America's Stoners on 'Extremely High' Alert

ensions in the country are great in recent weeks, and everyone is going to great lengths to alleviate those tensions. Work helps some, planning for tough times makes others feel secure; then, there's America's stoners, who turn to alternative stress relieving systems during times of trouble.

"American pharmacological enthusiasts are as stressed out as anyone," said journalist J.D. Weber. "The economy is as bad as it gets, war with Iraq is becoming inevitable, and there's tremendous fear of some kind of terrorist attack. Now, more than ever, relief is needed. Primo relief."

Weber is one of the reporters working on a special edition of High Times magazine announcing a status of "Extremely High" Alert, expected to come out in March, assuming the staff doesn't flake on getting the layout to the printers in time.

"It's a revolutionary political stance for stoner culture, and High Times magazine by extension, which is the periodical of choice for that culture," stated Weber, very slowly. "High Times has taken political stances before, but this is bigger than the legalization argument. Unless politicians in turn ask us if we think it should be legalized, because we still stand for that. But our worldview is bigger now. These are hard times, and we need hard solutions, big, overflowing plastic bags of hard solutions."

Accompanying the article, High Times will be introducing a color-coded "Buzz-Killer" chart. Included on the chart will be colors correlated to the intensity of the threat the country is currently experiencing, as well as a number of hand-rolled cigarettes depicted that increase in number depending on the severity of the bring-down.

The first level, green, means that everything's copasetic. Engage in what you will, when you will, at your own discretion.

The second level, blue, means bummer. Increased intake of mood enhancers is encouraged, but never take more than you can handle. Exceeding normal dosages is not cool, dude.

The second level, yellow, means whoa, whoa, whoa, let's chill out. It's a good time to experiment with new, better-grade stuff. South America will be called upon to increase production and hopefully we can all just relax, no big deal, cool?

The third level, the current level, is "extremely high," and the color is yellow. At this time getting as much as you can and keeping a steady flow of easiness coming in is highly recommended. Hoarding, at long last, is cool. Even squares who usually get high on life are encouraged to experiment to forget their troubles.

After that, the highest color is red, and no contingency plan has been developed for that, but insiders are saying if that time comes and you have your hands on some hard stuff, indulge like the sky's falling, motherfucker.

Another color, purple, represents "narc." It is the only condition where even minor usage is highly discouraged. Before the condition passes, it should be ascertained that everyone in your company is cool. All possessions should be carefully hidden out of sight as long as the condition is in effect.

Before the interview with Weber could be concluded, this reporter was informed the condition had changed suddenly to purple without warning, and it would likely stay in effect as long as I was present in the room.

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A lot of people look at me and they're quite impressed to see a man my age, part of the '80s generation, who's so hip and into what's "now." But I have to admit, there's some things that bring out the old fart in me, and until recently, completely shaved pussy was one of 'em. It just gave me the chills, and while it never stopped me from fucking away, it always left me a little disappointed—but not any more. I've had a change of heart about shaved vaginas.

Not a week went by, in the past, where I didn't go so art gallery opening or book signing and a friend or random guy in line didn't try to convince me hairless twat is the way to go—I don't know what brings it out in these people. As soon as you make a gagging noise at a bare beaver in a nude photo displayed high on the museum wall, some joker thinks it's his personal mission to sway you from your preference for fuzzy trim. "It's more sanitary," they'd say. "It's nicer to the touch." Well, if that's true, we should all shave our heads, too. I mean, I do, but you see my meaning. Maybe I'm stuck in the past, but if you're not spitting hairs out onto your lover's thigh constantly, to me, it's just not real fucking.

I've always thought it gave the impression I was fucking pre-teens or something. Disgusting. I mean, I make it a point not to ask a lady's age because it's a rude question, but if she says she wants to fuck like a horny toad when I ask, I at least look for some sign I might be going to prison. Now that women are going bald on purpose down there, where's the line? It's like I've got to card my one-night stands, and that's no fun. But as I've said, I've kind of cleared that whole "bare pussy makes me want to vomit" phase.

You can ask if I just started to roll with the times or had a bad experience or something, but I'm not exactly sure what swayed me on this complex argument. Maybe it's all the upskirt shots of famous celebrities that we're seeing lately. It might be the girls I've been bagging like a teen-aged Piggly Wiggly employee, who knows. Or it's probably just that if you see shaved vagina after shaved vagina on your gym spy cam, eventually you just become familiar with it. All those things may be a factor. But seeing a girl of unknown age discreetly soap up her bald pussy when she thinks no one is watching no longer bothers me like it used to. You could even say I like it, although I'm ultimately hoping this whole thing is still a fad. Yes, in sixteen years' time, when the children of today are the hot young fuck sluts of tomorrow, I hope that we as a nation are swimming in bush again. A man can dream, can't he?

I guess it's true what parole officers say—you can take the man out of prison, but you can't quite take the prison out of the man. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I'm always going to be the boy who group up beating meat to thick jungles of pubic hair on skinny, busty nude models in issues of Playboy, Penthouse, or even Oui. Just because those publications have changed or ceased to exist, and the arena is now filled with drunken college girls flashing their goodies for T-shirts, doesn't mean that I've grown along with that trend. I'm stuck in the past, maybe, wrapped in tendril after tendril of short curly hairs. But I like it that way. It doesn't mean I'm going to give up fucking girls whose names I don't remember, but it doesn't mean I'm not going to fondly remember those simple days, before full-body waxes.

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I am royally bummed, good people. I can say that without fear of contradiction. For one, because anyone can verify how true it is, and two, because I'm simply not afraid of contradictions anymore. The therapy is working. I can't control when someone else disagrees, so I just have to let it go and move on with my life.

But back to business—my bummed nature. It's nothing too severe, but I'm quite disappointed that I've exhausted my supply of Haitian cigarettes. I knew they wouldn't last forever, but I had no idea they would go so fast. It seems no sooner had I stepped off the plane than I completely emptied my little baggy full. What a shame.

I should explain myself, since I haven't informed you of my wonderful find yet. On vacation in Haiti with the Mrs., my Mrs., just in case you wondered, I discovered the one high-quality product they make in Haiti: cigarettes. If you think you've smoked wonderful, mind-blowing tobacco before, good people, you haven't smoked anything like Haitian tobacco. It makes your mind come alive with possibilities, and suddenly everything becomes funnier and more important than it previously had been. Now that's good tobacco.

In truth, I had intended to do more on my honeymoon—parasail, scuba dive, leave the hotel in some fashion, but I had to let Mrs. Finger run off by herself, because I so enjoyed sitting in my room, smoking Haitian tobacco and watching cartoons on television. It is that good, my friends. You can bet I packed a healthy supply of handrolled—they're all handrolled down there—cigarettes before I came back to the States.

I worried about having trouble with them on the plane, if you know what I mean—smoking's prohibited. Well, of course, I knew it would be difficult to resist the fine, fresh flavor of Haitian tobacco for the entire plane ride, so I taped all my cigarettes under my armpits before departing for home. The customs official gave me an odd look when he searched me, and I was worried he might jostle them loose and, well, I'd start smoking all 635 of them right away, right there in the airport. Ha! What a sight that would have been. But he didn't even touch them, really. So I got back to our fine country with all my cigarettes intact.

But, alas, they're all gone now. I've never been much of a smoker, really, even though I like to try new things and I always do what people on TV do. These are good, though, I smelled them at a party the first night I was in the country and knew I had to try them. Still, as I said, they're gone now. I finished the last one two days ago and have been, how you might say, "jonesing" for a new one ever since. I've tried regular cigarettes in their stead, but none of them have that smooth, uplifting feeling of real Haitian tobacco.

I'm not saying I'm desperate or anything, but I have taken to driving around bad neighborhoods, looking for Haitians who can hook me up, give me just a little "fix"—since I do feel like I need a tune-up that only satisfying Haitian tobacco can give me. When I see a Haitian, I roll down the window and yell, "Smoke, smoke!" I hope I'm not underestimating their language skills, they may even speak English, but how am I to know that? I'm just anxious to get my hands on some of their nifty cigarettes, and don't have time for lengthy conversation.

Lee says he knows a fellow in some sort of "joint" that knows a guy who can get me Haitian tobacco. Not that I don't believe him, but I worry he's holding out on me, in some fashion. I told him I have the money, or I will by the time I get my next paycheck, or I get paid for the TV that I sold to the neighbor. Right now I need just a little taste—the taste of fine Haitian tobacco.

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