Monday, April 17, 2006


No one could have predicted when it was going to happen, but it was certain that it would happen eventually. My extended family had just left to go back home, my kids were coming down from a morning full of Easter candy, and my wife cranks up Sublime and requests that I clean out the bong and pack her a "freshy." Blurred with ganja butter, I proceed to smoke up the rest of the packed slightly burnt bowl. Towards the end of the bowl my bong hits are making me feel like I'm going to blackout, my knees go weak, vision goes black, it's feeling like nitrous without the sound effects. The room is nearly hotboxed, I crack a window to let the smoke out, as I come out of the room with the bong in hand, the wind from outside blows through the window and pushes the smoke out of the room into the hallway. I'm traveling with clouds of herb smoke down the hall, when I see the bathroom door, I entered and proceed to clean out the bong in the bathtub. Typically it's done in a sink, but it's a slight pain managing a tall bong in a small sink. So with the freedom of space in the tub I quickly clean it out, so freely I move, then, boom, I hit the side of the tub with the side of the bong. Glass bong that is, or shall I say was. I'm left holding the thick stem and I see the rest shattered in the tub. I thought of all the mileage I've had with that bong, if it were a car I would have put on at least 350,000 miles in the last year and a half. I considered a big ceremony to rest my bong but because it is glass it was best placed in our recycling bin. There it laid next to the Mud Pie box and the two bottles of Gamay Beaujolais. It seemed so peaceful and appropriate to be there. No words were spoken, I busted out my bubbler backup and puffed steady throughout the rest of the night.


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