The Narc and the One-Hitter
(A Fable for Stoners)
Once upon a time in the 70's, in a small two-roomed brick house nestled in the Welsh countryside, lived a commune of hippies. They kept to themselves mostly and never bothered anyone, and wouldn't have even if there had been anyone within miles for them to bother . They survived by raising their own tofu and granola, as well as certain herbs. They worked the soil until their dirty hands were blistered in places other than just the tips of their thumbs and forefingers.
One fine summer's evening, after an especially grueling day in the granola fields, the hippies had just finished their supper and were settling down for a night of intoxication and tribal music, when there was a knock at the door. The house became instantly silent as all the hippies looked about, trying to read their brothers' faces. Five-Leaves, the commune elder, stood, instantly drawing their attention. He made the motion which they had all seen him make many times before in test drills. Only now, it was for real. Without further delay, the hippies sprang into action. They set about their designated tasks with amazing brevity for a group of people who two minutes earlier wouldn't have gotten up to go to the bathroom. Some of them began shoveling grass into the outhouse, while others rushed about hiding and disguising indoor plants and paraphernalia ("If only it were all legal, man!" they used to sit around and say.) When everything was out of sight Five-Leaves donned his disguise and the rest of the hippies went into the spare room.
"Howdy, Stranger,'" Five-Leaves uttered in his best Texas accent as he threw open the door to reveal a tall, lanky, and longhaired man of about 25 years.
"Peace, Brother," the stranger mumbled, flashing the peace sign. "Can I, like, crash here tonight?"
Fives Leaves, being the elder member of a commune of hippies, men steadfast in their devotion to universal Brotherhood, made a quick judgement call and invited the man in.
"I'm not really a Texan," Five-Leaves explained to the stranger as he removed his ten-gallon hat and bow tie.
"Far out!" the stranger mumbled.
Five-Leaves sounded the all-clear and the rest of the hippies emerged to meet their delighted guest. They took him in without reservation and shared with him their music and their finest herb, which incidentally, the stranger thought smelled oddly like feces. But it still served its purpose well, and they celebrated late into the night.
But in the other room, the commune elders burned the midnight oil.
"We just can't take that chance, Five-Leaves,'" raged Steel-Lungs, the third-ranking elder.
"If only there were a test," Sensa Maya, the second-ranking elder, said despairingly.
Five-Leaves' eyes suddenly lit up. well…actually they were pretty lit to begin with. Anyways, they opened wide enough that you could no longer have blindfolded him with a piece of angelhair pasta. "A test!" he exclaimed, "There is a test! I heard of it once in Brussels." The others closed in to hear the words of their wise elder.
Five-Leaves removed his DugoutTM from his breast pocket and packed the bat. He held it before his brother-elders for them all to see.
"What, get him high?" groaned Steel-Lungs. "It's a little late for that!"
"No,'" retorted Five-Leaves sharply. "We put it under his mattress tonight. If he is indeed a true hippie, and not a narc, then he won't be able to sleep a wink."
"Incredible!" exclaimed Sensa Maya.
"Indeed!" added Steel-Lungs.
“Smokin’, Dude!” threw in Bud, the fourth-ranking elder who invariably never gets mentioned until this part of the story.
So they lifted the mattress and gently placed the packed bat underneath. Then they piled on six more mattresses just to be sure. After having prepared their test, they rejoined the others.
When the last conga had been beaten and the last joint passed, they prepared to retire, offering the spare room to their guest. He mumbled a thank you for their kindness and stumbled off into his room and climbed atop the pile of mattresses.
Hours later, all the hippies lay in wait.
"Has it been long enough?" whispered Steel-Lungs to Five-Leaves.
"Yes, I will check now," Five-Leaves replied. The hippies watched nervously as Five-Leaves crept toward the spare room door. Slowly, he opened it and peered inside. There the stranger, who had at one point mumbled that his name was Dirty Larry, slept peacefully. The rage boiled in Five-Leaves and erupted as he screamed the dreaded word: Narc!
Now hippies, while normally being the most docile creatures in the world, can become quite agitated and even dangerously violent when it comes to narcs and ticket scalpers. Dirty Larry never knew what hit him. In a grisly scene much to horrifying to describe--but I'll try--the enraged hippies tore the narc limb from limb. The only words Dirty Larry managed to utter, and for once he uttered them quite clearly, were, "Whoa, dudes!"
The next morning the hippies sat quietly at their breakfast. They had a long day ahead of them fertilizing the plants. From the spare room, Sensa Maya called for his elder. Five-Leaves rose solemnly and went to see what his brother required.
When he entered the spare room Sensa Maya stood waiting, pale as a ghost. "What is it, man?" asked Five-Leaves.
"I just pulled this out from under the mattress," Sensa Maya said, holding out the bat which they had concealed the night before. As Five-Leaves took it from his brother his mouth dropped open, for he suddenly recognized his folly. There was only one way a true hippie could get any sleep with a one-hit under his mattress, and this one-hit had been smoked.
The End
The Dugout Smoking System is a registered trademark, Pat. 4214658.
(A Fable for Stoners)
Once upon a time in the 70's, in a small two-roomed brick house nestled in the Welsh countryside, lived a commune of hippies. They kept to themselves mostly and never bothered anyone, and wouldn't have even if there had been anyone within miles for them to bother . They survived by raising their own tofu and granola, as well as certain herbs. They worked the soil until their dirty hands were blistered in places other than just the tips of their thumbs and forefingers.
One fine summer's evening, after an especially grueling day in the granola fields, the hippies had just finished their supper and were settling down for a night of intoxication and tribal music, when there was a knock at the door. The house became instantly silent as all the hippies looked about, trying to read their brothers' faces. Five-Leaves, the commune elder, stood, instantly drawing their attention. He made the motion which they had all seen him make many times before in test drills. Only now, it was for real. Without further delay, the hippies sprang into action. They set about their designated tasks with amazing brevity for a group of people who two minutes earlier wouldn't have gotten up to go to the bathroom. Some of them began shoveling grass into the outhouse, while others rushed about hiding and disguising indoor plants and paraphernalia ("If only it were all legal, man!" they used to sit around and say.) When everything was out of sight Five-Leaves donned his disguise and the rest of the hippies went into the spare room.
"Howdy, Stranger,'" Five-Leaves uttered in his best Texas accent as he threw open the door to reveal a tall, lanky, and longhaired man of about 25 years.
"Peace, Brother," the stranger mumbled, flashing the peace sign. "Can I, like, crash here tonight?"
Fives Leaves, being the elder member of a commune of hippies, men steadfast in their devotion to universal Brotherhood, made a quick judgement call and invited the man in.
"I'm not really a Texan," Five-Leaves explained to the stranger as he removed his ten-gallon hat and bow tie.
"Far out!" the stranger mumbled.
Five-Leaves sounded the all-clear and the rest of the hippies emerged to meet their delighted guest. They took him in without reservation and shared with him their music and their finest herb, which incidentally, the stranger thought smelled oddly like feces. But it still served its purpose well, and they celebrated late into the night.
But in the other room, the commune elders burned the midnight oil.
"We just can't take that chance, Five-Leaves,'" raged Steel-Lungs, the third-ranking elder.
"If only there were a test," Sensa Maya, the second-ranking elder, said despairingly.
Five-Leaves' eyes suddenly lit up. well…actually they were pretty lit to begin with. Anyways, they opened wide enough that you could no longer have blindfolded him with a piece of angelhair pasta. "A test!" he exclaimed, "There is a test! I heard of it once in Brussels." The others closed in to hear the words of their wise elder.
Five-Leaves removed his DugoutTM from his breast pocket and packed the bat. He held it before his brother-elders for them all to see.
"What, get him high?" groaned Steel-Lungs. "It's a little late for that!"
"No,'" retorted Five-Leaves sharply. "We put it under his mattress tonight. If he is indeed a true hippie, and not a narc, then he won't be able to sleep a wink."
"Incredible!" exclaimed Sensa Maya.
"Indeed!" added Steel-Lungs.
“Smokin’, Dude!” threw in Bud, the fourth-ranking elder who invariably never gets mentioned until this part of the story.
So they lifted the mattress and gently placed the packed bat underneath. Then they piled on six more mattresses just to be sure. After having prepared their test, they rejoined the others.
When the last conga had been beaten and the last joint passed, they prepared to retire, offering the spare room to their guest. He mumbled a thank you for their kindness and stumbled off into his room and climbed atop the pile of mattresses.
Hours later, all the hippies lay in wait.
"Has it been long enough?" whispered Steel-Lungs to Five-Leaves.
"Yes, I will check now," Five-Leaves replied. The hippies watched nervously as Five-Leaves crept toward the spare room door. Slowly, he opened it and peered inside. There the stranger, who had at one point mumbled that his name was Dirty Larry, slept peacefully. The rage boiled in Five-Leaves and erupted as he screamed the dreaded word: Narc!
Now hippies, while normally being the most docile creatures in the world, can become quite agitated and even dangerously violent when it comes to narcs and ticket scalpers. Dirty Larry never knew what hit him. In a grisly scene much to horrifying to describe--but I'll try--the enraged hippies tore the narc limb from limb. The only words Dirty Larry managed to utter, and for once he uttered them quite clearly, were, "Whoa, dudes!"
The next morning the hippies sat quietly at their breakfast. They had a long day ahead of them fertilizing the plants. From the spare room, Sensa Maya called for his elder. Five-Leaves rose solemnly and went to see what his brother required.
When he entered the spare room Sensa Maya stood waiting, pale as a ghost. "What is it, man?" asked Five-Leaves.
"I just pulled this out from under the mattress," Sensa Maya said, holding out the bat which they had concealed the night before. As Five-Leaves took it from his brother his mouth dropped open, for he suddenly recognized his folly. There was only one way a true hippie could get any sleep with a one-hit under his mattress, and this one-hit had been smoked.
The End
The Dugout Smoking System is a registered trademark, Pat. 4214658.