Stoner Two: No, man, it's for real. It's in the newspaper.
Stoner One: We gotta go find one.
Stoner Two: One what? A newspaper, 'cause I....
Stoner One: Duh! One of those chapters, are those like groups? Maybe they'll, like, share.
Stoner Two: Old hippie chicks and dudes and some of them are like grandparents and like that? They'll take pity on us even if they don't let us join officially. Peace and love and don't bogart that joint, ya know what I mean?
Stoner One: What'd they call it? Pappies for Pot? Whiners for Weed?
Stoner Two: I told you, man, Grannies for Grass. It was in the newspaper. Like printed on newsprint and everything. Like The Sunday New York TImes. And some of them are not even old, like old old, they are MILFS for Mary Jane, or Moms for Marijuana or something like that.
Stoner One: Oh, wow. Can you see our moms joining ?
Stoners One and Two in unison: NAH!
Stoner One and Two ROFL.
|No plant materials were consumed in the production of this image.|
Not to say that Grannies for Grass doesn't have a louche appeal, and a nostalgic glamour (except for that time when I thought it was a good idea to stay up dancing all night on a park bench with my best friend and two guys we sort of knew instead of studying for my Shakespeare exam and . . . well, etc.), but I drill down and find that the oldsters are then getting together to quilt and play bingo and have trivia nights. Trivia nights. The decaying mind boggles.
Q: Like, who was it, you know who I mean the one who . . .
A: Who took my Twinkie?
Q: No, no. The one who sang, you know, Go Ask Alice?
A: No, no. It wasn't called Go Ask Alice, it was called White Rabbit.
Q: You sure?