Tuesdays Time Killers

[mustynutz]

Here's a little story about how I brought Wheelchar Weed to the people....

Everyone who smokes pot has heard about Wheelchair Weed. This is the mythical
super-powered hydroponic weed specially grown in laboratories for glaucoma patients.
Not available in stores, the occasional ultra rare pinner joint would appear in our toking
circle, but divided among a bunch of people, you were lucky to get a real toke. But this
was the holy grail of weed, stolen from someone's friend's aunt's glaucoma victim
neighbor's stash... never available from any dealers, anywhere. Looking back now, I
realize it was all bullshit, but at 13 it was a nice diversion from closing your eyes and
having someone crack an imaginary egg on your head, or "running through the forest" if
ya know what I mean.

Fast forward many years to my living room, where I am introduced to a new customer
named Matt. Matt was new in town, attending the University of British Columbia
studying Biology or Botany or something like that. We sat & smoked, and Matt explained
that he was involved in a project which was basically dropping frozen fertilizer torpedoes
from planes, in the hopes that the force of impact would drive the torpedo deep into the
forest floor. Did I mention that each frozen torpedo contained a tree sapling? The idea
was to put all the tree planters out of work by carpet bombing clearcut woodlots with
these fertilizer sapling bombs. Ah, tax dollars hard at work! HE said his landlord's freezer
was full of moose meat, victims of "friendly fire". We laughed our asses off, then again,
we were stoned...

Matt was a very smart guy, and a chemist. When I showed him some shitty, shitty hash oil
I had made (filtered with charcoal and thusly contaminated, it would often explode when
heated), he offered to help me make oil. This meant beakers, Bunsen burners, pressurized
microfilters, big bottles of some type of a methyl hydrate type substance - everything. He
brought me out of the stone age in one evening. Even tho he never made oil before, he
understood the concept of what we were trying to do, and nailed the recipe. The result
was beautiful honey oil.

He also helped me make hash from plant clippings & shake using a converted washing
machine. That's another story, but the point I am trying to make is that Matt was a totally
solid guy and very very bright. He never let me down!

One night, we were teasing Matt about hogging all the Wheelchair Weed at UBC to
himself, and he said "I wish". He went on to explain that the university itself didn't grow
weed, never did, and that it was all a myth (this was in the days before anyone believed
the phrase "medical marijuana"). He did, however, share one pearl of information.

On the UBC campus, the RCMP maintained a very large forensics laboratory in
cooperation with the university, including a facility where they grow pot. Lots of pot. Tall
sativa, short indica, and everything in between. Meticulously grown. He went on to
explain that when the vice squad sell drugs to criminals in undercover operations etc. they
have to make sure that it is not contaminated, so they can't use old pot seized in past
raids, because they have no idea where it comes from. Plus, over time, weed breaks down,
and they have to have grade A product, not dusty dried out old shit. So yes, once in a
while, high powered clinical weed does actually make it to street level, but it's usually
right before someone gets busted bigtime. We were fascinated.

He'd been inside the facility, seen the plants and grow rooms. He told me later that he
regularly worked in that building, and regretted mentioning it. I told him to realx, and I
told my friends to shut the fuck up about it. The only person to drone on about it to Matt was me.

Was there any possible way of getting me a seed from some super strain? NO - no seeds,
female plants only, everything is propagated by cuttings. Could he get me a clone? Maybe
even just snap me off a couple of leaves & I'll take care of the rest? Nope, no way, there
were cameras EVERYWHERE, and if he were ever caught doing anything untoward in
the RCMP lab, he's be charged as well as kicked out of school. He was very sorry, but he
just couldn't do it.

 

[mustynutz]

Time went by. I didn't mention it much, but Matt know I would give anything for a seed
or a clone of Wheelchair Weed. But, Matt was a good guy, so I didn't hassle him. One
day Matt got a call from his mother in Montreal - his father had passed away from a
stroke. Matt was devastated. He was an only kid (older bro had dies years earlier), and
his Mom was in her 70's already living in a care home. He had no money to fly home,
and was fucked. He almost joined his Dad when I counted out thirty $100 bills and told
him to fly home ASAP. He may have blinked once, but took the money and ran.

That changed things between us. When he got back, he vowed to pay me back, but I just
didn't see him around much - no worries, I had made a ton of cash from the hash washer,
not to mention the money I made selling hash washers to other people. And the oil! Can't
forget that. I didn't mention the Wheelchair Weed. I figured 3 grand was a donation to Karma. It sure was....

It was a rainy pissy night in November when there was a knock at the door. It was Matt.
He was smiling and drunk. He immediately held out his hand, which contained a wadded up piece of
wet toilet paper.... and two little sprouts. He handed it to me and didn't say a word other
than "This is #7", just turned on his heel and walked away.

The babies grew and grew. Nice plants, but nothing special. Matt came by and helped me
make cuttings, and explained that #7 was the notorious for it's potency, and was by far
the best dope in the lab. I actually thought the plant was a bit spindly... but spindly was
good.

It started just after the light cycle changed from 18 to 10 hours on per day. The plants
went INSANE. individual branches went to bud and SOLIDIFIED with surrounding
branches, 12" clones turned into solid softball bat sized colas. STINKY as all
hell, the buds were only sticky on the inside, the rest being a mass of crystals on green, looked like regular buds rolled in icing sugar.. OUTSTANDING DOPE.

I now had Wheelchair Weed. Certified, bonafide, whatever. I grew that strain for
YEARS. Sure, it mutated over time, but to this day it is still AWESOME. I still have
some seed from some plants I stressed into hermaphroditism, maybe I'll plant some
outdoors this spring, just for fun.... we'll see.

So, yes Virginia, Wheelchair Weed does exist. And I am it's Unholy Master

 

[mustynutz]

nice ending

 

[mustynutz]

A few more beers and we'd be over the edge and falling into the soft enveloping cloud of wasted. It was a relaxing Friday night - a night where everyone decided, hey, instead of going out and spending beaucoup bucks at the casinos to get drunk, let's just buy a few cases and drink ourselves into a stupor in the sanctity of someone's home.

There were only four of us: myself, my boyfriend Matt, Fred, and our friend Chris (who reminds me a lot of Phinch...); whose idea it was, I can't recall, but I was against it from the beginning. We had been talking about our "one-stop weed-shop," a shady grocery store on the corner of a bad street in the midst of the worst part of the Reno/Sparks area. We were fresh out of weed and being that we were a little buzzed and feeling warm from the effects of alcohol, what better way to completely relax than to smoke a little? So someone suggested we drive down to Oddie - the street with our "weed store" - because now we were all smacking our lips with the anticipation of that intoxicating smoke.

We all piled into Fred's Subaru, intent on getting a little green to satisfy our craving, but much to our dismay, the grocery store on Oddie was black with nothing but a flickering fluorescent light casting an eerie glow over the vacant parking lot. There was no weed here, no eager street-side dealers running up to our car to sell us a sack; there was no one at all here.

Someone let out a sigh of disappointment and someone else suggested we cruise the streets of downtown - there was always some drugs to be found on the sleazy streets of downtown Reno. Alright, if we've come this far to get some pot, why not take it a step further?

We drove by the Sands Regency, not exactly in the heart of downtown, but on the corner of Arlington and 4th it's a hotspot for hookers and drug dealers; we were bound to find someone who would be willing to sell us even just a dime sack. Slowly we cruised by dilapidated casinos, abandoned motels, and dark, seedy parking lots, looking for someone, anyone who would sell us some weed.

As we were turning around in front of the Sands again, we spotted him: a guy who would undoubtedly be able to hook us up. He was the epitome of white trash - slimy, backwards cap, baggy pants, and it looked like he was smoking a joint right there on the corner of the street. We gave him a slight nod and he gave us a nod of acknowledgement, the unspoken language of this sordid business, and he followed us as we pulled into the parking lot of the Sands.

His figure filled the passenger side window of Fred's little Subaru, and he peered in, taking in the four of us: skinny Fred with his shaggy hippie hair, Matt with his tough, rugged boxer look, the always smiling and jolly Chris, and me, the only girl, slumping in my seat with the hood of my hoodie sweatshirt pulled over my head.

"What do you guys want?" he snarled. "You want some coke?"

"No, man, do you have some weed?" It was Fred who took up the role as our spokesperson.

"No, but if you guys give me a ride I might be able to get you some. You can just follow me over to my hotel so I can grab some stuff." He pointed across the street to a motel, one of those grubby ones that rent rooms by the hours, the Lido Inn. "I'll meet you there." With that he darted across the street, and we turned around to pull into the small courtyard parking lot at the Lido.

"I don't like this," I piped up from the back seat. "I don't trust that guy and I don't want to give him a ride. We can find someone else who has weed." So what if I was spoiling the party? I was the one who had to sit in the back with that grease ball. Luckily I wasn't the only one that felt that way, so we took off and found a dark parking spot between a vacated casino and the railroad tracks.

But we weren't alone. Making his way to our car was a creepy old black man. He rapped lightly on the driver's window, and Fred rolled it down. The old man's shifty eyes darted around the car, but kept coming back to rest on me, leaving me feeling restless and uneasy. This adventure just kept getting worse and worse.

"You guys want da weed?" the old man hissed. "Ma nephew, he sell da weed. You give me da money an' I get you da weed." We all exchanged skeptical glances. No way in hell would we trust this old man with our money. "I be right back, man. You just give me da money."

"No, we don't want to give you our money," Fred spoke up. He told him straight out that he didn't trust him with our money. He rolled up the window to give us a few seconds of privacy from the prying eyes and alert ears of the old man. "I have $20, so if you guys want an eighth we'll all have to pitch in. I'll go with this guy to meet his nephew. Does anyone want to go with me?"

"I'll go," Matt volunteered. "Hey, baby, I don't have any cash so can I have $30?" I felt sick to my stomach - this old man's eyes kept returning to me with a magnet effect, we'd already had enough misadventures that night, and now I had to cover more than half the cost of an eighth with the only cash I had until my next pay day. God damn, this better be some good fucking weed. Matt pocketed my 30 bucks, and he and Fred got out of the car, disappearing into the dark with the sinister old man.

For a long while Chris and I sat in the uncomfortable atmosphere of the car by the bare railroad tracks, each of us silently hoping that guns and knives wouldn't be involved in this. Twenty minutes later, Matt and Fred came running back to the car. They jumped in and they were laughing - laughter was always a good sign. They told us how they had to run through a maze of stairwells to keep up with the old man, how they'd lost $20 after one guy took their money and ducked into a hotel room, but they'd finally been able to catch up to the old man, who took what was left of the money, vanished into a room for a few minutes, and returned with a tightly wrapped ball of saran wrap which Matt now clutched tightly in his hands. A good sized nug of weed was visible through wrap, and I felt excitement well up within me. Perhaps our night hadn't been a complete waste.

"Open it up," I said like an impatient little kid at Christmas. "Just a little. Let's have a smell."

Meticulously Matt unwrapped the saran wrap containing our nice little prize, and immediately I knew that indeed this whole night had been a bad idea.

Weeds? Yes. Weed? No. Inside the tightly wrapped saran wrap was nothing more than foxtails.

 

[mustynutz]

We all know this cat from our storybook rhymes;
From happier times, and from sunnier climes,
But the clock always ticks, and the chime always chimes,
And the Cat in the Hat, well, he fell on hard times.

And here the Cat sits in his small run down house
And he's smoking crack pipes with his common-law spouse
And there's shit on the floor
And there's cops at the door
But he's distracted staring down his bitch's blouse

And he's thinking of old days, of good times, of fun
Of those kids that he messed with, and things that he's done
And he's wondering how it all came down to this -
To this shitty life, shitty wife, shit-eating bliss.

He could blame his slut mother, but he won't do that;
How much can you really expect from a cat?
And he could blame society, could blame his friends
But instead, he decides that he must make amends.

And he leaps to his feet, and he yells a glad yell,
And, leaving the silly dumb bitch where she fell
Over onto the floor, as she rolled off his lap,
He jumps out of the window, screaming "Fuck this crap!"

And children, I beg you, if reading this book
Turn your young eyes away - don't you peek, don't you look
For the Cat in the Hat
Who took up smoking crack
Fell down twenty floors
To the street
And went splat.

 

[mustynutz]

http://thegooddrugsguide.com/