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© 1997-TEOTWAKi - Chuckles the Sane, f.a.l.  All rights reserved.

 

Hiding Your Weed

The government's irrational and deceptive opinion on the illegality of marijuana is fairly specific in its insistence that you can't leave your stash lying on the coffee table next to your High Times Magazine, Pot Smoker's Guide to the Galaxy and packet of one-point-fives.  I suppose you probably could, but that would be a shining example of glaring stupidity portrayed to an unnatural degree--and I have more faith in you than that.  Try to have some sense and everything will be groovy. 

After procuring pot, a rational and cautious person would be finding a place to stash their stash.  Evil terrocrats lurk about flashing badges, puffing chests and kicking in doors.  They will confiscate your weed, beat your ass, and lock you up in a dark hole with criminals and big hairy men who think you'd give some mean head-- if they don't accidentally murder you in the course of "due process."

 

The first time you need to concern yourself with the whereabouts of your wonder-weed is right after the hook-up.  The Man never asks you "paper or plastic," and they don't have a little man in an apron to carry it out to your car for you.

If you buy less than an ounce, you are best advised to stuff the baggie down your trousers on the way home.  It is there that your weed will bond and become your friend, formally dictating its destiny to make you a happy, hempy camper.  If you don't believe in ganja-karma, and choose to discredit weed bonding as a massive load of lemur offal, at least take solace in the fact that most male cops are too involved in substantiating their machismo to be caught fondling another man's winkie- zone, even in the line of duty.  It is to your advantage that they believe such practices are best kept to jail cells, career-advancement opportunities, and the occasional election fund-raiser.  Women are advised to use their imagination and, in the event of a police frisk, scream, "Watch where you're putting your hands there, Mr. Perv and Protect!  You're a public servant, not a gynecologist," for all the world to hear and testify to later.  If it fails to improve your situation, it could still provide instant amusement and a story for your girls' nights out.

The chagrin initiated by the thought of pot stuffed in your drawers often pales in comparison to the possible reflections upon a variety of other items which may be stuffed in your underwear during a stint in the slammer.  Keep your weed in your bleached cotton leisure gear or wherever else you've ensconced it until you get home.

Don't stop a the gas station to tinkle.  Don't pass go.  Don't collect two hundred dollars for part of the bag.  Try not to go to jail.  Go home and do one of these things:

    • Locate, borrow or pilfer a good thick book.  Cut a vaguely rectangle-shaped section out of about 150 pages or until your little "dugout" is large enough to stash your pot.  Hide the weed inside and put it on a bookshelf, on top of the fridge or anywhere else high up and inconspicuous.  Old phone books work exceedingly well, but don't leave it anywhere near the phone.  To do so may result in multiple inconveniences and improvident cavity searches--like when the cops are raiding your house and one of them wants to order a pizza while his cronies are demolishing your formerly happy and humble abode.  A Bible would also make a great "dugout" hiding place, if you don't mind trading the jail time you avoided for a longer sentence in hell.  Granted, nobody in their right mind is going to flip through King James's Christian Chronicles in search of a bit of ganja, but better safe than scorched.
 
    • Buy a spice rack and find somewhere else to put the oregano.  Break up your weed, dump the seeds and stems and store it in the container on the spice rack.  What's the worst that can happen?  You never know, your significant other might come over one night and cook the hell out of some spaghetti.  Don't get me wrong, I think spaghetti sauce alá Chef Boyarweed would be a thing to behold, but with the government breathing down our necks, it's just too friggin' expensive to be dicking around with it like that.  Jeezus man, try to have a little sense about the whole thing.  If you are a bachelor, or have an S/O who can't cook, this is a perfectly viable option.
     
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      • Hide it in the soap.  Cut a bar of Ivory soap in half from end to end.  Use a thin, sharp knife to make things a bit easier.  Hollow out the two halves while still leaving the walls thick enough that the whole thing doesn't collapse on you.  Try to leave about half an inch or more on all sides.  Put your baggie of weed into the dugout and reconstruct your bar of soap.  Wet your finger and rub the cut line until it disappears.  This is a this is a complete and thorough pain in the ass, but almost foolproof.  It's not damnfoolproof, but as close as you could ever hope to get without involved engineering, meticulous planning and subcontracted assistance.  This is THE way to take a half ounce of weed with you on vacation.  Just put the soap back in the box and throw it in your luggage alongside your toothbrush, deodorant and foot powder.

       
      • Don't be so damn paranoid and put your pot in a place that is both easy to reach and not particularly obvious.  Unless you've bought a brick of buds, are the subject of an ongoing investigation, have been ordering pot seeds via USSA mail and couldn't think of a better place for your bong collection than the mantel over the living room fireplace, this is usually the most rational approach.
     
      • Say to hell with it and smoke it all. Smoke the shit out of it.  Smoke it like there's no tomorrow.  Just sit down, roll yourself the mother of all bomber-joints and smoke it down to the nub.  Suck the bottom out of the bong and break out the vaporizer.  Get giggly, giddy, love-thy-neighbor, hug the dog, and denounce your carniverous habits, roasty-toasty, where the hell are the Pop-Tarts?, fooschnickered off your bootie.  Go ahead--do it.  We double-dog dare you.

     

     

    Don't Forget where you've stashed your stash, stoner.