I think Security Guards get really bored, doing what they do.
The other day I was on the phone with the office at a client’s warehouse while having a smoke outside. I decided to go for a stroll while I chat and found this by the Security Guards little hut:
So, it seems the chap stays fit. . .
Well, how to start this. .
Initially I didn’t want to blog about this, as it’s a bit of a personal waffle. However, it’s been buzzing in my brain for the last week and I need to get it out before I start haemorrhaging.
Last Friday I was at a braai(Myself, Papa Bear, his family and EchoTango), for those American retards that struggle to understand the intricate slang of the everyday South African, a braai is the equivalent of your barbeque. We planned the day to be one of epic drunk, stoned and stupor. Naturally, we succeeded and by 5pm, even the football we were kicking around got a bit slanted. I think Papa Bear got the worst off tho’.
There I was mid explanation to EchoTango when my cell phone rang. I did my best to focus on the display in order to see who the fuck is phoning me while I’m trying to explain the beauty that is the GUT. I didn’t recognize the number and decided to entertain the caller. Now, this is where it gets a little odd. In fact, I was so surprised by what the end result of the conversation on the phone was that I beckoned to EchoTango to listen in on the conversation. The conversation in question, went like this:
(I answer by only saying my surname, yeah, my ego is that fucking huge)
“Hi, [name], I need to speak to you about organizing some stuff”
“Well, I’m not sure, to be honest [name], let me rather give the phone to grandma”
At this point I’ve figured out who I’m talking to and I can’t help but wonder how my grandmother got into it.
“Hello [name], its grandma. I spoke to the doctor and he told me that the only way that I can get the pain to go away is to smoke some zol”
My brain immediately jumped into action and called for reason. Unfortunately, reason was drown in Southern Comfort and Giggletwig.
Was the only thing I could muster out as my brain was trying to do a double backflip while walking on a rope. It was at this point where I told EchoTango to listen in on the conversation to ensure that I wasn’t going absolutely batty.
“The doctor told me that the pills I am taking can only do so much. He told me to try and get my hands on some weed. I know you smoke it, so now I want it”
“You want some weed?”
“Yes please, will you be able to score me some?”
It finally dawned on me. My frail tiny grandmother is asking me for weed. She wants some of the stuff that she use to warn me against. My grandmother is asking me for some reefer. Holy shit. Could this possibly be some sick joke that this old lady is playing with me?
“er, sure grandma, should I roll it for you?”
“Yes please, perhaps bring some extra for later”
Later? Jesus Christ lady, you haven’t even started and you want more? Seems like drugs run in the family. Odd?
“Ok, no problem”
I stood there absolutely amazed by the conversation I had. My grandmother was trying to score some dope from the dope. Needless to say, I immediately started rolling a blunt for my grandmother. I usually don’t mix my weed with any type of tobacco, but, this was a special case(plus, I didn’t want to kill my grandmother) and I put some menthol mix in it. I quickly drove there and gave it to her.
When she took it she politely explained to me that she has never smoked the stuff, I gave her a quick crash course in how-to-be-an-excellent-stoner.
“Ok nana, light it, and don’t take more than 3 puffs. Wait 20 minutes, if you’re not stoned enough, have another puff. Wash, rinse repeat.”
After all, this was some A grade shit. I didn’t want my grandma to go on a paranoid tinge on her first high.
I went over the following day and asked her how it was. She told me it was awesome and she still has some of the reefer left. I was about to leave when she asked me:
“[name], would you mind being my dealer?”
My brain tried to do a handstand on a turtledove. I replied:
“erm, no, I don’t mind getting you some from time to time, but I am not a dealer and definitely not my grandmothers dealer.”
I mean, how weird could that possibly get? Your grandmother calling you “The Dealer” is absolutely insane.
No fucking way.
That’s my little Friday Freak Out Slash Grandmother Stoner event.