Hola, amigos. What’s up? I know it’s been a long time since I rapped at ya, but I got my irons in a shitload of fires these days. I got this new job running people from the airport to a car-rental place in a little bus. I know it ain’t the coolest job in the world, but it keeps my cruising skills sharp, plus I get three weeks’ vacation and some insurance. I never thought I’d be one of those old fogies who cared about insurance, but there it is. Don’t think I can’t still rock, though.
Then there’s this war. Man, that shit is fucked up. We sure showed that crazy camel-fucker who’s boss. I just wish it would’ve taken a little longer. I had this great idea for a T-shirt. It’s a picture of Saddam Hussein, and it’s got a target on him, and it says “Saddam’s Insane,” ’cause that guy is nuts. If I knew how to get a T-shirt made, I would have done it. But now I guess he’s dead, so there goes my million-dollar idea.
The last few weeks, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that kind of stuff. Whenever I’m not driving the bus, I’ve pretty much been holed up in the castle. Now, usually, Jim Anchower is a very social guy. I like to go out, stir some shit up on a regular basis. You know, see what floats, see what sinks–have a blast. So you’re probably wondering what would make a party monster like me stay at home.
It’s simple. The weed.
Now, you know Jim Anchower does not like to brag about certain things, weed being one of them. The last thing I need is people coming over to my house trying to weasel their way into my stash because I was too dumb to keep my trap shut. But this stuff… man.
It started one Friday night about a month ago when I was bowling with the crew—that being me, Wes, Ron, and Ron’s friend Rob. We headed over to Badger Bowl and, after ordering a few beers and some jalapeño poppers, we settled into a few frames. It’s pretty nice to get out there and bowl once in a while. I can’t think of another sport that encourages you to drink like that.
So we finish our first game and are about to start another when Rob asks if we want to go out to the parking lot and smoke some weed. Ron and Wes opted to stick with the bowling and brew, so that left me and Rob on bud duty. He pulls out a joint and tells me I should just take one hit, since it’s pretty strong shit.
What the hell is he telling me that for? I mean, everyone tells people their weed is strong. Hell, I tell people that all the time so they don’t bogart my joint. So when Rob said it, I thought he was just giving me a line. I took two pretty hefty pulls and passed it on. It didn’t take long before I found out that Rob wasn’t shitting me. I hadn’t been that baked since the second time I smoked pot. After what seemed like two hours, we went back inside to bowl.
Now, I’m a pretty decent bowler, especially when I’m baked. But this time, I was in The Zone. I mean, I was one with the ball and pins. And the fact that I couldn’t put a sentence together or look anyone in the eye only helped my concentration. I bowled a 199, which was a personal best. When we wrapped up that game, Ron said it was my turn to buy a pitcher. I handed him $20 and told him that if I buy, he flies. At least I think that’s what I said.
Since I was on a hot streak, I decided to bowl another game. We were about halfway through the second frame when I started to feel the creeps. I noticed the painting at the end of the lanes. I’d seen it a hundred times, but I never truly saw it before. It’s a bunch of bowling pins getting hit by the ball, but they’re all bent around the ball like they’re made of rubber. It started to freak me out. I took a sip of beer and looked around to see if anyone noticed me losing my shit. I knew someone was staring at me, and I was trying to figure out who it was when Wes told me it was my turn.
I picked up the ball and went up toward the foul line. Just as I was about to let go of the ball, I felt someone staring at me again. I threw a gutter ball, screwing up my spare from the frame before. I knew I was being watched, so I decided I had to make the next one count. I grabbed my ball and sized up the pins. I don’t know how long I was staring at them, but Ron asked me if I was just going to hold my balls or throw. I freaked out and threw another gutter. Then someone put some Steve Miller on the jukebox. That was it for me. Normally, I love the Space Cowboy, but “Abracadabra” was not something I wanted to hear at that moment. I told everyone I needed to leave and went to wait in the car. That was it for the night.
As freaky as the whole experience was, I couldn’t deny that Rob’s weed was some seriously good shit. I got a hold of him and bought a decent stash.
Ever since, I’ve been spending a lot of time at home, just chilling out. Or, as Steve Miller once put it, “gettin’ high and watchin’ the tube.” I need to leave the house eventually, if only because Ron never gave me my change from the pitcher that night. I shoulda known better. That guy’s a rat.
Jim Anchower joined The Onion’s editorial writing staff in 1993 after several distinguished years on The Come Back Inn dishwashing staff. He comments on community-affairs, automotive, and employment issues. He attended LaFollette High School in Madison, WI.
