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Six Good Reasons I Smoke Weed Featured

Credit: Wikimedia Commons

I am the founder of, and lone contributor to, a blog in which smoking weed is a primary focus (to put it lightly). It kind of goes without saying, I like to smoke marijuana.

Anyone who smokes weed often enough has been asked, usually condescendingly, some form of the following question:

Why do you smoke weed?

The other day a friend asked a similar such question. I smoke weed every day, yet it had been quite a while since the last time I reflected on the actual reasons for my continued use. Since the questioner was respectful and seemed genuinely interested in my answer, I wanted to put some thought into it. When that failed, I promised I would compose a ridiculously thorough response in the form of an article for my blog. Enjoy.
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So, this happened the other day. Obviously, the last poster is me.

Apparently she didn’t, considering she de-friended me.

“Honey Boo Boo” – Shitty Television or Exploitation?

By James Kalìwæ on Wednesday, August 22nd, 2012

I came across this article on nbcnews.com the other day.

It contemplates the nature of the TLC program Here Comes Honey Boo Boo. Namely, whether it constitutes entertainment or exploitation. I would argue neither. However, being an openminded individual, I am capable of recognizing the possibility that others may interpret this program to be “entertaining.” So I’ll work from there. Here’s a snippet of the article. Continue reading…

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Female Drivers

By James Kalìwæ on Wednesday, November 30th, 2011

Okay, so this may evoke a few negative emotions from some of ya’ll. But oh well; it’d be disingenuous for me not to post it just because of what others may think.

Why the hell do we issue driver’s licenses to females? On the real. That shit blows my mind.

First off, don’t pin the misogynist tail on my ass right away. This has nothing to do with discrimination. It’s about common sense. Women are horrible fucking drivers. See what I did there? That’s bolded, italicized, AND underlined - AND followed by a ‘fucking.’ I think I’ve made my point.

Oh, but of course. My fancy textual ornamentation isn’t enough. Women desire elegance and wisdom. How vacuous of me. Now where was I?

Ummm… Oh yeah! This has nothing to do with discrimination. It’s about common sense.

Clearly there is something programmed deep within females’ genetic coding which, from the moment they enter a driver’s seat to the point they exit, cripples rational thought. It’s probably similar to the gene in deers that causes them to freeze when a vehicle is barreling directly towards them.

This mysterious gene kills.

It’s as though they lose the ability of depth perception once the engine starts. Every decision is hectically mulled over, and eventually executed a half second after no longer being a safe decision.

Example: Female driver preparing to turn left out of a parking lot onto a divided four-lane road. A mini-seisure of hesitation is brought on by the arduous task of judging whether or not the cars coming from either side will reach the intersection before completing the left turn. The cars are about ten seconds from reaching the intersection, and the turn will take about three. The mini-seisure lasts just long enough for the gap in traffic to close. Everyone in the car has long since assumed the driver has decided to wait for the next openingWHEN ALL OF A SUDDEN SHE GUNS IT!!!

Next thing you know, everything is moving in slow motion as Death’s boney index finger scathes the peach-fuzz on your Adam’s apple. “Holy fucking shit! What the fuck was that that!?!?,” the passengers curiously exclaim, “Why didn’t you just go in the first fucking place?!?!”

Humorous. Quirky. Cute, even. Right?

Wrong.

Female are none of those things whilst driving… Tripping over your high-heels at a formal event is humorous. Rapping Lil Wayne’s abhorrently misogynistic lyrics every time one of his songs comes on is quirky. Playing with your hair when you’re bored is cute.

It's funny 'cuz high-heels are stupid. (© StyleCaster.com)

Guess why? Because those things don’t result in multiple deaths every single fucking day. While, on the other hand, a small city’s worth of people are killed in car accidents every year. In fact, I take back what I said earlier about discrimination having nothing to do with it. It is discrimination. Discrimination in the name of saving lives.

But, alas, I have no hard evidence to support these grievances. On the contrary, most empirical data indicates the opposite. Of course, empirical data can’t take into account the male who swerves out of the way of an inept female into another male… But I digress. I could sit here all day and go through a litany of theoretical examples illustrating females’ inferior driving abilities without anything being accomplished.

Luckily, I’m a man of action. And ideas. Ideas first though, then action.

My idea? Revoke the licenses of every female in the United States for two years. Two years, that’s it. If traffic fatalities don’t decrease substantially after those two years, ya’ll can have them back.

That’s not it, though. I’m all about fairness. Here’s the part that the ladies will actually like: in the highly unlikely instance that no visible downward trend of traffic fatalities occurred during those two years, male’s licenses will be revoked for two years.

See? Totally fair. I should run for office.

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Summer So Far

By James Kalìwæ on Sunday, July 17th, 2011

I’m in the mood to write right now. Accordingly, I’m going to try to assemble a readable description of my summer so far. I’ll start from the beginning, right around the time I stopped posting on this blog.

The feasibility of acquiring an internship being ambiguous, I accepted the job offered to me by my previous summer employer, whom I worked for the two consecutive summers prior. It’s a solid job at a small summer day-camp where I lifeguard and teach swim lessons to varying-aged groups of children throughout the day; I was to be hired as the “manager” (I put manager in quotes because there’s three guards other than myself). It involves working Monday through Friday from 9:30am to 3:00pm.

Let me take this opportunity to acknowledge the fear present in the hearts of my readers with children. You can rest easy knowing that I genuinely love the children very much and am extremely responsible when it comes to them.

And by “love”, I mean “fear”; and by “children” I mean “parent’s lawyers”, but the effect is the same.

So after committing to this job, I learned of an internship opportunity at a local radio station in my home town. Actually, it’s a company which owns a couple radio stations.

I really wanted to do an internship this summer as the only other alternatives were to do one during either Fall or Spring Semester, which I definitely didn’t wanna do. So about a week before my Summer job started, I began interning for them.

And so hence the position I find myself in now. The lifeguarding job, while stressful, is wholly uninteresting. There’s not really a whole lot going on during it for me to come home and want to write about it.

It’s just boring.

I come in, wait for screaming children to arrive, teach the younger ones how to swim, teach the older ones how to swim better, make sure none of them drown, go home. The other lifeguards are cool, but they’re just as bored as I am. The worst part is that, while boring, it can still be rather exhausting. It’s not construction work, but it’s not the same as most lifeguard jobs, which involve a lot of sitting around in the sun.

Oh yeah, and that’s the other thing. It’s an indoor pool. Do you know how much it sucks to work at an indoor pool during the summer? Let’s just say you can breath easier in a storm cloud. At least storm clouds don’t include noxious pool chemical particulates.

It’s not good for the “creative process” so to speak.

Working at the radio station is mostly pretty cool, except I’m usually so drained by the humid monotony of the lifeguarding job to fully enjoy it and be at my best.

The best slash worst slash best again part of working in radio are the people you meet when one or both of the stations goes out to events.

First and foremost, one of the stations is a contemporary country music station; the listener-base is “redneck” with a side of “southern redneck” and little bits and pieces of “racist redneck” sprinkled on top. So when we sponsor an event or do a broadcast remote, only the most dedicated of the station’s redneck constituency are in attendance.

So out of that sub-constituency of listeners who actually show up, the ones charismatic enough to come up and talk to us are the ones I get to interact with.

Often throughout life, when I’ve seen a person doing a typical redneck impersonation, I’ve thought to myself “Ahhh, they’re not really that bad…”

They’re worse.

It’s as if they’re making fun of the way they talk and act simply by talking and acting. If, within the crowd of rednecks at these events, there were five comedians doing blatantly cliche and offensive impersonations of rednecks, the rednecks and I would be none the wiser.

So that’s what I’ve been up to.

Humorous Social Encounter with Security Guard

By James Kalìwæ on Sunday, April 17th, 2011

I walk outside my building at around 4:30am to smoke a cigarette. Soon after, a young lady approaches to enter the door.

Ewwwww!!!!

She exclaims, drawing attention to the condom that had been slid over the door handle by an unknown fuckass. It catches me off guard,

Awww, that’s just naasty,

I agree.

Why would someone even do that?,

She ponders.

Short awkward silence. I attempt to break it,

It… doesn’t look like there’s any cum in it… for what it’s worth…

She looks at me weird and walks away to the other door.

I continue to enjoy my smooth yet bold yet smooth again Marlboro Light until a female security guard approaches from afar. I greet her kindly as she walks up to the door. And suddenly stops.

….What’s that?

She asks begrudgingly.

Uh, looks like a condom to me,

I suggest.

Awkward silence. I attempt to break it,

I didn’t put it there… I just didn’t, you know, move it when I saw it.

She looks at me weird and walks away to the other door.

I finish my cigarette and easily manage to open the door without even getting close to touching the unused condom.

Winning.

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Conversations with Strangers

By James Kalìwæ on Wednesday, April 6th, 2011

My inability to understand the motivations behind typical human actions often worries me.

Take conversating (not conversing) with strangers for instance. I have never understood what on God’s green fuck motivates a person to entertain a conversation with a total stranger.

Arnold Lakhovsky, The Conversation

I’m not talking about the online world either. I’m talking about just running into some schmo out in public and talking with them.

I saw this young lady outside of 7-Eleven the other day. When we pulled up, she was engaged in some form of discourse with a rather obese man.

It’s not just that he was obese, though; that’s not special. He was obese and carried with him the unmistakable “I gave up on life twelve years ago” swagger.

He had a belly that could easily double as a wildlife habitat.

His shirt bore the stains of this day’s serving of sweat and body grease, on top of the previous day’s layer of sweat and body grease, on top of the previous day’s layer of anguish and scorn.

His smirkish grin juxtaposed with his miserable appearance such that it loudly and proudly proclaimed, “I ONCE GOT AWAY WITH CHILD MOLESTATION!” He had a stare that might as well have come with the words ”I would totally rape the shit out of you and your 2nd grader if I was strong enough” on his forehead.

Okay, that’s enough on him.

The young lady with whom he was conversating wasn’t exactly Kate Middleton, but she was certainly in a totally different realm of superficial outward physical aesthetic attractiveness.

But then again, she was hanging out in front of a 7-Eleven, so that’s probably an indication of something too.

Her wardrobe was rather ironic; a “Michigan State” hoodie over what could only have been an IHOP waitress uniform (or so I deduced from the presence of the IHOP across the street).

She carried with her more of a “I gave up on life three months ago” swagger; not totally hopeless.

The weirdest thing about her, though, was how genuinely engaged in conversation she was with Mr. Fatty Fat-Fat Face.

As my friend, who was driving, entered 7-Eleven, their discussion continued and I was able to make out what it was they were talking about.

Lottery tickets.

Now, I didn’t think this was possible, but even upon hearing them discuss lottery tickets, I still don’t know what the fuck about lottery tickets there is to discuss. I just don’t understand what a conversation about lottery tickets would consist of, even having heard one. I don’t even think I can say 10 things about lottery tickets;

You purchase them with currency.
The product is the chance to win lots of money.
Often they include material which can be scratched away to reveal that you didn’t win anything.
They generate revenue for the State.

That’s it. I would have to consult Wikipedia for further info.

But that’s not even the part I’m having trouble processing. I don’t buy lottery tickets, maybe they’re a lot more interesting than I thought. My problem is that I just have no way of understanding what people hope to accomplish when engaging in social encounters such as these.

I mean, I talk to people I don’t know all the time in certain situations, like on my campus, on other college campuses, parties, bars and teh internets. But that’s more or less what all of those things are for; it’s more of the location that strikes me than anything.

This particular 7-Eleven sits off a very heavily trafficked 45mph highway near a bunch of restaurants and grocery, hardware, fast-food, and convenience stores. Their conversation literally took place in front of a “No Loitering” sign, not that I’m for listening to what signs say.

7-Eleven is an American establishment that has been enabling my addictions for as long as I can remember – starting with delicious Slurpees, through extreme Amp and Monster energy drinks, to delectably addicting Marlboro Lights, and of course, only the freshest Grape Dutchies to roll super-fat blunts with the weed I can almost always get from the [black and Latino] cashiers – so they will always occupy a very special place in my arrhythmic heart. However, when I go to 7-Eleven, I’m generally in and out. No one tries to talk to me, and I try to talk to no one. It’s pretty simple really.

I explained this whole little anomaly by just assuming she’s one of those really weird girls who’s just attracted to outwardly repulsively disgusting men.

The weirdness of our species ensures that there will always be someone for everyone.

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Video: Further Insectual Drama

By James Kalìwæ on Tuesday, April 5th, 2011

Okay, the insect situation in my room has just gone from Guarded to Severe in about the last 45 minutes.

Their varieties have grown by significant numbers, and are often exotic in nature, and possibly deadly.

I spotted one of the most repulsive little ugly sneaky fucks earlier and managed to document the finding.

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Insectual Encounters

By James Kalìwæ on Monday, April 4th, 2011

Ugh, sometimes I hate college.

Today I woke up, stumbled to the sink in my room to brush my teeth, opened the medicine cabinet AND OUT CRAWLED A BIG-ASS MOTHA FUCKIN COCKROACH!

Insectual Fiends

I must say, however, it’s a fantastic way to get your blood pumpin’ in the morning.

Especially if you’re like me and insects of all sorts freak you the fuck out.

Do you people get what they are? Insects, especially cockroaches, are basically fucking aliens, except the planet they evolved on was Earth during a totally separate time period as us. Earth was so different when they evolved, it might as well have been an alien planet. They are not suited for our comfortable lifestyle.

Anyways, back to the issue at hand. It’s like the fourth time I’ve encountered a cockroach within a single minute of waking up, just a few days prior I opened my door and a little bastard ran in right past my feet. I did what any self-respecting man would do: I danced up and down on my tipi-toes like some old western douchebag was shootin at my feet… and yelped.

So, I’m not sure if I keep seeing the same little bastard or if there’s a bunch of little bastards. But this I do know: They’re smart little bastards and are aware of when I sleep and when I wake, because I never see them except for in the morning when I wake up, then they run away to some little hiding place and I never see them again.

They’re plotting our downfall from within the confines of our very own homes. And we’re just sitting by, clueless to the impending take-over of the human race by our insectual rivals.

I must implore you all take necessary measures to ensure that your house is rid of all these evil cockroach fiends, so that our society may be free once more from the threat of dictatorial insectual rule.

In the mean time, I’m gonna keep using them to help me wake up.

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Everything Wrong with Today's Youth

Personified by the Writings of an Over-Functioning Pothead

Posts tagged ‘random’

Six Good Reasons I Smoke Weed Featured

“Honey Boo Boo” – Shitty Television or Exploitation?

Female Drivers

Summer So Far

Humorous Social Encounter with Security Guard

Conversations with Strangers

Video: Further Insectual Drama

Insectual Encounters

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