With Father’s Day here, it’s important not only to thank your dad for raising you, but also to think of where your dad has been. We too often see our dads not as normal men,but as a myth, a hero. But just imagine what experiences he’s had that have shaped him into the man that changed your diapers, tended to scraped knees, and wiped tears from your eyes after a date gone south? He is, after all, a man. One with hopes and fears. He may be the king of the home, but kings are vulnerable and human just like us — which means they have gotten fucking blitzed off some dank-ass weed.
Don’t believe me? Think about how many friends you have. Probably a decent amount. Now think about how many of those friends are men. Probably around half. Now think about how many of those male friends of yours smoke big, fat joints occasionally. Probably a good amount of them, right?
Now think about how many dads you know. It’s most likely roughly the same amount of friends you have, except Timmy, whose dad went out for cigarettes and never came back. Each of those dads was at one point your age, and they and their friends were probably just like you and your friends, which means they also smoked big fat joints. And what that means is that the man who raised you and was one of the two main sculptors of your entire life was at one point most likely the type of guy who crushed mad herb, and (if they existed) did sweet vape tricks.
If that simple deductive logic wasn’t enough for you, let’s look at my friend Pat. Pat loves smoking fat doobs all the time. Pat wakes up in the morning with a bowl of something green. Pat is basically just really rad. Now let’s take a look at my least cool friend Greg. Greg is a loser and gets no tail, yet Greg still has smoked at least one thick Marley stick at some point in his life. Pat and Greg are both men, which means they are both most likely going to be dads (except maybe if Greg’s a dork who never finds love). Doesn’t it then stand to reason that if these two extremely different, (possibly) future dads have smoked some stank Buddha, then current dads, yours included, smoked stank Buddha at some point as well?
Even if your dad was a Greg there’s still plenty of evidence supporting this dad-weed hypothesis. A year ago I thought my house was empty for the night so I indulged in a little weed. Little did I know that my own father was coming home from seeing a movie by himself after a trip to Home Depot, as dads are wont to do. I was caught off guard and ditched my weed just as he pulled up. He got out of the car and immediately sniffed the air, which dads are also wont to do.
“What’s that smell?” he asked. He then proceeded to lecture me for around 20 minutes on how pot ruined his life. All life lessons aside, let’s think about what that means. My dad knew what weed was from smell alone. My dad admitted to smoking weed. All dads smoke(d) weed.
I know what you’re saying: “That’s your dad. Mine’s different.” And it’s true that my dad may not necessarily fit the bill of most dads (as he listens to lots of Emerson, Lake & Palmer). But let’s take a look at my friend Stan’s dad. Stan’s dad is a sports dad, which means he’s a little more conservative when it comes to drugs. My friend Stan got caught with pot in high school and was grounded big time. How did his dad catch him? By smell. If a sports dad knows the smell of pot, and a rock dad knows the smell of pot, it stands to reason that all dads caught between the two opposite ends of the dad spectrum also know the smell of pot. How do they know that smell? Cause they’ve ripped that kine bud, baby.
Now you’re probably thinking, “Why go through all the trouble to prove all dads everywhere have gotten hella high?” Well, next time it’s your dad’s birthday or Father’s Day, don’t get your dad a tie or some stupid, boxer-endorsed BBQ grill set — that’s lame as fuck. Instead get your pop pot. The two of you can get blitzed together. I hope then it becomes acceptable to get your dad weed for all the major dad-related holidays so that when I become a dad, I can kiss the sky riding on the back of that sweet Mary Jane.