Politically correct
Sometime between the 2nd and the 3rd joints is when you tend to reflect best on things that may not even titillate 1/2 a neuron otherwise. Maybe a visit to the shit-pot comes in a close second. But the kick you get out of weed invariably makes you think hard over matters of least importance.
Last time me and a few other friends got together for a smoke, we decided to set right something which had been eccentric for a long time, given the women’s liberation and all that zatang stuff that Cosmo writes about. Henceforth
Life is a son of a bitch.
Come on. The ladies after all need their fair share in everything.
Peace out!
