Behold kind reader, tis I, William Shakespeare, Bard of Avon, preeminent English writer of yore, and smoker of the dankest of bud of Warwickshire. Nary 400 short years hath passed since my demise and methinks mankind hath progressed leaps and bounds in weed technology betwixt then and now. Lest mine aged eyes deceive me, it appearest as if thine cool bros possesseth power to consume thy special herb without help of flame through some black magic known as “vaping”!
Couldest this be so? Prithee, what clever apothecary hath so shook his fist at God to create such clever machinery? Nay, with what witches didst thou conspire to acquire such awesome power to smoketh herb without smoke? What light through yonder window vapes? Come now! Mine veins run hot with envy!
Alack the day, methinks I livest in the wrong era. In my time I was forced to suffer the seeds and stems of outrageous reefer. Tis true, rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. But the darling ganja buds I had access to in mine era did not sticketh nor stink of skunk. They were weak and dry and barely altered mine brain. Lo! Would that I could scoreth some of thine dank Cali bud! Would that I could sniff thine skunkalicious hydroponic future-herb! I beseech you, kind friend, should by some dark sorcery I awake from my eternal deathly slumber, may you greet my weary visage with “Get thee to a dispensary!” and take me thither with haste.
Woe! Would that I remained on this mortal coil to vape! T’would be divine to filleth mine lungs with such smooth sweet vapours instead of yon inky black pipe smoke of yore. O, to vape — to sleep. To sleep — perchance to dream of vaping even more. Alas, methinks the fates hath not made plans for old William to partake in such modern wonders. But mayest thou cool kids of today vape until thine own spark dims.
Be it concluded: To blaze, or not to blaze — that is the question. I jest! Tis not a question at all. Smoketh weed every day biznatches. I bite my thumb at the cops. Bard out!