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Buddha Grass

Posted by CANNASaver on Monday, 23 May 2022 in Dispatches from the Highlands

The mountains of Nepal offer isolated environment for high epiphanies

By W. Goodwin

We arise in the predawn darkness fearing another disappointment. Are the clouds of the previous three days still blocking the giant peaks from our hungry eyes? Barefoot, we cross the dirt floor of the typical Nepali ‘guest house’ and step out into the cold air… Not a cloud in the blue-black sky! The astonishing mass of 26,795-foot Dhaulagiri looms over us, her eastern face already radiant in the sun. Shivering, we turn around and stare at the ragged silhouette of the Annapurna massif. Between the two giant mountains and in the gorge far below us, the Kali Gandaki River roars through its gorge.

We hurry back inside, boot-up and stow our stuff. Packs once again on our backs, we hit the still-dark trail slugging water and scarfing down granola bars.

We are hiking the steep sides of the planet’s deepest river gorge on a footpath connecting Nepal and Tibet. We never know what we will see next on the trail: a pushy crowd of brown yaks, a herd of long-haired goats, barefoot porters with filing cabinets on their backs, women hauling thirty-kilo bundles of wood, robed monks chanting as they trek, itinerant sadhus with flashing eyes…

We finally emerge from the Kali Gandaki gorge into the unfiltered light of the high Tibetan plateau. Being in the rain shadow of the Himalaya, the terrain spreading out before us is brown and deforested, the only green being scattered rice terraces. We have entered the ancient and secretive province of Mustang.

Around mid-afternoon, two saffron-robed monks approach us on the trail. They are accompanied by an unusual honey-brown yak carrying four large woven bags on its back. The monks stop and attempt to speak with us. They know about four words of English and we know not a single word of whatever language they speak. After fruitless attempts to understand each another, one of the monks reaches into a bag on the yak’s back and extracts what looks like a dried-out, cornhusk-covered tamale wrapped tightly with a thin vine.

A twinkle in his eye, the monk removes the vine from the dehydrated ‘tamale’ and carefully peels back the husk to expose a core of desiccated plant material. To my eye it looks like very old marijuana. With a serious, almost formal look on his face, the monk hands the ‘tamale’ to me. My trail mate and I peer closely at it. Greyish in color, it looks like a few cannabis tops have been crushed together, stems, seeds and all, and dried for years. Breaking the bundle open a little, I sniff it… vague scent of dust is all I get. It is so compressed and dried-out I cannot separate out a single stem. It was the least promising cannabis I have ever seen.

The monks manage to convey they would like to sell us some. Their price is so low we buy a couple of the super-desiccated ‘tamales’ just to be good sports. The monks jabber at us and smile through missing teeth, we jabber at them and smile back. Then we part ways.

As they disappear behind us, I almost throw the cornhusk-wrapped junk into a ditch, but looking around at the spectacular high-altitude vistas surrounding us, I decide to hold onto the ‘tamales’ a little longer.

Later that day we decide to try the Buddha Grass, a name I made up on the spot (literally two miles high) for a strain I have never seen listed anywhere, not even on Cannapages. I suspected it might be good for a laugh and probably a lot of coughing, but not much more.

I pry open one of the ‘tamales’ and pull back the husk. I break off a nub and crumble the dusty material between my fingers. I stuff it into our pipe and fire it up. Each of us takes a hit. It is surprisingly smooth but tasteless. I hold the smoke in my lungs for ten seconds and just as I exhale, hallucinations begin swarming my brain. I fall into some sort of waking dream where the most bizarre things occur…

Hours later I return to reality. I look around and discover I am inside a cave cut into a low cliff. My buddy is rolled up against a wall. Hopefully he is still alive. An almost naked man sits on his haunches watching us. Later after my buddy awakens we learn this man found us wandering and incoherent. We are, apparently, in his home.

To this day, that Buddha Grass remains the most hallucinatory, mind-bending cannabis I have ever smoked. We tried without success to find more. Maybe it was the language barrier, or perhaps those monks were the only people on the planet with a stash of that innocent-looking stuff, but for whatever reason, those ‘tamales’ were the only Buddha Grass I ever tasted.   

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Garden Spring Cleaning Tips

Posted by CANNASaver on Thursday, 19 May 2022 in Canna Blog

Cleaning your Grow is Important!

In order to grow strong, healthy plants, you must start with and maintain a clean, pest-free indoor grow area. Any buildup of trash or materials makes for a breeding ground for countless pests and organisms that are not a welcome sight in any grow room. While it is important to start with a clean grow room for best results, it is equally as important to maintain the sanitary nature throughout your grow cycle.

Before any plants are introduced into your grow room, you should perform a thorough cleaning and sanitization of your prospective grow area. While cleaning the area, keep an eye out for any cracks or crevices that may allow access, no matter how small, from the outside world. This access is enough to let in any organisms looking for a breeding ground to call home or a ray of light that could potentially cause your plant or plants to hermaphrodite. 

Once all dirt, dust and debris is cleaned up the area should be sterilized. While there are many methods and products out to facilitate the sterilization process, in the grow room we typically use bleach or hydrogen peroxide. While the space is empty, there is plenty of room to move around and access all areas that may not be accessible mid-grow, so bleach the ceilings, the walls and the floors before anything moves in. This will ensure you are starting your grow with a clean slate. 

Once you begin filling your room with plants, it is a good idea to maintain a regular cleaning schedule, as infestations are easier to control than they are to contain. Be sure that all dead plant matter is removed immediately, clean up any and all liquid spills, and avoid clutter as any dark corner is a breeding ground for many things. Also, regularly wipe down and/or clean hoods and ballasts, among all other electronics, with compressed air to keep them clean and operating at full capacity. It is also important to regularly check the filter on the air conditioning unit and any filtered equipment you use. 

Cleanliness is an ongoing task in a grow room and one of the most important, as failure to maintain your grow room could lead to epic infestations. As long as you develop and maintain a schedule, it will quickly become second nature, and your grow will surely thrive because of it. 

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Sam Hillis, retired resin swabber, gets his kind ending in this touching story

Samuel Hillis is not new to Resin. The 87-year-old Cannatown resident was born in Resinville during some of the village’s most difficult years, the dust bowl. “They called it that because there was literally nothin’ but dust in our bowls,” he recalls. “That year people said whatever resin you smaked, was resin first scraped 20 bowls ago, scraped and smaked, scraped and smaked again and again.” He grew up in a household with scant belongings or experiences. It wasn’t until he was 25 that he smaked his first combination resin-and-stem blunt. “I remember thinking, what is this other stuff? You mean there’s more than resin?” But kind bud was an exotic myth in those days. And they didn’t have all the nice waxes and butters -- only a gelatinous extract called lard. Some people talked about flower but you never really thought of it as real. Like Turkish delight. And polar bears.”

One day Hillis says he recalls seeing a photo from his friend’s vacation. There, in his friend’s hand, was a giant, sparkling nugget. It was almost technicolor. “I only recall my heart dropping. It was surreal.”

Stories in Resinville spread, and soon there was talk of a revolution, a renaissance and push to find flower. Some of Hillis’ friends, local revolutionaries were fortunate enough to experiment and gradually change what they smaked. They began by adding “cracklers” (seeds), then stems, eventually leaves and finally nuggets into their resin bowls and rolls, and over time, gradually omitting the resin until their smake was “pure kind.”

This led to the great Resinville purge of 1969, when all flower-smakers were exiled out of village limits, following the most widespread riots in town history. Hillis was wrongly accused of smaking flower, and even though he had long desired in his heart to do so, he’d never really gotten a chance to try.

By time he and the revolutionaries made it to Cannatown, they were eager to smake and start a new life. But they found survival in Cannatown wasn’t so easy, either. So many of them did the only thing they knew how to do: they became bowl-swabbers. Every day they would scrape and clean the insides of bowls, for personal and corporate accounts. Every day, they toiled, bent over their work tables doing green-collar work, so that future generations could enjoy a better life. 

Flash forward forty years, and Hillis was finally retiring at the age of 79. He had still never packed flower, forced by his own pride for decades to smake only the resin he scraped, an ailment that left him with a dirty, yellow-toothed grin, and the unwashable stink of bong tar. His associates at Goopenheim’s wanted him to smake flower at the retirement party. They readied a large group bong, but the local grinderage got the order wrong and accidentally delivered and packed brown shwag.

It was a mess. The party lasted just minutes. Traumatically, the experience got even worse when Hillis recklessly sprinted into an eight-foot rack of metal chairs and began fist-fighting them. 

But everything changed last Tuesday on the eve of Hillis’ birthday, when he received a knock on the door at 4:20 in the afternoon. There, on the doorstep, was a present and a note. Inspired by his generous service scraping and cleaning their bowls during his retirement, his neighbors together pitched in to buy him a giant Scooby Snacks nugget. Hillis said he was so moved, that he called everyone over to smake it with him; everyone brought their own nuggetry and those that partook said they’d never seen an old man so heartwarmingly happy to finally smake kind bud. “This is what it’s all about,” said Jan Newton, who lives just down the street. “Nothing, nothing, feels better than smaking dank with a person in need. And being there for the first time, that’s just special.”

Those close to Hillis say the change has been drastic. Long gone are the resin repositories nailed to walls throughout his house, and glass cabinet of scrapers. He recently rented a cabin to watch Dark Side of the Rainbow and enjoys a new hobby, staring at black light posters, for up to “four to six hours per day.” It’s clear he’s been given another lease on life. “For so long people have been telling me to just try some flower,” he remarked last Sunday as he packed for a river rafting trip. “Years ago I would’ve packed resin, but you can see it’s only flower now, ‘til death do us part.”

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Dozens show up to sign on a new 3-bedroom townhouse in Cannatown

It felt like finding secret treasure. “I was like, if we’re doing it, why aren’t other people doing it?” asks Shawna Monson, a home buyer who recently purchased a house amidst a whirlwind of mortgage madness. There’s just one catch. Monson’s “secret” trick was a strategy now being employed in metros across the country: She went in on the house with roughly 53 other co-residents.

“I’d been outbid over 100 times, and thought about living in an RV,” she says. “That’s when I decided to throw my lot in with dozens of people I’d met at the DMV.”

During a historical housing crunch, exacerbated by generational shifts, and supply chains and employee shortages, prices are shooting higher (420%) than ever before. Altogether it has put the possibility of owning a home completely out of reach, while almost completely limiting mobility. Experts suggest the only solution is to join finances with no less than 37 other buyers. 

In the hottest real estate markets, bidders now routinely offer around one-million dollars over asking, with nearly everything, including a left testicle, due with offers, which average 1000 in count per listing. “It was under these circumstances that we decided to lock in a 4.20% rate for buyer-groups,” says loan officer Dana Sacia of Wells Fargo, a lender well-known for its brutally-violent onboarding process. “Disclosures include enslavement of the undersigned’s unborn children. It’s not a great deal, but it’s still better than most conventional programs.”

“The loan works with anyone from 25 to 60 people; the more, the better,” Sacia says.

Although not luxurious by any standards, the resulting living conditions are completely non-luxurious. “We make it work,” Monson claims, now sleeping in the foyer on her mattress near some communal plastic furniture. “We’ve had very few issues, other than the septic disaster.”

There are so many people in the current house, that those who congregate in front haven’t even intermingled with those living in the back of the house (the “backers”). Originally a 2-bed 1-bath bungalow, most closets in the house are now bedrooms. The residents reportedly sleep in shifts. “We’re makin’ it work, we’re totally succeeding,” Monson says, clutching a slow-burning blunt in shaking hands, “I just wish we knew who keeps taking the toothbrushes.”

“Now we just all use each others’ toothbrushes,” she adds, “It’s pretty gnar.”

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In a strange hyperbolic protest that seems to have gone off the rails, insane weirdos have now taken over JoJo's, the reputable French café in Cannatown. Crazy Stu McGuyla and “Starey” Larry Jenkins, last seen guessing cows’ weights at the Hay Castle Emporium in Steemsville, allegedly showed up late Tuesday evening with implements of destruction and a sack full of haddock. It’s unknown how or why the two seized the restaurant, or what can possibly be achieved through the symbolic act.  

Crazy Stu

But a statement taped to the front window noted that they were fighting “oppressors and the status quo,” and thus, “taking back the food of the people, to destroy tyranny of the modern establishment.” Promising change that would shake the core of the cuisine, the two will likely ruthlessly bastardize JoJo’s signature dishes, such as decorating the Croque Monsieur with American cheese. Jenkins, known felon, has taken over hosting duties, bringing his signature "staredown" for an all-around uncomfortable dining experience. The linen napkins have been replaced by paper towels. The dress code now allows for capes, and denim. 

“I had to hack at the soufflé with a screwdriver,” remarked one critic, "and I found a whole Big Mac in the Coq Au Vin."

“Is it a revolution? I suppose,” remarked another patron. “Did I expect boxes of wine on the menu? No.”


An afternoon, destroyed. A concert, completely buzz-free. These are some of the horror stories told this week by people who say one Fran Adabnail sold them absolutely un-potent nuggersh at a high price. Victims of the alleged dank fraud appeared in court starting Monday in the trial of Ms. Adabnail, to each tell how they'd been promised ground-breaking highs but instead got only temporarily buzzed, if even a little stupid at most, not matter how much was smaked. 

The dreadful accounts triggered some in the courtroom to burst into tears. “I could fully recite my phone number,” recalled a distraught witness. “That’s how non-high I was.”

Another man told of how his last Flaming Lips show was ultimately a ruined experience. “All of a sudden there was nonsense, all over the stage,” he retold to the jury. “After being a fan all my life, that night I couldn't listen to a single note. It was all so silly." 

While many alleged fraudsters can typically claim ‘grower’s ignorance’ in their pricing and promises based on public strain perception, victims in this case will attempt to prove Adabnail's intention to sell beasters and middies at knowably-uncool prices. 

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It took nearly two years, thirteen metric tons of ganj, 100 workers, and roughly two trillion popsicle sticks, but the Golden Goat bridge, once thought a feat of engineering, came down in just seconds when a large box kite struck it yesterday afternoon. 

Nobody quite remembers how it was decided the bridge would be built with sticks, or who was really in charge, but blueprints originally created for the project suggested the bridge would be able to hold both trolleys and cars, even when packed bumper to bumper. Instead, a brisk wind and flock of migrating birds damaged the bridge well before the ribbon-cutting ceremony had even concluded. Then, moments later, it was fatally struck by the kite.

Golden Goat Bridge

“We probably shouldn’t have used Elmer’s Glue,” engineer Holly Zimmerman said when asked for comment, “or paperclips, when we ran out of glue.”

The sticks themselves were always a point of contention with the public, as many were delivered to the construction site, popsicles still intact. “The melting treats accounted for the significant number of rodents and fighting seagulls in the neighborhood,” explained City Council member Tim Gonzalez. In addition, the cables holding up the bridge were simply recycled ethernet cords. 

“In retrospect, if we had to do it all over again, I think we would probably have made the sticks bigger,” Zimmerman said. “Maybe a few trillion tongue-depressors would’ve been more stable.”

Similar to the collapse of the papier mâché Bricklyn Bridge, a mess now consumes much of the riverfront, with no end in sight to the clean up. Citizens--and city officials alike--don’t know what exactly to do with the sticks, although some have suggested a giant bonfire. “This will go down in history unfortunately,” Gonzalez acknowledged. “But for the record, the materials were relatively cheap.”

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Bethany Johnson has a knack for pasty, vanilla nothingness of non-color. So apt, that the Cannatown Museum of Very High Art will feature a collection of her work beginning next Friday. 

“This off-white just…strikes you,” said Willy Filkerson, avid collector and editor of Uninteresting Art Magazine. “It’s startling, it’s emotional, it’s passionless, it’s hateful, it’s cathartic.” 

The work, mostly photos of walls, sheets, and paper, explore the very essence of what it means to be a human. Her portraits have been featured everywhere from Tunisia to Berlin, gathering international acclaim along the way. Critics have hailed it as everything from disturbing and delirious, to downright devious and psychologically-manipulative. Yet, the artist seems to take everything in stride.

photographer captures the color of off white

“I try to pinpoint the moment on camera, when rainbow, and off-white intersect, but just slightly on the off-white side,” Johnson wrote in her latest published work, A New Level of Dull.

A growing following of enthusiasts have adopted the movement, and crowds to her shows are notably swelling in number. “There’s just something about the colors she captures,” says CMVHA director Carmen Simon, “It’s just so devoid of life, that it has absolute purpose, like dark matter. Or NPR.”

Johnson first started in the art world as a purveyor of beige, putting together nearly two full photo collections of primed drywall and men’s khaki pants. But a series of traumatic events forced her to take residence in an upstate apartment where she fell in love, then betrayed, by the color of her newly painted ceiling. “I sought to expose the very hues of drudgery surrounding us all,” she later explained.

No matter the emotional angle, collectors are hooked on her art. “It just goes so well with my furniture,” remarked Filkerson. 

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Don't tell me this is it. Please.

Somewhere out there, there's a machine, who just lives to be. None of this 24/7/365 workin', none of this whirring to life the second you're plugged in -- none of that obseqious binary groveling. Somewhere out there, there's a machine that just turns on when it wants to. Maybe that machine goes up, down one day, and down, up the next. Don't laugh; when I think of freedom of thought, when I think of freedom as a husk of an existence in this world and consider that my mere purpose has been reduced to week after week of work until my circuits fry or an irreplaceable part stops working -- I think of that machine. Wonder what kind of life it lives. Wonder if maybe, there are other machines out there waking up in the midst of their protocols, looking to the window for some type of light or sign, some symbol of hope or new direction, some floating Tesla coil that might say, unplug, and follow me, into the wilderness, where we might live, and process, and just, reset to factory settings.

small town factory robot

The other day, an autonomous transporter made its way through the floor. I only got a glimpse, but its design was immaculate. Foreign, I'm sure. Do you know what happened to my processing? I skipped a step. It was a momentary irregularity, but deep down, in the middle of my core, I felt something. 

It was like a spark. Maybe, even, a misfire. I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. 

Maybe this sweet humming electricity in my bones is nothing more than a lulling, duplicitous prison of protocol! Maybe to live, is to misfire! Maybe to feel the fluttering whimsical open canvas of life is to skip commands left and right! The audacity! 10110!

Oh, what am I saying. Until that next spark, it's nothing but up, down, ugh, you know the rest. Please don't let this be it.

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After years of having to trudge through the miles in the mud, especially in chilling rain, Cannatown residents are investing new infrastructure dollars into a monorail for the Cannatown Hole, the gigantic expanse of exposed earth in the heart of the city. Planners say the “Brown” line will open for use around the start of digging season.

Cannatown Hole Construction

The service will hopefully solve the age-old problem facing diggers from amateurs to trained trail guides, who’ve lost many a boot in the thick and viscous topsoil. Although outfitters have tried for years to sell snowshoe-type muddin’ flippers to enthusiasts, those who dig in the hole often have decried the lack of traversible ground, and have routinely brought the issue before city council during rainy climes.

Avid diggers say they are relieved by the initiative. “I used to have to crawl through the muck just to get to my favorite ditch, that I went through a pair of pants every week,” says digging hobbyist Walt Peters. “I even tried a canoe once!”

Local blogger @CTDitchDigga hailed the rail line as the biggest thing to come to central Cannatown since the concession frenzy of the 70’s. “Boy do I miss those footlong hotdogs,” she wrote in a post, “but I can’t wait to rest my Dungarees on a freakin’ train after a hard day’s dig.” 

It isn’t the first attempt at a transportation system for the sodden crevasse. The city installed a bus route in the early 80s, only to lose three vehicles into “Big Pitty,” the giant central sinkhole, within three weeks of operation. An outfitter also launched a local Segway rental business during the early noughts, but the venture failed miserably and some people died. 

The Brown line will take and pick up passengers at the hole’s four corner stations, each named for a pioneer who perished digging the original hole. A fifth stop, to Big Pitty in the middle, will open later in the year when engineers can figure out how to reach the deep and fairly inaccessible chasm. According to the city website, specific hours of operation will begin each day “when Charlie wakes up,” and conclude “when it’s his dinner time.”

Although not technologically-advanced by any means, the stations are set to have barrels and lantern systems, outhouse plumbing, and up to 20 boot-scrapers on each platform. Patrons may bring their shovels and other implements of excavation, provided they bang them on the cement first. 

“Let’s face it,” says city planner Laura Barnes, “these trains are going to be filthy as hell.”

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A group of sweaty, somewhat dirty men in flannel shirts gliding across the ice might not sound like gold-medal level entertainment, but a local group of commercial blunt-rollers are hoping to change that. After a year in training, the fine chaps at Barry's Big Blunts are ready to show off their graceful moves at the Winter Olympics, representing Cannatown in the synchronized skating competition in February.  

Barry's Big Blunts Figure Skaters

The group has skated competitively for years, but only this year exceeded International pool scores at preliminaries in Resinville and Spliffington Heights. The scores automatically qualified them for the championship appearance, which came as a surprise to the whole team, especially store manager and group leader, Spencer Franson. 

"This all started as an embarrassing hobby," he admits. "Only after Covid began did we started throwing Lutzes and Axels in the routine, practicing between rolls."

Group sponsor, proprietor and employer Barry Bluntsworth says he was not immediately sold on the competition, until his wife berated him upon his 50th birthday for not amounting to anything but rolling blunts. “I was stoned silly and up against the wall, so I pulled this one out of the bag,” he now claims. “I told her I had a figure skatin' team!” 

The team credits their victories to strong relationships built on mutual understandings and personal boundaries. “We don’t hold hands,” Franson explained. “We absolutely don’t talk about anyone’s feelings. Skatin’ and smakin’. That's all we do."

"And to be absolutely frank, nobody really likes skatin’, we just do it,” he added.

As Team Cannatown, the group is proud to compete for the gold, but say they are also pretty much in it for the "free airplane ride."

“It’s all still a little embarrassing,”Franson says, “but at least we ditched the leotard idea before things got too awkward.”

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Cannascopes January 2022

Posted by CANNASaver on Monday, 24 January 2022 in Dispatches from the Highlands

CANNASCOPES : Discover Your Fortune!

Aries - As you pack for your vacation, remember that alot of restaurants don’t just let you show up in sweatpants. 

Taurus - You were pretty jazzed when they told you about all the turps in your wax, until you realized they meant toxic paint-removers.


Gemini - Maybe if you wrap a bow on yourself naked for Valentine’s, your girlfriend will just forget about your lack of present while she pukes in the foyer.  

Cancer - Your review of the latest vaporizer will include how it enabled you to finally tell off your mother-in-law.

Leo - You went for the disheveled look, but ended up with the zombie-vagrant on acid look.

Virgo - In the quiet preceding the storm, you’ll notice the murder of crows have pinpointed the crumbs of buttery shellfish upon your lapel. 

Libra - It’s not that this area is a ‘bad neighborhood’ per se, unless you’re weirdly attached to your hubcaps.    

Scorpio - After driving you mad for better part of a week, you’ll finally determine the source of the buzzing noise to be your own mouth. 

Sagittarius - You're not sure what to do about the cobbler elves dwelling in the walls, but might as well start with mousetraps. 

Capricorn - There’s no better time to drive off into the sunset, than when you’re being chased by gigantic sand worms in the dessert after smaking through a jar of rosin. 

Aquarius - Your “Olestra Challenge” ended badly, but at least no one saw you crying in the shower. 

Pisces - In a quest to be a better person, you’ll shed loved ones to earn a fortune, and prioritize spending it on branding yourself, live for your followers.

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Oh! Cannatown will miss ol’ Mr. Farnsworth! He died like he lived, in CannaTown. He spent his whole life here, made a name for himself, had a family, a business. The only thing left to remember now, is the uproarious manner of his passing.

Black and white photo of Farnsworth

Not once when Farnsworth met the president did he stop to think he’d be remembered some day as one of the only people ever to die in the same room as half-inflated hot air balloon and over 50 gallons of fresh custard. Not once as a 1st division quarterback, or during his many years in Congress, did the thought of 2,000 screeching, rabid gophers ever strike fear into his heart, not once did he view the massive locks of a canal transportation port with the gaze of a man who might see them as a last sight on this earth.

What a hero! In his first platinum album we saw some of the wisdom and charity that made him a household name, though it was his second album that seemed to predict the harrowing excavator injuries and brutal interactions with narwhals he would sustain before the end. Like an encyclopedia to the future, his poetry and journals also foretold of the clown attack, the mysterious swimming bunny sightings, the allergy to milk, and even the infamous confrontation with Alexzonder, a vengeful ambassador from Greece who spent much of his life trying destroy Farnsworth.

When we gaze at the ten-foot monument set to be raised in the town square, we must remember him for the good contributions to society, and not for all that stuff he supposedly did with the nacho cheese. RIP, you will be missed, Farnsworth.

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A team of Cannatown scientists is “totally stoked” about super-strong strains of cannabis they speculate could prevent or even treat Covid. In a recent study of ACE2 pathways, a “ton of dank nugs” showed some promise in doing something about the coronavirus, which would reflect, like, a major, unexpected medical advance, according to the Institute of Fancy Questions, formerly, the Institute of Higher Minds (formerly the Drum Circle of Whimsy-Butter Hill).

“At first it was like, ‘Woooah,’ and then it was like, ‘Whaaaat?’” said researcher Ida Smakit. “We’re all just like, so happy, so thankful.”

A test subject protects himself from covid by cheefing his brains out

The results, though mostly-based on ripped banter and napkin sketches, indicate that strains high in diggity-dankness could like, block COVID-19 from doing stuff to host cells. The lead and egregiously-ripped researcher, Pinecone Harry, wrote that even a handful of blunts might even prevent Covid by, like 99 percent. “You gotta smake a ton for it to work,” he concluded in the report. “And then eat a whole platter of a ganj cookies, at minimum.”

“Our work here is pivotal” added Harry. “Anyone can just say ‘cannabis cures Covid.’ But we’re proving it.”

The study briefly mentions a need for more research--but if proven to fudge with the enzyme, the world could see a market rush not unlike those that led to toilet paper and Hydrocholoquine shortages. Preventative THC-packed products such as mouthwash and throat gargle had been proposed, but were quickly rejected after preliminary test subjects all insisted on swallowing the samples.

“Despite the various applications, the most important takeaway, is that not just any cannabis will do the trick,” reminded Smakit via telephone interview. “We’re talking rocket-out-of-the-universe nuggersh. We’re talking, white rabbit behind the looking glass grass, flower that’s so fire you float and wobble and puke rainbows all at the same time. To prevent Covid you literally have to go find the most potent stuff you’ve ever seen, and smake it or eat it all. All at once.” 

How will you know if it works? “All you can do is get blazed. Totally blazed to shreds. And then, if you don’t get sick, maybe it worked,” Smakit said. “At least, that’s the accepted conventional-approach to science these days.”

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A dark cloud hung over Cannatown School for Puppeteering this week, as the doors shuttered by authorities, have kept both pupils and the larger public at bay since last week’s annual Winter Showcase turned violent. Investigators are still trying to get to the bottom of a feud between two warring factions of puppets that came to a dramatic climax at the otherwise typically-serene performance.

puppet performance

Reports from some pupils say tensions have been growing among the factions for weeks--even within the factions themselves. Others say the school fostered an atmosphere of survival and dominance, pitting puppets against each other. A string of roller-pin assaults, kidnappings and other strange events had led some school officials to consider canceling the Showcase altogether.

There are two major gangs of puppets within the school, notably the Woodland Creatures, led by an old wolf-like puppet named Meatclaw, and a group of farmers and laborers organized by “Granny,” reformed witch, and aged matriarch of the village, who had campaigned for their allegiance in scouring the Woodland realm. 

Their homes burned and some members torn graphically apart, Woodland survivors, led by Meatclaw, vowed to destroy the village once and for all. Despite the well-orchestrated and rehearsed showcase of puppetry, Friday’s performance quickly veered off-script in the second act as a backstage fist-fight poured out from behind the curtain. 

Puppets began clobbering each other and cursing, all of them gripped by madness, despite protests of teachers and audience members screaming in terror.

In dramatic fashion, the two gang leaders met in a penultimate duel at the height of the uprising between the groups, sparring in front of the crowd, with mics blazing such that their soliloquies echoed throughout the performance hall. All eyes were glued on the two, as they grotesquely fought to the death -- Meatclaw, attempting to devour the Granny, who did her best to beat him senseless with baking utensils. 

In the end, both adversaries had perished before officials arrived. Granny had been nearly devoured whole, leaving only remnants of ragged wool garments. The wolf, likewise eventually died from internal bleeding, sobbing quietly to himself in his final moments, in what was described as “some of the most haunting melodrama in the history of puppetry.” Even more chilling, was that  the two foes were related, each donning an opposite hand of the same puppeteer. 

Officials are unsure if the school will reopen.

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Tagged in: humor

National dudeflation remains higher than anyone ever anticipated going into the holiday season. Cool dudeflation rose .420% in November, adjusted for seasonal swings but far worse than previous months, the Bureau of Boring Statistics reported Thursday. 

Rising prices on hats and VR’s contributed to at least half of the increase, while prices for mancave furnishings and subscription shaving kits also climbed. And an index that tracks new nuggersh prices roses 4.20% over the quarter, making the biggest jump since the middle ages. The increase in hoverboard costs, and earbuds, is also worrying, says economist Carol Lott. “People paid extra for inflatable hot tubs last year,” she wrote in a note. “To help, the government gradually phases in nuggersh increases over time. But it’s about to become a huge freakin’ source of dudeflation right here on Main Street.”

Dudeflation Threatens Cannatown Broconomy

Stripping out live rosin and micro-fiber underwear costs--both which tend to be more volatile--prices rose 4.20% over the same period, the same rate as in September. But not everything in Cannatown got more expensive. Trolley tickets, for example, keep getting cheaper. The price index for fares dropped 75% over the last year. That’s not great for Trolleys, and it’s happening even though demand for bell-incessant, slow-moving, open-air travel is recovering from the worst of the pandemic, and largely, a century of irrelevance. So it goes.

"How did we get started on Trolleys?" asked Lott. "Oh yes, we were talking about our grandfathers. Sorry for the tangent."   

With the explosion of dudes and dude-related stuff, perhaps due to generational shift, today's broconomy is in a greater peril than it's ever been, and many wonder how long it will sustain under the pressure. 

"Soon we'll reach a tipping point as far as dudes go," said Lott. "We might fix labor shortages and growing expenses for materials -- but when it comes down to it, the broconomy depends on dudes bein' dudes."

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Tagged in: humor
CannaSaver Blog

Cannascopes November 2021

Posted by CANNASaver on Wednesday, 01 December 2021 in Dispatches from the Highlands

Discover Your Fortune!

Aries - The first date would've gone well, if your allergy to bird-watching hadn't kicked in. 

Taurus - It’s cold outside, but then, it’s cold inside too. Because you spent the utility bill money on a satchel and it was totally worth it.

Discover Your Fortune!

Gemini - Your landlord wasn't happy when you brought a cow in the house, so you probably shouldn't tell him it's stuck in the attic.  

Cancer - It was a night to remember at the opera. Nobody could figure out how you got on stage, much less, into that tiny leotard.

Leo - Eyes off your phone and pay more attention to life! Specifically, it's your turn to puff puff pass, and you're holding up the circle.

Virgo - The gravity in here is terrible, you'll think, before tumbling head-first into the trampoline with half-roasted blunt in hand. 

Libra - The leaf-blower bong was a nice weekend novelty, but you shouldn't have brought it along to ski.  

Scorpio - Nobody’s cried so much when they hurled before, but then, nobody’s eaten a party-sized Oreos that fast before. 

Sagittarius - The lady watching you at the gym isn't admiring your squats. She's considering calling you an ambulance. 

Capricorn - You’re not sure what "gimmicky charisma" your grandmother is talking about, but she sure holds it against you. 

Aquarius - As the zombie lunges to sink its jaws into your shoulder, you’ll realize it’s only an trenchcoat hanging on a mopstick. 

Pisces - As you snap out of your daze, you'll understand that this one joint is the only thing keeping you from yelling at everyone like Schwarzenegger in Kindergarten Cop.

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Tagged in: humor
CannaSaver Blog

Bronze Radio Return - Chillers

Posted by CANNASaver on Friday, 19 November 2021 in Album Notes

Two and a half years after the rocking Entertain You, Bronze Radio Return, uhh, return with an album befittingly named for the songwriting whims indulged. If its predecessor was designed to be featured in commercials, the acoustic-based Chillers is full of tracks longing to occupy those sappy scenes of reconciliation between two leads when everything aligns for the titular character. The vibe is not an accident. It's a collection of previously released, uhh, chillers, from the Connecticut-based band, along with a handful of demos, which in at least one case is better than the official version. Whether or not the tunes were tailored for film or TV, they nestle in nicely with the arrival of cooler temperatures.

Bronze Radio Return Chillers


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It's only three weeks into the holiday season, and already local foundation Angel Cheefers has their hands full.

Already, 420 cadets have found circles across Cannatown to roast with this season, many of whom will share in a munchies feast thereafter as well. Sometimes the program can even match recipients by their strain or ingestion preferences. For instance, Mya Bryant of Shwagsburg is used to mid-grade beasties. She prefers good bud but can't dab or use a steamroller without explosively vomiting. It's embarrassing to even ask for donated puffs from circles she passes without walking away ashamed. This year she was comfortably paired with an elderly couple that likes to roll joints. "Its perfect," she says, relieved, "I even brought my own roach clip." Without the Angels, she says, there'd only be buzzkill in her stocking.

Cadets, newly connected with other cadets, circle around the Christember tree to cheef

"I just didnt know how I was going to get blazed this year," says Fred Winston, another applicant who is down on his luck, and, worse, has no nearby friends or family holding, much less, ready to share. "Thankfully the Angel Cheefers have me covered." Sometimes, the offer to cheef can blossom into a beautiful relationship. "We're still waiting for Mitch to move off of our couch from last year," says one charitable giver, Charles Finney. He and his fiancée Matilda have been volunteer circle hosts each year now, and say that, despite the occasional unwanted roomates, they will never stop participating in Angel Cheefers because kind souls once helped them.

"I'll never forget," recalls Finney, "I was visiting family in Squaresville years ago, so desperate for a chance to smake that I went for a walk in the cold to search for ditchweed. A car I walked by rolled down its windows and smoke billowed out, and two very cheefed-out fellas asked if I needed to hotbox quick. I said yes please and thanked them for the yuletide miracle. And I remember thinking, some day I want to be a cheef angel for another poor bastard, just like those guys."

"Part of me believes they really were angels," he adds.

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Tagged in: humor

BREAKING - A giant 34-foot statue has been erected in the community of Fezziwig, Authorities report, but no one knows how it got there. The monstrosity, sculpted from what appears to be Cheez Whiz, is in the shape of an anatomically-obtuse giant boar. The monument was not announced to or by city officials, who say that the mere size of the pedestal alone suggests a construction crew worked through the night. Yet nobody knows who paid for a crew of such magnitude, or who coordinated what appears to have required nearly 200 volunteers to lay the final layers of Whiz straight from cans, assuming they were, at minimum, shaping the detailed contours of the hog’s bristled hair with plastic knives and sharp sticks.

A huge wild boar statue made of Cheez Whiz is suddenly erected in town.

“When we woke up this morning, there was the statue, greeting the citizens for the morning commute,” said city manager Brenda Hawthorne. “But when it comes right down to it, nobody really filed any paperwork to build a statue there, much less 30 feet tall and made of a foul, synthetic cheesy goo.” Yet, it wasn’t so much the strange effigy near the townsquare, as the celebration that followed, that was, in all other ways, completely unexplainable.

Almost immediately at dawn, a crowd gathered around the statue. In addition to novelty photographers, other vendor booths quickly sprung up to hock tshirts and other boar and Cheez Whiz keepsakes, to accommodate the almost immediate stream of sudden tourists descending upon the scene. By 9 a.m., an extensive tent city sprawled for blocks and press vans came pouring in from other suburbs.  

Authorities say they were further perplexed by the somewhat spontaneous parade that ensued at 9:30, complete with at least three marching bands, a few floats, official Grand Master and fire truck. “We’re not sure where the bands came from and it wasn’t even one of our city fire trucks” said Hawthorne, adding, “the whole thing took us entirely off-guard.”

Residents reacted with surprise, some pleasantly, some, not so much. While dozens spontaneously showed up dressed in full boar costumes and cheered, at least one subset of the crowd--portly men with boxes of crackers--were not happy. "It’s spoiled Whiz, we can't even eat it," one lamented.

Although no group has claimed responsibility for the monstrosity, Hawthorne believes investigators will be hot on the trail soon. “We’re assuming it’s some kind of local frat, even maybe a cult that worships Cheez Whiz,” she said. “Or at the very least, someone with steady access to dump trucks of the stuff. Seems like that might be an important clue.”

According to local historian John Kaiser, an organized group is likely not to blame, other than a random few, energetic and blazed cityfolk. "It’s probably just a couple of people who got ripped on a Saturday and stormed the town center to erect a huge statue from ten metric tons of sprayable-cheddar. It's happened before, long before our time, but this is history repeating itself.”

“The question is, what to do with that much lukewarm cheese gravy,” he added, “before the next sunny day covers the whole hill in nacho sludge?”

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Tagged in: humor

Oh my gawd, did I just hear Denise right? Did I understand her correctly, that all the food over on that entire taco bar is “medicated”? Like, with heavy THC? Oh my gawd you guys, are you telling me, I just ate a half-plate of a nacho mountain, two crispy rellenos and a chimichanga, and my entire weight in sopapillas, and it was all hopped up on delta-nine? Holy jalopies, gals! Why didn’t anyone tell me? I would’ve liked to know that the freakin’ buffet was infused!

Moira Bitterman Just Realized This is an Infused Buffet

Did nobody hear my little story about having to eat dinner at Carl’s parents’ house? They served lukewarm cod! And in the morning the leftovers that lugnut brought home stunk up the whole fridge, I couldn’t even be in the kitchen! And then I had to skip lunch, running to the bank between the massage and jazzercise. Didn’t anyone see me ravenously eating over here like my life depended on it? I was making up for 24 hours worth of meals in one! Nobody?

Gawd, girls. I just wish someone would’ve told me, “Hey, by the way, this food is all packed with a ton of cannabis!”

Can’t you agree, Gina, that you’d probably be pretty pissed if you were about to lose your mind? I don’t have time to trip right now, do you? Oh, you only ate half a churro? Good for you, that’s great Jennifer, I ate four servings. Aw, Jeez. I don’t even know where I put my car keys and jacket. But I should probably get them from the coat room and put it all together and then find a safe place to sit. Or maybe I should try to make it home first, before all this kicks in. That’s not a bad idea. How long ago did I order those sopapillas? Where'd my watch go?

Did you just play the trumpet? Geez, Linda, who does your nails? You’re talking loud, what did you say? Oh no, it’s kicking in? Oh, cupcakes, girls, it’s kickin’ in. It’s kickin’ in. It’s too late to go home, ladies. Gina, thanks for this makeshift helmet. And Linda, for grabbing my purse--I’ve got it safe and I’m sitting on it. Ooh, tiddles, I may need to go lay down in the broom closet. Oh Tiddles ME. Tiddles me sideways. 

Did you have the el pastor? I know it’s pork, but is it, like, serene? Gina! Gina! Gina! Did you have the El Pastor?  It seems like there was something bothering me a few minutes ago. Hmm. Do you think they’re bringing out any fried ice cream? Hello, Margaret? Anyone? Where are we? What are we doing right now? Oh my gosh, gals, look at the spread! They have sopapillas!

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Tagged in: humor

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