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The zodiac, demystified.

Aries - It’s not that everybody hates to hear your inner dialogue. It’s just that nobody really needs another 50 recipes for meatloaf. 

Taurus - There may be no stupider way of looking at the situation, than through goggles on a pogo-stick.

Cannascopes: Marijuana Horoscopes by Cannapages

Gemini - Nothing speaks to the depravity of your resin high like this homemade meal of dipped cheese slices in melted cheese.  

Cancer - Friends don’t push friends out of moving cars, then make love to their spouse and burn their house down.

Leo - You idiot, you’re not supposed to rip the teabag open.

Virgo - The tattoo wasn’t really received well, but you have to admit it was a clever way to request a divorce.

Libra - The difference between you and a real lumberjack is, real lumberjacks chop down wood, not other stu made from wood.    

Scorpio - At precisely the same moment you notice something has been chewing on the drywall, you'll look down to realize it was you. 

Sagittarius - You’ll never get away with this, they’d tell you, if they’re weren’t a bunch of adorable, delicious, baby oysters.

Capricorn - Most gamblers play coy during a bluff, but your strategy is a straight guttural Popeye stutter.

Aquarius - Despite climbing the bestseller list, you will be labeled a plagiarist for your novel, Fellowship of the Small Metal Finger-Circle.

Pisces - The girl didn't seem very enthused about listening to your order. Then again, she doesn't work here.

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Tagged in: humor

Merry Christember from Cannasaver!


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EDITOR'S NOTE: Although controversial in nature, there is no way we could ignore the hearings currently underway at the Capitol. As journalists we are bound to report on the facts, and here we present them for our readers to draw their own conclusions. 

It was a dark day for democracy. The Cannatown Cannabis Cup, once thought to be a model of almost superior sportsmanship and craft, last year saw one of the ugliest incidents on Cannatown soil when one contender, upset when he didn’t win, began what the committee has called a “seven-part scheme” to defraud smakers of their choice in the Sativa category. 

From the participants to the officials highest on the list, grower Darnell Chump made a concerted effort across the board to change the numbers, tallies, and legitimacy of the cup finalists such that he would overturn the People’s Choice. However, with nothing changed by the award ceremony, Chump called together an angry mob of very, very high people, and convinced them to storm the event arena. Feces were smeared on the walls. Respected judges were evacuated. The results were nothing short of deadly.

The plan seemed simple enough: create a diversion long enough to declare the results and judging completely worthless and out-dated, and then call the whole thing off, meanwhile claiming victory as last year’s finalist. “Essentially, he didn’t care about winning the cup, he just wanted the trophy,” said event organizer Barney Mills.

Now a full year and half later, the Canngressional committee investigating the January 6th fiasco is gearing up to hold accountable those very high bad actors.

“I believed my own lies”

Will M’Bar testified that Chump, super stoned off his rocker, didn't listen whatsoever when M'Bar explained how voting, and tallying, and generally, numbers worked. 

“It was clear he had never personally counted past the number 30, entirely due to laziness,” the Attorney General said. “But there was no indication he was interested in the facts, much less, that he even knew I was there, because I’d really never seen him so stoned.” 

“I thought boy, if he really believes all this stuff, he’s higher than an angel on Sunday,” M’Bar says in the video. “In fact, he was acting so high--in a real alternate reality--that I later asked and tracked down the same strain. Sure enough, it was Green Crack.”

Some have used this idea to defend Chump’s forthcoming behavior, that having been so completely stoned, he may have actually thought he was right -- and therefore, entitled to walk scott-free (even despite inciting a mob to go kill those in charge of the cup). Because he was so incredibly stoned, they say, he lacked the intent because he didn’t think he was doing anything wrong.

“If that’s the defense, then he’d be the first person to ever use it, and actually win, in the history of this country,” said Professor Zen Ghou of Cannatown University. “He’d have to be totally ripped to shreds to use that excuse, but if anyone would, it’d be him." 

Judges commonly tell juries that “willful stonedness” to facts doesn’t necessarily demonstrate intent, although it does when coupled with “inciting a mob of any type," as it’s typically difficult to overlook riots and destruction, especially against such sacred institutions such as the Cannabis Cup. 

It's not clear how Chump came to believe such a narrative, but experts say it may have come from watching 12 hours per day of Faux News, where it was the narrative, or perhaps from his small troupe of lawyers, who, given their unkempt appearance and demeanors, had likely been smaking through their own Green Crack for months on end.

Direct Evidence

Somewhat hampering Chump's claim that he didn’t try to overthrow the cup results, is a full length documentary covering those attempts. There was also the full-length speech made just prior to the attack on the capitol, in which Chump, on live television, personally instructed an armed mob to start fighting at the event center. Then there's the taped conversation in which both Chump and his team asked judges to completely ignore the numbers and choose their own winner. When this failed, Chump sought to bribe officials with his own brand of edibles (turned down not only for moral reasons, but because they were cheaply made from sawdust).

Not even a shred of evidence of fraud--the crux of Chump's argument--was included in over 60 complaints filed to the County Cup Board. Accordingly, not one judge considered the claim as more than stoned rambling. 

A Scheme and a Scam

The plot thickens as new details emerge, suggesting Chump was stoned--but not incapacitated--meaning he was sober enough to calculate the risks and rewards of finding loopholes. Just prior to the incident, he asked if he could just pay to switch out the judges of the Cannabis Cup, and declare the previous winners the winners. “We all threatened to quit,” M’Bar testified, “because it was totally not cool. That's exactly what we told him.”

Also compounding Chump’s claims to an “honest” approach is the committee's revelation of his scheme to collect hundreds of millions from dedicated followers, almost all of which went to smaking weed or paying his kids and their significant others, none of whom appeared to have real jobs.

“The Smoking Bong”

The latest allegation--one that could be the 'dab nail in the coffin'--is the widely-told account by some officials that Chump asked them to "just declare the winning cannabis ain't legit and leave the rest up to me."

"That statement is the 'smoking bong' they need," said Erik Potholder, former Attorney General. Plus, the committee says, they have 1000+ texts or emails that say essentially the same thing. "At this point you have to wonder, for anyone who doesn't believe this was a grift, what the f*** else do they need to see?" 

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Tagged in: humor
CannaSaver Blog

Buddha Grass

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

Review of Buddha Grass

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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Tagged in: Reviews

live resin swabber

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 live 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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Tagged in: humor

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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Tagged in: humor

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.

“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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Tagged in: humor

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.

“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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Tagged in: humor

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.

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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Tagged in: humor

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.

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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Tagged in: humor

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