Okay so bear with me this idea is fresh off the brain press but maybe like we can make a website where people who just want to hang out all the time and smoke weed but aren’t like right next to each other can go online and find people who like to smoke weed and they can chat real time like SKYPE you know what i mean man? and like also they can like buy cheap weed and exchange it but totally secret so cops won’t find out and double trouble also they can listen to streaming reggae and share music and stuff and take pictures and edit them with like pot leaves and rasta hats and stuff we could call it bongspace i just need like 1000 dollars to get this started
I thought I’d share a video that Mike Harris made a while back. It’s comedy gold.
Los Angeles, CA - Brian Plouth, UCLA economics student, just recently made the realization that his roommate of 4 months, Chris Wilkins, is actually a wooden barrel.
“It was weird, man. I was hanging out with my buddy Rich [Kleinpfell], and he made some joke about Chris being a ‘barrel of laughter.’ That’s when we both kind of realized that we were hanging out with a wooden barrel. It was like Donnie Darko or some shit.”
Plouth says he should have known when Wilkins would ignore all requests to pay rent, do dishes, go out, or do really anything at all. “I’m pretty sure I was really drunk when I met Chr- uh, the barrel. I told him that my previous roommate had fallen out a window and I needed someone to sublet until the end of the term. I guess it was wishful thinking?”
Friends of Plouth just assumed that he was “going through some dissociative phase, and that he’d come to his senses eventually.” Still, others, like Kleinpfell, were convinced that Wilkins was an actual person. “He just always listened to what you had to say,” the business major said, “Like, I went through a really rough breakup, and he was such a good listener; he never interrupted, or had any objections to what I had to say. It was perfect.”
Wilkins was approached for comment, but seeing as he is a barrel and thus inanimate, he obviously did not say anything.
It started normal enough; I was hungover at a TGI Fridays type place called Baligans. This place had comically large chairs and coffee tables. I was the only person there besides a very large Asian family. I was hungover and just wanted some coffee. They were taking a really long time, as some Open Mic had just started, and dozens of people flocked into the restaurant to perform their songs. I got tired of waiting and took off.
Next thing I know, I’m in the Dominican Republic with my family (note: the family I was with was not my family, nor were they real people I think.) We walked around a bit, and it kind of looked like a port town. I remember being really hungry, but apparently there were no open restaurants or anything.
Eventually, I reach my hostel, which is this weird two story hovel made out of grass or something. I was really pissed off, because I was staying with a bunch of kids, and also because there was no kitchen or graveyard, which had been promised in the Craigslist ad for the place. My dad (not my real dad) was the one who had agreed to stay there; I remembered that I’d been there on a field trip in Jr. High and had stayed at the very same hostel. Deja vu in a dream is really weird.
The Dominican Republic was apparently just a small island (with a population of 300-400) and under severe martial law or something. No one could go anywhere without security clearances and documentation (how we got to go to the Dominican Republic is beyond me). Some people I was staying with were planning on forging said documentation to try and stay and start a rebellion against the regime. I wasn’t really down to do this at all. Frustrated, I went next door (which was connected to the house I was staying in by a long wooden plank), where there were a bunch of little kids.
I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to punch one of the kids in the face. So I did. Everything suddenly devolved into Playstation graphics, and proceeded to enter turn-based combat. It was me vs. 5 or 6 little kids, armed with nothing more than my fists. I had some special move that allowed me to kick more than one at a time that I kept using. Ultimately, I prevailed; graphics became normal again.
I warped back to my house, and someone started crying and thanking me for saving her children, who apparently had been brainwashed by a corrupt general of the regime. Someone staying at my house happened to be a very important diplomat or something, and was able to persuade the general to not enter the house to try and find me. Unfortunately, I was told that basically everyone in the Dominican Republic minus the people at my house now wanted me dead.
As a result I was told to leave the country or be killed. This was tricky, because there was apparently no airport or boats or anything, so I was going to have to swim to Haiti (because apparently they are separate islands). Also, I had packed a lot of things, like a refrigerator (I seem to recall having a conversation with someone in the dream about how the Dominican Republic doesn’t have a lot of stuff, so one is forced to pack all the amenities they may need if they travel there). I offered the divider parts of the fridge to someone, as a gift, because I didn’t like the color.
At this point the dream got really weird and devolved into nothing in particular. I sure hope I made it out alive.
Thanks a lot; any suggestions you could offer would be really appreciated. I’m really stressed about it. Here goes:
Dear Princeton Admissions board,
I am delighted to inform you that I am interested in applying to your Geosciences Program for Graduate School, beginning in the Fall of 2011. I know, I know, stop all the presses, bring out the champagne - everything is going to work out. Big Poppa is coming home, and he’s saved a lot of money on his car insurance.
You might be asking yourself, “But Michael, you’re far too qualified to be enrolling at our mediocre institution.” Well, you thought wrong. Dead wrong. More wrong than two rights, or something like that. I am extremely qualified, true, but when it comes to studying rocks and stuff like that, there’s no place I’d rather be than in New Jersey, the capital of rocks and stuff like that.
So, even though I could probably skip this step and still get into to your Preschool of academia (ha ha), I still feel as though I should act like everybody else and write some essay that designates why I should be going to your school and shit. So here goes:
I come from a land that was, until recently, untouched by time. The Amazon is a dangerous place for a white boy of California descent to grow up, but sometimes you just have to pull up your South American bootstraps (read: we all wear moccasins there) and man up. Hiawatha did it, and so did Mowgli, so fucking a Princeton, so can I. And I did. I worked in a chimney factory for years, sprucing up Victorian era Brazilians homes so that they could have a warm fire during the harsh Southern Hemisphere winters, and by God (Allah? Too PC?) did I make their winters ever-so-warm. We shared hot chocolate, telling stories about the good old days, like when Jesus was still considered a Jew, and bombs were still circular and black with fuses on the top. Those days were easier.
My first explorations outside of the South American jungle took me to the land of Compton, where I became deeply involved in the study of rocks. Rocks in Compton were special: they were white, easy to break, and got you high as shit. I probably smoked ten to twenty rocks a day. It was special, and I learned a lot of valuable life skills. I learned that sometimes you can find receipts in trash cans, and if you’re not too wasted, you can go to the place where that receipt was issued and make a big fuss until they give you some sort of refund. Also, I learned that being good with your tongue is really important when you don’t have a lot of money and need a lot of favors.
I figure that my intense interest in rocks would be nothing short of a serious motherfucking benefit to your institution. While at Princeton, I hope to spend most of my days finding places to acquire new rocks to study, share rocks with wide-eyed Princeton freshmen, and of course, research better ways of understanding the full potential of rocks (hint: the uretha). I hope to maybe expand the science of rocks to children in low socio-economic standings, to help them realize that there is a way out of poverty. Because we all know that when you’ve got enough rocks in you, nothing really matters.
So despite the fact that I do not have a college degree nor a permanent home address, I would hope that you would consider having me attend your somewhat lackluster institution. I eagerly await my acceptance letter.
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