunder Fuck . . I thought I’d stop by and get your opinion of it,” he said twisting up a joint that appeared to be perfect. A good joint is a thing of beauty and can only be rolled by a true craftsman. A good joint always burns even and burning even is crucial with the price of quality smokables. This joint would burn clean. Black people can’t roll a good joint to save their lives, wide thumbs I think, they always go the blunt route which screams rookie. “You have refills in the fridge?” he asked. I grabbed the dead soldiers and headed for the fridge for another beer. I was thinking to myself that it would be handy to keep a twelve pack of quarts in the ice box for when I get these unexpected visitors. I grabbed another four tall boys while Joe was sparking up the doob.
Joe took the four PBR’s and passed me the joint. “You will like this” he said. I thought I had purchased Alaskan Thunder Fuck at one time but found out later it was New York City Diesel. This was going to be a treat. I took a hit holding it in my lungs until I started coughing. As I exhaled my eye lids began to feel really heavy. Like they had two acme anvils from the Wyle E. Coyote bag of shit to toss off a cliff to kill the road runner sitting on them. I suddenly realized everything made sense, you just had to think about stuff (<- that line is funnier then even YOU know). This was really, really good pot. I thought about going to the kitchen to get a diet mountain dew but decided I felt too lazy to pack for the trip to get there. If Joe asked for another beer he could get it himself, I wasn’t sure I could find the kitchen, or even, at this point, if I had a kitchen. I wondered about the evolution of the wasp and made a mental note to find out exactly how wasps evolved into flying, stinging assholes with a bad attitude. I was about to ask Joe if hadn’t he died like ten years ago but when I looked up Joe was gone. . . So was the beer. The only thing that was left was a fresh cigarette burn in my sofa. I wasn’t that worried about it, I knew I could get a signed letter from Joe admitting he put the burn in it and sell it for big cash on the eBay.
Feeling thirsty I headed for the fridge before I had time to think about the merits of doing it. Diet Mountain Dew still sounded like too much work so I was mentally opting for Diet Cherry Dr. Pepper. As I walked back to the living room with my soda I was wondering if another hit off that joint might make me less high. It was worth a try. Sometimes shit works like that. . Or maybe not. . I wasn’t sure. As I entered the living room I noticed a woman sitting on my newly burnt sofa. It was Grace Kelly. “I thought you wouldn’t mind if I just let myself in,” she said. “You’re always welcome, would you care for some tea?” I offered hoping she wouldn’t want any because it seemed like big work with complications to try to make it. “No thank you,” she said continuing, “I was close by and wanted to stop by to say hi.” “Well that was very thoughtful of you,” I said sparking up the joint and handing it to her. She took an impressive hit off it, held it in, then exhaled slowly. I could see her eyelids getting heavy. “Do you have any chocolate pudding?” she asked. “Yeah but you have to make it,” I replied. “ Oh. . I don’t want it that bad,” she laughed. Chocolate pudding did sound good but she was right, it wasn’t worth the trouble to make.
I handed her the unopened soda, she took it as it was diet and the word cherry on the label made it sound somehow natural and more healthy. I lit the joint and took a hit without really thinking about it. When I next opened my eyes I was in my in my bed and it was the next morning. Had it all been a dream I wondered, It had sure felt real. I slowly got up and went to the kitchen to make coffee. As I passed through the living room I noticed a burn hole in the sofa and the living room smelled of lavender. There was a blue ladies scarf on the coffee table. I hadn’t remembered drinking gin yesterday. . . Strange.. . .