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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Most of the reader mail and random catcalls I've been getting on the street lately revolve around my new haircut, which I refuse to discuss beyond warning that cutting your own hair is harder than it looks in the movies. Everything in the mirror is backwards because of the dyslexic nature of Mirrorworld, much like modern-day Japan, and that factor has a serious effect on haircutting skill in both places.

The second-most popular topic for conversation and befuddled inquiry, however, is The Matrix Reloaded. This is the long-awaited sequel to 1999's The Matrix, a film that was loved universally by white male teenager geeks everywhere.

Thousands of people have seen this new Matrix film, many of whom are seniors who thought it would help them understand why their PCs have so many buttons. Some others expected to be entertained, and others still expected to have their horizons challenged by a pasty white guy faking karate. Most left the theater confused, while the rest are still there, trying to figure out if the movie is really over or if they're still watching a movie about the movie being over.

Those who escaped The Matrix Reloaded (and those who are still trapped inside but have cell phones) have turned to yours truly to explain the conundrariddle that is the film's plot. Since it's my job I'll do what I can, but don't piss and moan to me if you have a brain aneurysm while reading this.

I could rattle off a list of specific questions, but instead I'll address the most common query, which is: "Huh?"

As the first film made vaguely clear, Neo and his gang are humans who were freed from a computer world simulation run by machines that took over the real world and are using captive human bioelectricity to run their blenders and RC racecars. Don't ask me why the machines couldn't find a more low-maintenance power source that didn't need to be fed tacos and Frito chips all the time, these apparently aren't the brightest machines that ever took over the world.

By the end of the first film, Neo has discovered that he's a God inside the Matrix, or at least the hero of any random Sylvester Stallone action film inside the Matrix, and he can fly and watch SNL at double-speed and all kinds of fancy crap like that. Whoobang, there you go, thanks for the nine bucks.

Reloaded is more of the same, except this time whenever they need to explain something, they drag out some retarded LSD flake and let him ramble on until the camera runs out of film. Audiences were understandably confused, and went searching through their backpacks for their copy of The Matrix Cliff's Noted.

Most people want to know how Neo blew up the robot squid toward the end of the movie, and also why they showed us Rip Torn on a gurney in the cliffhanger closing shot. Last thing's first: Torn had a three-picture deal with the studio and his cameo in Reloaded is saving him from having to be in Men in Black 3 with Eddie Griffin and Clint Eastwood. The Matrix guys owed Rip a favor after he talked them out of casting Dennis Leary as Agent Smith in the first film. So that mystery is easy enough to put to bed.

The squid thing is a little more complicated. Basically, and don't read this if you want to see the third film this fall (I throw that in for the film's cast and their families only), the "real" world (with the submarines and the underground Bob Marley concert cave and all the people with erector set attachments sticking out of their asses) is all just another layer of the Matrix. The machines built this second layer for all the assholes who didn't like the nice suburban one where everybody else lives and had to have their own grimy cyberpunk world to fart around in.

Neo discovers this when the retarded LSD guy confuses him into a state of Zen, but he doesn't want to tell everybody else they've been slogging around on the set of Aliens 3 and eating Malt-o-meal for nothing. When faced with the prospect of being molested by a robot squid, however, he opts to put the whammy on the squid and then fake a stroke to avoid having to break the news to the rest of the buccaneers. Yes, Neo's a big pussy, but that should have been apparent far earlier in the series.

There's a rumor circulating around that the reason Neo could blow up the squid is because he and Agent Smith melded at the end of the first film, so Smith gained the ability to influence humans in the "real" world, and Neo gained the ability to influence machines in the same. The truth is, I started this rumor to get some albino fanboy geek out of my office. I thought the rest of you would realize I was kidding with a story so stupid. Christ people, don't you have a cult to join or something?

Anyway, the next most-popular question I get asked is what in the hell is up with Agent Smith in this movie? Is he still a program or what? And what's with all those extra Agent Smith's that kept popping out of his ass? How much did Hugo Weaving get paid to play all those guys, anyway? I bet he got cramps from signing all those paychecks, damn. I wish I had a bunch of extra mes so I could cut my lawn with scissors or for when I got in a rumble.

Okay, so that's more than one question but you get the braindead gist of it. As for the answer, the long and the short of it is yes and no. Actually, Agent Smith is Satan to Neo's Jesus Christ, or rather the George to Neo's Wheezy. You read that right. The humans actually created the machines and the Matrix to transcend the limitations of their physical lives, much like how bored stoners created religion in ancient times. Without the Matrix, human life degrades into orgies and Bob Marley concerts, not a pretty picture. But within it, agents (a clever half-assed anagram of "angels") help guide the humans toward understanding their higher selves. Hey, you asked, I didn't write this shit.

In keeping with the Wacowski's theological circlejerk, Smith is the fallen angel who has gone against God's will, and who is waging war on the system itself and the chosen one. Neo is the Christ who is discovering his identity and the truth that beyond one system of belief there is merely another. Which I guess leaves Morpheus to be the Judas, so sucks to be him. I did think he looked kind of like the dude from Jesus Christ Superstar.

So naturally there have been other Matrixes (religions) and other Neos (Buddha, Mohammed, Jim Jones, Jenny Jones, etc.) who fizzled out after an exciting entrance, yadda yadda yadda. And if you've read this far all I can say is you deserve this mess, now you understand the folly of letting a couple geeks think they're deep. Perhaps you'll be a little more discerning with your entertainment dollars in the future.

Most of you who aren't nursing nosebleeds right now are probably still wondering where all the kung fu comes in. Open up your bible (it's holding up the saggy corner of your waterbed) to the chapter entitled "Jesus Christ Kung-Fu Showdown: Righteously Was Thy Ass Kicked" and all shall be made clear. If you're thinking "Bible? Huh?" all I can say is you might want to brush up on your religious texts before the third film kicks your brain in the balls and kung-fus it into braunschweiger, my friends.

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Omar Bricks has never believed in oil changes. I've always been one to say "Get it right the first time, jackass." Why waste time and money filling your car with shitty oil you're going to regret 3,000 miles down the road? Do the homework now and you won't have to pay some grease monkey rip-off wages to siphon out your shitty oil and spit it in a bucket a few months from now.

There's a whole industry that preys on this kind of short-sighted thinking. Lightning Lube, The Oil Slick, Carp. That last one has some letters missing from the sign, I'm not about to guess what the full name is supposed to be. Because if it turns out to be Carpenis or something great like that I'm going to be embarrassed that I've been calling it Carpals all along. And then there's The Change, which I thought was a clinic for pre-op transsexuals until I went in there to buy Ramrod Hurley a birthday present last year and they tried to lube my chassis.

But Omar Bricks isn't fooled, at least not by the oil-change places that aren't named like sexual reassignment chop shops. I'm not about to waste my hard-earned cash swapping out perfectly good oil, so I buy the good stuff up front. From Wal-Mart, I'm not sure what the brand is called. It's got a bunny on it.

And this all worked fine and good for years until last week, when I had to take the Bricksmobile IV into the shop because it was belching flames again and this was getting me written up for a ticket every time I'd drive past an elementary school and some kids would coincidentally catch on fire. The cops never had a shred of proof, of course, but if you're a lazy cop and you've got some dude driving an unpainted foreign car with a flamethrower for a tailpipe through the same neighborhood where you've got kids on fire, it doesn't take long to figure out who to pin the frame on.

So I took the Bricksmobile IV down to Ricky's, one of the only shops in town I trust, after the only other place I trust, Bill's, burnt to the ground in a freak accident while I was idling outside the day before. Quervo, the guy who owns Ricky's, dropped the bomb and told me I'd been putting Nestle's Qwik in my engine instead of oil, and as a result the whole thing was fucked, in a delicious-smelling kind of way. Turns out I'd never owned a car long enough for the disadvantages of using chocolate syrup to lubricate your engine parts to become evident; I'd always managed to blow the car up or drive it into a swimming pool before the chocolate folly caught up with me.

So, although it went against everything I believe in, I told him to go ahead and change the oil just this once. Put in the good stuff, you know, but don't break the bank. Anything with an animal on the bottle was cool.

At first I thought Quervo might give me some shit about asking him to work on some weird-ass Panamanian brand of car with license plates from an ATV, but he was cool about it. Or at least he seemed cool, he talked a lot but it's not like I speak Spanish. That reminds me, I really need to find an English-speaking auto shop some time soon. Preferably one built with a lot of asbestos.

Bricks out.

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