Seriously, 8 Joints
Listen, okay, if we go next door, they will totally have eight joints lined up for us on the table and they’ll be all “go on, we don’t want to smoke this, we want you to do it.” I know this to be a million percent true.
Seriously. We have to go. Now.
Stop laughing at me. I know you’re doing that, so stop.
Think about it this way: if we don’t go, we’ll never have the eight joints. Now think about it this way, too: we go over there, they give us their eight joints for free, and then we have them.
You don’t understand. My body is like a high-powered rocket ship. It needs a precise amount of fuel in it at all times to function. My fuel is a joint.
But sometimes my body is like eight rocket ships, which is why we have to go next door right now. Kablamo!
I meant to fall down when I said “Kablamo!” just now. It’s called commitment to a bit.
No, smoking the fern my mom gave me for Arbor Day isn’t going to make things better, jerk face. I’m not stupid, you know. You’re the stupid.
I don’t care which next door we go to as long as we go to one of them. And listen, I don’t want to hear any of this “please don’t start smoking up while my parents are in the room visiting me” business. That man was obviously too striking to be your father. Everybody knows it.
In fact, now that I think about it, you probably don’t even have parents. So you’re a charlatan and a mountebank. And adopted. We should listen to me, because I’m not any of the things I just said you were.
Seriously, let’s go.
Please.