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Hey what's up homedogs, mind if I join in on your smake? How've you been handling stuff? Do we really have to wear masks while we hit steamrollers, am I right? Like, should I swab down the bong? Oh, I should? Swabbing. Yea, it hasn't been easy, but I found one thing that's just taken my mind off everything else: that's right, I've been writing a romance novel.

Stop, you say--but not until I've explained myself. This isn't just about some wacky guy who, uh, gets down all stoned with a princess and then they like, hookup. Guys, this is a story for the ages. About a guy, just like you and me. And deep down he knows someone is out there just for him. And maybe he searches and searches for a bit. And that's when he meets...the bud of his dreams. 

That’s right. It’s a bud. Not like all those other stories. This is a plump, perfectly-trimmed nug, not too moist, not too dry, cured in some beautiful wine cellar, super sugary and fruity like fresh-baked muffins. And maybe he tries a taste, just dips his toes, and just has a long moment where he locks eyes with the bud, except the bud isn’t alive, but he like, well, he loads it and smakes it because that’s what you do, ha. 

Here, I should hit this, sorry.

And here's the clincher. It was under his nose the whole time. Like, a friend gave him a satchel with this beautiful huge nuggersh, and once he finds it, he just like, he cherishes it. He like, loves that thing. He puts it in this golden box and can't help but tell the world about it. 

I mean, this guy is really happy. Happiest he's ever been.

But then he realizes their time is short. The days are counted together. And it's just this daily struggle about a dude who loves this beautiful little nug so much, but he has to break off little parts of it and, like, smake it right in front of the bud.

Man, every time I say it, wow--doesn't that just move you? Sorry, argh homies, I got something in my eye.

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Tagged in: humor

Remember that 20-pound chunk of ice cream that blasted through a man’s roof last week? “Boom, this huge scoop of ice cream just came out of nowhere through our ceiling,” Ken Malman said over the weekend. “It only missed the family cat by inches.”

Malman, of Mount Hasherhorn, said he was just starting to load a wake and bake bowl when the giant scoop of ice cream, flavored mint chip, landed on the other side of the coffee table. The incident left both him, and his cross-eyed cat, traumatized, even though both devoured an estimated third of the scoop before managing to shove the rest in a nearly-empty freezer. 

But, eager to know exactly who and what could produce a huge flying scoop of ice cream, Malman contacted professors at Cannatown University to pick it up for analysis. The Department of Megamunchies were able to give Dispatches a look into the research they’ve done. 

"Well it's really creamy mint," Dr. Phillips said, wiping bits of chocolate from his beard. "Right now it's a little contaminated with stuff like insulation and this poor gentleman's roof. But apart from that, its gooey, fudgy center was a real treat for us all.”

“I’m glad we brought extra spoons,” he added. 

Doctor Voulter, another lead researcher, labeled the find as a megameteorscoop, or, a very large chunk of ice cream, which, despite being almost physically impossible to occur naturally near earth’s surface, form under psychedelic atmospheric conditions in the Highlands, specifically in the ‘tripoutsphere,’ or upper-lower atmosphere.

“Maybe a dozen of these fall around the world, but we really don’t have any idea how they form,” Dr. Voulter said. “The science isn’t just in its infancy; the fact is, most of the time, when huge 20-50 pound scoops of ice cream land anywhere, they are almost always eaten immediately as mega-munchies by the local civilians. Throughout history.”

“The only similar story we’ve heard of in recent years concerns a tribe in the South Pacific who ate through a massive pile of Cookie Dough Vanilla Bean before it went bad,” Phillips recalled. But the “fairy tale” came with a warning: “There is no reason to try to find these scoops--they’re completely random--or, to stop their estimated terminal velocity of 150 miles per hour.”

“In this way, megameteorscoops are lethal as they are tasty,” Phillips said sternly.

It is due to the rarity of finding one somewhat still intact, that has researchers all abuzz about the specimen. “I can’t wait to dig in, and get a bite of knowledge,” said Vivica Carlyle, graduate student at CU. “The question on everybody’s mind, first and foremost, is whether this ice cream is as good, or better, than Häagen Dazs.” Researchers are planning a 12-week study, or "'til it runs out."

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Tagged in: humor

As Cannatown settles in for a strange time “between pandemics,” there are bright spots on the landscape. Literally tens of them. The 30 young gamblers, part-timers, live-at-homers, and failed investors featured in our annual 30 Over 30 offer a fleeting glimpse of hope, and it ain’t much. Some aren’t defying the odds or improving themselves; others are battling with terrible habits, and discovering new scams. This year, most of them had to set up their own cameras at home to submit portraits--due to the pandemic.

Glenda Felberger - Compulsive Gambler
Meet Glenda Felberger, 39. Despite countless setbacks, including one record-setting 48 overdraft fees in a row, Glenda has persevered, accumulating a sizeable fortune by stuffing casino winnings under her mattress over the course of several years, and forgetting about it. Following a short-lived sandwich artist career that led her into multi-level marketing of miracle juice, Felberger doubled her fortune one weekend in Vegas, when she converted nearly half her fortune into nickels and won almost $225. She first made it into the Thousandaires Club in 2019, when a tax return bumped her briefly up and over the mark--but it was quick-lived as she immediately spent it on an inflatable hot-tub. "My motto is, maybe I saved the receipt but I probably didn't, so go ahead and pour me another cosmo," she said. "I said pour me another freakin' cosmo!"

Terry Burns - Sole Partner, Burns LLC
One of the oldest youngest investment partners at Burns LLC, where she led investments in things like popcorn, and joists, and has attended board meetings for Borky's Shrimp Shack, Burns, 33, doesn’t seem like the kind of person with less than $3,000 in personal assets--but you’d be wrong. Despite sitting on the board of the nonprofit Geniuses in Slippers, which teaches coding skills to cross-eyed computer-stupid stoners from shwag-ravaged communities, and a degree in Computer Science from the CannaTown Technical School, Burns typically lives check-to-check and is only 'up' this week because she unloaded a bunch of her dad’s old golf glubs on eBay, netting her enough for rent and a little splurging money. But she’s mentioned that the fortune is likely temporary. “I should pay off that electricity bill,” she says, “but now that I work from home I also have my mind set on a massage chair.”

Marty Bowen - Gas Station Shift Manager
At 38, Marty Bowen should not be working at gas station full time, not when there are plenty of other good jobs around. So says Marty’s mother, Justine, who will sometimes stop by the Phillips 66 station where Marty works throughout the day, just to buy gum, gripe and sneer. “I hate it when she comes in here,” Marty says, “But I’ve also looked at the numbers, and she’s our best customer.” It’s a strange relationship, with Bowen’s dingy, tiny apartment just minutes from his mother’s aging abode, where he often takes advantage of functional laundry and plumbing. Over the course of time, he’s saved nearly $1750 in loose change, stored in trashbags, since he’s overdrafted and closed nearly every bank account he’s ever owned. But he seems unphased. "If I didn't have my bong and huge satchel of Durban Poison, I’d be having a mid-life crisis right now.”

Remy Williams - Entrepreneur
It’s fair to say that Remy Williams has always been affluent: he’s the heir to the Gargzeta-Bongaza Goo-Balls Corporation, makers of fine goo-balls and edibles. That’s not to say he’s without a sales gene. He demonstrated entrepreneurial skills from an early age, and graduated top of the Slinging department at CU. His unfortunate life-changing fall from grace came when Williams, high on life, and some Alaskan Thunderf*ck, decided to sink his entire life savings into Cannatown's first-ever School for Porpoises. He soon learned that there were no porpoises in Cannatown, or in the greater high desert Sensemilla Valley; they didn't occur naturally, nor did anyone keep them as pets. In fact the school turned out to be the first ever of its kind in the country, yet nobody came for obvious reasons. Resilient, Williams kept the lights on and sat alone at the front desk, waiting for days, then a few years. Finally, at age 37, accepting it had been a bad idea, he shut it down, and walked away with about $4500 left to his name. "At least I have all these clothes from the gift shop," he said, "and the Gargzeta-Bongaza Goo-Balls." 

MORE 30 OVER 30 - Find our Full List of Average People
From all walks of life, from all areas of the cannaworld. Go online for our full list of middle-ground "winners," who, despite all odds, have somehow scraped together a couple thousand dollars, such as these fine people:

Greg Talbot (35) - Quit college after three years in engineering, now works as a canoe and kayak guide, living in a nearby R.V.

Jen McGregory (36) - She's been working in H.R. for a long time, and that's just the real story, she honestly never takes vacations.

Ned Teasley (32) - Teasley's bookie and missing dog will be happy to hear he's finally seeing profits from his beer brat stand.

 

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Tagged in: humor

The Cannatown fire department was called to 420 Beasley St. Thursday night, to contain a small fireplace fire gone wrong for none other than occasional contributor to Dispatches, Mr. Hugh Jollydab. The blaze was contained and put out by 5:20am, but not before destroying much of Jollydab’s living room. 

Fire Chief Higgins reported that the ordeal actually began with a plumbing issue, for which a unit was dispatched to address at around 11:30pm, just a few hours earlier, when a clog caused the tenant’s toilet to explode. “There wasn’t much we could do to help with that mess except console those affected,” Higgins said. According to the report, a heap of used bathroom towels was used to wipe up the mess in the small, 6x6 bathroom, but it was not enough to stop the flood of sewage that leaked deep into the flooring and began raining in the building’s converted cellar. 

Mr. Jollydab proceeded to place a large fan in the bathroom, in order to dry the area, then set off to clean the “man-cave” directly below. “It was there that he encountered what he believed to be a huge buzzing noise in the ceiling,” Higgins reported. Upon closer examination, Jollydab determined the source of the buzzing to be a large hornet’s nest. Unable to locate the hive, or remove the drywall, the tenant “smashed through the ceiling using a nearby hatchet,” haphazardly removing drywall, wood and insulation, until a three-foot hole to the ground floor confirmed that the hive was indeed, the “large box fan in the soiled bathroom.”

While not directly related to the ordeal, the fire that engulfed the living room began when Jollydab, forgetting the demolished pieces of wall and other debris in his own fireplace, lit ablaze a giant fire in the hearth, using huge, fat shwag-bricks as he reeled exhausted from his cleanup efforts. It wasn’t long, before the crummy, dry cannabis filled the air with intoxicating fumes strong enough to momentarily debilitate anyone within a five-house radius. “It sure got everyone high for a moment,” said Higgins, “but this just ain’t the way to do it. You know, Safety First.”

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Tagged in: humor

Are UFOs hogwash? Do aliens exist and did they take my pills? Have they visited earth and if so was it their dog that left a dooty on the park strip? 

These are just some questions the local chapter of Freemont Scientacular Nerdry Society (FSNS) are hoping to answer when they make a key address later this afternoon to residents of the Stinky Shady Creek Nursing Home.

For decades, if not centuries, stoned geeks have reported encounters with strange objects, some of which were Unusual-Ass Projectiles (UAP's). Now that the government has informally confirmed some of these recordings, the local FSNS members feel that their time has come. “In the past, we’ve been ridiculed for insisting upon the presence of intergalactic visitors, and now we are prepared to present some of our life’s work,” said local FSNS chapter president, Theodore Montgomery. “Specifically, we're eager to stroll through about 100 Powerpoint slides.”

Overtly paranoid and eager for social contact, the nursing home residents, who have yet to learn of the day’s activity, represent the exact kind of inquiring population that FSNS hopes will embrace their message. An estimated 75 seniors plan to be present, as the briefings will follow Bridge Club, directly prior to 4:30 dinnertime. Several will also be on prescription sedatives.

“People walked out on us in Ashville, and most recently at Bongaroo,” said Montgomery. “Finally we’re confident that we've found an audience that won’t leave or throw tomatoes.”

“We double-checked their cafeteria menu,” he added.

While galactic issues have never taken first priority at the home, the mysteries of space clearly weigh heavily on all. Some residents have expressed fear in the past that UAP's might be the tools of military adversaries out to get their blood pressure medication. Others have complained that aliens walk among us, namely, whatever substitute aides are covering for normal nursing staff during vacation days. And 10% believe they are currently on a UFO.

Home Director Beverly Myles is hopeful but doesn't quite know what to expect. "At first I thought maybe this presentation would help quell our little hunger strike over ‘extraterrestrial’ pancakes, but now I fear it could get worse."

"Almost nobody eats those pancakes now," she added. "Perfectly good though. Scratch Bisquick with extra cinnamon."

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Tagged in: humor

Perhaps it was a moment of psychiatric paralysis, perhaps out of sheer boredom from lockdown, but Mayor J. Van Cannaby, City Council, and Chamber of Commerce have started the year on a new foot: with the goal of redoing “all measurements” that govern our lives, from distance to volume. Following a Friday night virtual bong-binge with other town leaders, wherein the new structures and labeling were hammered out, a “measure” passed unanimously at 4:20AM in the morning with anyone still conscious to vote.

Although popular due to “tearing down of outdated institutions,” the revolutionary change is already gaining opposition from various parties who will see their own distribution points radically affected. For instance, all liquid-volume measurements will be refactored from fractions of gallon or liter systems into four main categories: sips, swallows (aka ‘swals’), swigs, and the optional and variable “chugs” to scale. Commercial productions must recalibrate. “I just ruined a recipe that called for a swal of vegetable oil,” said baker Rordon Gamsey, “But who’s to say my swal is the same as the next person? Do they realize how much I can chug?” 

In another case, a traveler ran out of gas on a trip because the road sign had been changed to read "Resinville: 6 Jaunts." The account seemed to verify the prescient warnings of council-member Jeanie Barnes who had wondered aloud, “What if people completely misjudge the length of a ‘jaunt?’"

Meanwhile, the Ways and Means Committee slipped a provision into the bill to flip the entire polarity of monetary value in order to save on costs. Now, the most expensive things will cost mere pennies, while trivial crap will cost billions apiece.

If that’s true, then the richest 1% are now the poorest simply by owning money, while the penniless should be able to buy up mansions by the dozen. “That’s great news for me,” says local banjo-strumming wastrel Tim Litscher. “I ain’t got shit.”

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Hey duders, you mind if I bum a smake? Even if I can’t get a whole joint, I’d be happy to just smake all your roaches. I don’t deserve good bud. I’m a hack, a novice, a grade-A moron. I just lost like $420 in a matter of hours. How? On Dogecoin! And right before I was about to go spend the money wisely, on something more long-term like a satchel! Good gravy. This is shaping up to be the worst 420 ever since, like, that one year that we all had to start living indoors.

I hate to beg, but what am I supposed to to do? Last night on 420’s Eve, I got ripped right as the clock struck midnight, and then I was like, that’s it, I’m gonna YOLO the rest of my security deposit on this Dogecoin, because, like, I just wanted to be a millionaire. Quick million bucks! That, and it was right at 42 cents. Deja vu, right? It felt familiar. So I bought a ton, thinking, I’d wake up this morning and be like, driving around in a Rolls Royce on the way to work. 

Man it sucked to wake up. The price was just putzin’ around. I was like, “Hello, corporate marketing just fudged up the first meme hive jackpot,” and couldn’t help but slump around all morning waiting for life signs on my stupid app. I even brought the phone into the stupid shower. By mid-morning I’d lost enough dough for a huge satchel, and by the afternoon, it was way down, at just the moment I wanted to go pickup my smake for the holiday! The spite was real, you wouldn’t believe it. $420 down by 4:20, right down the drain!  

I thought I was going to be ordering like, burritos for the whole apartment building today. I was gonna go out and buy one of those waffle makers they have at hotels, that like, flips over, and I was going to make a foot-tall belgian waffle tower with strawberries and like, ten cans of whipped cream. I was going to sit around in a new Hefner bathrobe sipping Jim Beam while they installed my new living room hot tub! I was gonna turn my apartment into Graceland!

But no! Now it’s gonna be a rough month. No more kind bud for me. I’m gonna be smaking steems guys, scraping resin. In fact that reminds me, you guys got any old pieces layin’ around? I’ll take ‘em home and scrape ‘em and clean ‘em right up, pro bono! I brought my backpack and some bubble wrap to take home whatever rotten, danky old bongs and spoons you have. I’m not too proud to smake resin for a month, and knowing me it’ll only take a week to churn through even your blackest, foulest pieces.

You know what? It might not be over for me. Maybe if everybody pitches in and buys like, a couple thousand bucks of Doge right now, we can still make me millionaire. I don’t see why anyone shouldn’t be completely down with that plan. I totally promise if we do that, guys, it’s stuffed crust pizza for everyone. I’m buying. Just please don’t make me go through 420, smaking only the crust off my grinder. Stupid Doge.
 

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Tagged in: humor

What’s up dudemankind? I’ve been pretty much losing all my extra money on crypto these days, so I asked my bud, who’s making bank, like, how does he know when it’s best to buy? And you know what he told me? That he goes to a pyromancer! Now that I think about it, he was probably joking, but get this: It’s real. It turns out, you can just, like, tell the future by lighting shit on fire. Not only that, but it’s my new job! That's right, today is my first day as a pyromancer. Wish me luck!

Can you believe it? I didn’t even know pyromancer was a job. Online I found this forum that was like, people saying they’d totally go to a pyromancer, but there weren’t any in the area, and I was thinking, are you kidding? There’s serious money to be made here! Just one problem, like, what’s a pyromancer? So I did a bunch of research, read a bunch of websites and got certified. And then I scraped together all the change I could find in my apartment to get a double-line, 1-week classified ad in the local newspaper. Success, here I come!

What? Not familiar? If you’re new to divination I totally get ya. Yea, pyromancy. Turns out, it’s a thing, and not only that but like, so are auras and crystals and all that. Have you heard of that kind of stuff? ‘Cause it’s a lot to repeat, and I was only like, half-listening to the girl at the head shop. Lotta information! But then, like, another dude I cheefed with down by the river said, he’d totally go to a pyromancer over a fortune teller any day of the week. Especially because he could easily, like, light a blunt while he watches the pyromancer.

But not just any chode can become a mage, otherwise we’d all be trippin’ on Fourth of July! You gotta be certified to be a true pyromancer, at least that’s what the brochure said. I went to a little specialized school in an old auto-shop (don’t worry, people were extremely covid-aware, like the whole staff wore ski-masks). I burned myself a ton, like, can you see how my left eyebrow is just growing back in? But man it was worth it.

My certificate is coming in the mail, but I got the temporary diploma, retro-printed on an original dot-matrix printer. I was going to frame it, but I schlepped it up on the wall with some duct tape at least. Now it’s time to get some wood and charcoal or sticks and put them in the old grill kettle I got propped up on bricks in the backyard. I figure, get some lighter fluid, let the hot embers roast, and then spray it with some Pam when I do the conjuring and such. 

I think I’m ready for customers! Definitely ready for some visions too (I just puffed through a half-gram of some gnar ros). Last night my buddy came by and we built a bonfire to practice but we ended up burning one of his eyebrows off too. And I think I saw a vision of him getting some groceries, which ended up happening later on! So it’s not some sort of, you know, sham. I’m not a con artist.

Anyway, I better go check my voicemail. This is exciting! Who would’ve thought. After a half year on the job search, I finally found my calling. This is the dream, sittin’ around, playing video games, waiting for customers to come by, so I can light my garbage on fire and tell them the funky stuff I see while I smake. It’s perfect, duders. Let’s just say the holidays came early for ol’ Hugh.
 

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Tagged in: humor

As a backlog of cargo ships in Cannafornia’s southern port reached a historic high this week, the supply chain crisis overwhelming the country’s busiest port complex turns out to be the fault of Jim, assistant manager and last man with the keys to the container yard. Jim is, and has been, scouring his home and tracing his steps for any sign of the facility keychain that he reportedly lost roughly a month ago, on the walk home from work while smaking a caviar blunt. It was the only key to the port.

On Thursday more than 420 cargo ships were still waiting to unload shit-tons of containers outside the port in Los Ganjales. The backlog continues to sit idle in the water, expecting to create a holiday bottleneck that will likely prevent all sorts of goods from hash to toothpaste, from entering the country even until next summer. The entire infrastructure and failure, are on Jim.

“We even had a copy of the key, which he lost at the laundromat just a couple days prior to the incident,” said freight manager Rhoda Miles. “I told them he would lose it again.”

“He’s lost every key he’s ever held,” she added.

State and national leaders have pledged to expand the search for the keys, mounting chains of arm-locked volunteers, scouring the sidewalks and byways between the port’s employee lounge, and Jim’s house fifteen blocks away. Locksmiths have been called in, however, most of those specializing in non-electrical retrofit systems are unable to leave their nursing homes for extended periods of time. Jim has also ransacked his house 15 times to no avail.

“These issues affect everyone all the way from the person on the boat to the buyer at the end. This affects anyone who wants to smake their explosive Phnom Penh, or get new hand-crafted mountain vapes, or use basic stuff like food and undies and designer presswood furniture,” said Pete Budder, transportation secretary. “Fudge Jim. I’m just saying what’s on everyone’s minds. I’m sure he’s a nice person, but you know, fudge him.”

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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!

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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