Back in Middle school I used to get bullied something awful.
I wasn’t bullied by the entire student body, mind you, like that so-awful-it’s-great horror movie from the 1980’s Slaughter High. The main character Marty is a High School freshman who’s constantly picked on and tortured by a group of inexplicably mature looking Seniors.
Like most horror movies from the 1980’s the rest of the plotline goes something like this:
Poor Marty gets pushed out of a bathroom window one fateful afternoon after a Senior prank goes wrong and falls into the back of a dumptruck full of radioactive waste, becoming horrifically mutilated in the process. He later goes on your typical 80’s movie vengeful murder spree and systematically kills off every jock and prom queen in the most hilarious ways possible.
Why was there a dumptruck filled with radioactive waste simply idling underneath a High School window you might ask?
Well according to the film the driver was smoking primo’s and just… left it there. You have to understand–the 1980’s were a much more complex time. People were on some real next shit, mostly due to all the cocaine they were ingesting.
Anyways back in Middle School this little shorty– folks then called em’ BeBe’s Kids (God Bless Robin Harris’ creative genius)– used to torture me relentlessly, although in a sick way we were kind of friends. We set plastic garbage cans on fire and stole from our white neighbors. He would often wrestle me down like he was KoKo B. Ware (he was a lot bigger then me) until I yelped uncle or would try to fuck with me like he was going to set me on fire with those long clear lighters you get at corner liquor stores, or stick me with the sharp metal sticks that were attached to out math compass. In hindsight he probably would have.
All in all, he was a bag-full of syphilitic dicks. A real pimpled asshole.
So I was shaken when I smoked some King Louis XIII (aka King Louis) the other day and was immediately vaporized back to that time with his sadistic behind.
I hit that piney parsley and felt like an insecure kid on the cusp of puberty again, about ten-teenage years shy of a 30-year long roller coaster ride into a tougher type of adulthood and eventual bottles of Mad Dog 20/20 in the nursing home.
I mean that King Louis had me bullied, it had me bent. Off to the guillotine to retrieve my own damn head. I honestly was so scared that I was so high I forgot to pay my light bill and pay my rent. I just crawled underneath my covers and went to sleep.
I then woke up, chiefed a bit more, fell back asleep, woke back up and proceeded to sell the rest of my stash on Ebay. Now I can’t find anymore King Louis at my local dispensary. But that’s just what I get for being a punk…and a pushover.
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My name is Petey Wheatstraw, also known as Charles Stevens. I’m an avid marijuana smoker, writer, devoted father and non-profit minion– not necessarily in that order. A Chicago native I’ve lived off and on in the Bay Area since 1996. Seven years ago I finally settled here to capture the changing face of our communities.