A Horrible Story

Dabbing (Verb): To smoke a highly concentrated form of Marijuana (wax) by burning it on a superheated piece of metal.

“…Just listen, okay? It was 4:19 and I had just gotten off work when Blake called me and asked to meet up which we did—obviously—so I picked up Blake and we were all set to go smoke when he started talking about how we haven’t dabbed in awhile and I agreed that we should do that. But we didn’t have anything to dab with—you know, a nail and a torch; we didn’t even have any wax to be honest, just the bong and weed— the King Louis XVI we bought last night. But we were already set on dabbing so we drive out to the goddamn valley in 100 degree weather and Blake runs into the club and buys a gram of wax and a titanium nail to dab off of.

                “So we start driving back thinking about where we should go to dab because you can’t just go anywhere; you don’t want to be somewhere someone’s going to see you when you have to heat the nail with a jet of fire, when I realize that we didn’t have a torch; so we drive all the way out of the valley and across town to pick up a torch from Smoke Shop®. So we go in and I buy a torch, and butane because they never come filled up; then a bottle of bong cleaner and a metal pick to scrape the wax.

                “The guy that rang us up actually looked like Ben Aflac. Blake told him that and he made a joke about Batman; it was pretty funny.

                “ Anyway, we get the stuff and go, and as we’re walking out I think to check my receipt and realize I had just spent 90 bucks! And so then Blake thinks to check his receipt back in the Car and he spent 120$! But we figured we would be dabbing soon and it would be fine. So we think of the perfect spot—the hill right behind the doctor’s office—and started driving there when goddammit! We don’t have any water for the bong! So I start thinking of any place we could find a hose to use, but we ended up just stopping—again—and spent another three bucks on a bottle at a gas station.

                “So it’s nearly 8:30, we’re finally there and the bong’s out and I go to grab the bong cleaner out of the brown paper bag Ben Aflac gave us and what do you know it’s not there! So we decide, ‘fuck it’, and we sit down and set the nail up in the bong’s mouth and scoop up a glob of wax when Blake tells me that the nail is wobbling in place and won’t get as great air flow, but I pushed it down more and it fight tight so Blake started torching it at the head until the nail was red hot and hands it to me to hit and then Bam! It just broke right there in my hand and the nail dropped to the floor still red hot. And we both just looked at it for a minute in disbelief until I put the bong down and started looking for the pieces that broke off—Blake told me not to and that there was no chance of putting it back together but I did anyway and it turns out that it broke clean into two little pieces and we were able to tape them back together with a miracle piece of scotch tape on the brown bag Ben gave us and the bowl fit back in perfectly, so after spending all that time and cash to dab we just ended up smoking the King Louis.”

                “You told me all of that just to tell me that you broke our bong?” Marcus said, more angry than confused.

                “No, I told you that to tell you that we broke our bong,” Everett flicked his finger back and forth between Blake and himself, “and that we can still smoke out of it.” Everett took the taped bong out of the bag and started packing it.

                God, you guys fucking suck!” Marcus slid down in his patio chair. “I guess it could be worse though—at least we’re not out of weed.”