Share your stoner stories

Hi guys,

I always love a good story.

So here is a thread for anyone wanting to share their stoner stories.
Be it funny anecdotes from the past, exotic travels, grows, exciting smuggling stories, growing stories,...etc.

Just anything related to our beloved plant.
Please go ahead and share your tales with us.

Thanks

Around here bud and driving seem to often go hand in hand.
When I was younger I absolutely hated the feeling the bud gave me as all I wanted was more energy!!!
Few years ago I went back to trying bud and found that I actually loved the feeling.
Couple of my weaknesses is over-excitedness and overindulgence. Also at the time I dabbled a little in amateur photography.
So combine these 3 and here is me at, not quite legal, car meet in an underground park, with guys doing burnouts, making as much noise as they can in an abandoned underground car park in the middle of the city.
I was taking photos, enjoying my time and then I think, I should take some photos of the car that actually got me there. I’m sure the guy would appreciate some nice shots to put on his social media. And guess what, absolutely stoned and over excited me could not find the car!!!!!
After few moments looking around I was pointed out that… the car… was next to me…
Known as a person that doesn’t alter their state of mind, due to most of often riding a bike (as in - motorcycle) I was able to hide, how badly stoned I actually was ?
Nothing overly crazy – but a memory I do like revisit now and then…

Great story, thanks for sharing.

back in school daze handful of us skipped musta been a first timer in the circle. she sat there frozen didnt say a word then it came exorcist type projectile vomit and i think she had a whole lotta orange drink just before

big315smooth said:

back in school daze handful of us skipped musta been a first timer in the circle. she sat there frozen didnt say a word then it came exorcist type projectile vomit and i think she had a whole lotta orange drink just before

Click to expand...

Chika must have overdone it. I've seen something like that happen once, but that was mixed with quite a bit of drinking. Smelling (not snorting) handfull of crushed peppercorns helps to level someone whos gone a bit too high

Destructo-beer

Destructo-beer

Just after graduating highschool three buddies and I went for a weekend “trip” to his grandmothers farm in the country.

Saturday morning we loaded up fishing gear and some goodies for the day. Enroute to the river access (parking lot of the local conservation area) we dropped some LSD, ate some shrooms, and fired up a spliff of some homegrown I’d produced that fall. Needless to say we were blazing.

On arrival we fumbled to get fishing gear in order and finally made it to the stream, wading in knee deep water. while fishing we all entered our own little worlds and slowly drifted apart. Out of nowhere a huge storm drops in, wind started screaming, lightning flashing, trees blowing over on the banks left and right. I climbed into an old drainage pipe on the bank (not smart in hindsight) and eventually the storm passed. After, we all wandered back towards the car and regrouped wondering to each other aloud “what the heck happened, where did you guys go?” Turned on the radio in the car and apparently a tornado had come through and there was lots of flash flooding in the area.

Laughed it off, pulled out the quart jar full of weed from the cooler, and rolled a fatty. We dug into the beers at a fast pace then as the psychedelics started really kicking in. Rain started back up but we could’ve cared less. My buddy gets his frisbee out, we commence play, and before we know it we’re standing 30m apart in two teams of two launching the frisbee at each other’s beers set up like targets. If your beer gets hit you snap it up and slam the remainder then get a fresh one.

Out of nowhere a conservation agent pulls up and gets out. We’re standing in the rain, shorts, t-shirts and sandals playing this crazy game and thinking how ridiculous this must look to the man. He saw we had fishing poles and was really intent on making sure we weren’t fishing illegally. Asks for licenses, then says can I check your cooler for fish. Crap! He rummages through the cooler, PICKS UP THE JAR OF WEED and we’re all thinking oh no! He moves it to the side and continues looking for fish. HE PICKS IT BACK UP AND REPLACES IT WHERE IT HAD BEEN then turns and asks what the hell we were doing out here in the weather.

As my buddy explained we were just hanging out playing frisbee the agent comments on the beer and asks who is driving. My buddy pipes up says “me” so the agent asks how many he’s had. No idea the number he makes something up and says “about six”. Agent asks what time we started drinking. Still no clue my buddy takes a stab and says “probably about 10am”. Agent replies “you know it’s only 10:15?” I started cracking up then the agent gets serious with me and I’m telling myself whatever you do don’t take off your sunglasses. Then he asks “why are you wearing sunglasses, it’s cloudy and raining?” I slowly take them off and mutter something but I’m thinking the whole time my pupils must be huge black saucers. He knew something was off but couldn’t put his finger on it lol.

Eventually he told us to be safe, slow down the drinking, and went on about his business. That day was one for the books and a new past time was born “Destructo-beer”!!!!

The winter of 1990. I was just coming out of my divorce dark period and I wanted some sun. A buddy was in a similar situation so we booked a trip to Hedonism II in Negril, Jamaica. Our intent was to stay stoned the entire time and enjoy the sun and the nekkid wimmins. Our first buy was in the Montego Bay airport parking lot as we walked to the resort bus. Some leaf and some tar. During the drive, I rolled one and we started smoking until the bus driver yelled at us: “There be no smokin’ erb on the bus, mon!”

We had a ball as the two major stoners amongst the frisky swingers who haunted the resort. There was also a big group of randy college kids from New Jersey. We smoked whenever and wherever we wanted – except in the dining hall - nobody cared. We shared with anybody that drifted near us and we had fun watching newcomers sit down, puff with us for 10 minutes and then pass out in the sun. Amateurs. When we needed a re-supply, we found a dealer who sold herb was always at a crossroads just outside the gate of the resort.

After a day or two of oblivion, we decided to break out of our all-inclusive cocoon and go to the main part of Negril Beach. A few inquiries connected us with a rasta who took us to his beach shack to cook us some mushroom tea while he showed us how to roll a joint Jamaica style. He didn’t share but we were just dumbass tourists anyway and we were already blitzed. This beach area is probably all expensive resorts now but it was pretty cool selection of ramshackle huts back then. As the shrooms kicked in, we went back to the beach to smoke some more herb in the sun and to parasail! Yes, you have not truly enjoyed a Caribbean beach until you have parasailed stoned completely out of your gourd.

We finished our day by walking 5 miles or so back to our resort in the beach surf, smoking joints and quaffing Red Stripe beer conveniently sold by ladies on the shore.

It was a fun week.

All such great stories! Please keep the stories coming.

I'm sure I shared this before, but I love this story.

I grew some weed one time that I'm very proud of. It was one of my first crosses and it was bomb. Seedsman Hash Plant x C99. I still kick myself for not saving a cut.

Anyway, this shit was fire. One hit in the bong and your eyes would involuntarily close as you let it out (if you didn't hack up a lung.)

My bro called me up and asked if I was willing to let some go. He was a real bro and I said sure, I'll drop you a quarter oz.

So I roll up and walk into his garage. There are a few people I knew, one mutual friend, another dude I had met before and this cute neighbor chick I had met before.

My bro immediately rolls this fat joint and proceeds to fire it up. He passes it to to this dude, and I tell him "That's some mean shit, it will grab you by the boo boo, so be careful." He looks at me and says "I smoke the best shit money can buy." My bro just laughs and says "Don't say the man didn't warn you!"

Anyway, dude hits that shit like it's mids, and just about coughs up a lung. I just smile, and my bro laughs.

So the joint goes around a few times. After the 3rd hit, the chick say "I'm done." and sits down. We continue hitting on it and after another hit or so, our mutual friend waves off. "I'm done too."

So it's me, my bro and Mr. "I smoke the best shit money can buy." By now, dude is looking a little green, but his pride is on the line. He manages one more hit before finally giving up. Me and my bro each hit it a couple more times before he puts out a nice fat roach.

The neighbor chick decides she needs to go home. We watch hew wobble off down the alley, and starts climbing the stairs up to her apartment. She gets halfway up the steps and sits down. She sat there about 10 minutes before she can make it the rest of the way up the steps.

Mr. "I smoke the best shit money can buy" is looking pretty pale. I was sure he was gonna puke. He accuses me of lacing the weed. My bro steps up and tells him no, it's just pot, and my bro here warned you before you smoked it to be careful.

Dude couldn't drive home and had to call his wife to come get him. She was fucking pissed off. He still swore it had to be laced. My bro told him that if he was buying the best shit money could buy, he was getting ripped off, cause this was just weed.

I never get tired of telling this story!

Ok so this was back in the early 90's, I was working at a golf course. Great job, start at 4am and done by 1, plenty of time for other fuckery. I'm riding around mowing fairways and smoking joints in the summer sun getting paid was great. Fancy 20k a year club mind you..

There was this OLD japanese couple that played every day and they would hit the ball 12 ft, push their bags the 12 feet and hit the ball another 12 feet. Must have been 20 strokes to the hole for them.

We were growing NLHaze back then and I had just harvested some nice pot. I had one rolled in my cigarette pack and was just waiting for this couple to pass so I could fire up. Well I pulled off the fairway under a tree and waited. These folks were sloooooow!

I got off the fairway mower and left it running wide open. Figured I would lean down and take a rip while the couple played through. So I fire this thing up and take a monster hit. I try and hold it in and it comes out in a coughing fit. I tried to stand and peek over the mower to see how close they were and that's all I remember.

Next thing I know is something is pushing into my gut. I open my eyes and achieved focus to see the Japanese man and his wife standing over me poking me with a club. I started to get up and realized the joint was burning in my left hand and the lighter in the right. The mower is going waaaaaaah at full chat. I flicked the joint away and apologized to the couple and asked them not to tell. They nodded happily and started toward the green, but not before stopping to pick up the joint I flicked.

I stood there and watched a 90+ year old little japanese couple walk down the fairway passing my joint between them. They must have gotten rocked as that was wicked pot. I continued on, high as giraffe butt giggling about them poking me with the club haha what a day.

They always waved wildly when the saw me. One of my last days there I gave them a sack of buds and they were so happy. I asked them if they liked my weed and the wife just says weeeeeeeeeee!

Ahahaha this is right good laugh ??

I was still asleep when posted that lol

A former friend from Thailand was a student in Fairbanks at UAF back around 1980.

A mutual friend of ours from Belgium had eaten a few too many wavy mushrooms that evening, and the persons with her weren't sure if it was a medical emergency situation, or not, but decided to err on the side of caution.

As the evening unfolded, the Director of Security at UAF at that time, a serious dweeb if ever there was, right down to the light beige trench coat, tear-drop 1972 helicopter pilot shades, and the .38 Colt snub-nose in the pancake holster, he was also Quantico FBI Academy graduate (which always puzzled us, as his job as Director of Campus Security had him being the ONLY guy on campus who could carry a duty firearm, other than the liaison State Trooper, who was a whole lot more real human being with actual experience than our resident Quantico grad Director) with a serious penchant to have been born in a comic book some place as Dick Tracy, had his unarmed security officers (mostly students employed as security officers) pick up our friend from Thailand, as his name had come up in the investigation into excess mushroom consumption.

Our Thai friend, scant on stature, an under-nourished vegetarian by economic disposition, and wearing the more common hippy duds of the day for the average imported Interior Alaska hippy community (green military fatigue pants, plaid wool shirt over a t-shirt, with a wool sweater over all of that, and likely a parka and some mukluks), was summoned into the Director of Security's lair, to hold court over what he knew of the suspected mushrooms, and WHEN, exactly, he knew it..

In classic (predictable) red-neck dialect, the Director called our Thai buddy back into his office by immediately demonstrating the Director was cursed with the all-too-common American 'struggle' to pronounce any names not familiar to the 4 incestuous residents of the Holler in what ever part of uneducated America the Director had come from.

Our then-friend from Thailand drove an old panel van that he sometimes lived in, with full-size posters of Jimmy Hendrix, Mao Tse Tung, and Albert Einstein.. He wore an electrical alligator clip on a hand-braided lanyard around his neck, otherwise known as a 'roach clip' back then.

The good Quantico-grad Director asked our Thai friend about the alligator clip he was wearing on his neck, and the good gentleman from Thailand stood, and began to confidently explain to the Director of Security that he had come from Thailand to study physics in the great State of Alaska, at the fine School at University of Alaska-Fairbanks, and that as a physics major (which he was) he was required to test many things.

Our friend then proceeded to attach his roach clip to a variety of items in the Director of Security's office, and paused at each moment as though he were ascertaining some sort of electrical current or signal from each item he attached his alligator clip to.

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The moral of that story is this; even when dealing with red-neck marauders from hell, you can act as off-the-wall as you wish, and emerge unscathed, laugh it off, and go to visit your tripping friend in the clinic -after- you get high, -after- leaving the Security office..

JUST -NEVER- ADMIT TO ANY CRIMINAL ACTIVITY!!!

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Every year, tens of thousands students head to Florida for March break. Canadian high school students are no different and in 1973, dozens of the ‘jock’ crowd in my high school were making plans for Fort Lauderdale. We decided that we didn’t want to join this sun and puke party so to be different; we set our sights on New Orleans. And since we were poor students, we packed a tent, a Coleman stove and a cooler and 3 of us set off south in Brian’s mother’s Camaro. He was the long haired one. Jim came along as well – he was my original dealer who became my best friend after I didn’t turn him in when I was busted a few years earlier.

All went well until we got over the bridge at the Windsor/Detroit border crossing. We were directed to inspection and they stripped us and the car looking for drugs. It turns out that they found some seeds in the crease of the fold down front seats. It was one of those areas of the car that you never think to vacuum, y’know? They proceeded to question and strip search us individually - thankfully no bend over search was included though. They went through our luggage, the whole car . . . etc etc. Two hours of this nonsense. Thankfully, we weren’t stupid and we didn’t have any contraband so they eventually let us through with a stern warning and we barreled on down I-75.

After an overnight in a dumpy roadside hotel outside of Nashville, we finally ended up in the Deep South the next day. We saw shotguns in pick-up truck windows, shiny new Lincolns parked beside tar-paper shacks . . . all of the stereotypes flashed by as we drove through flooded woods and swamps in Mississippi, giving us our first glimpse of Spanish moss. We ended up in a lonely KOA Campground in Biloxi. We were drugless, but we had lots of beer and that sun was really warm.

After a few days we pulled up stakes and drove into New Orleans. Now if you have been to New Orleans in the last couple of decades, you will know that while it is certainly not crimeless, the tourist zone is pretty safe. In the early 70s, the Quarter was a wee bit rougher. We decided that an afternoon visit would give us a chance to reconnoiter and we could go back in the evening. Much of Bourbon Street was still asleep when we walked it but there was one seedy bar called Papa Joe’s that had a stripper lazily walking a U shaped bar, so we went in and ordered a draft beer for some exorbitant price. The stripper certainly wasn’t worth the surcharge.

Then things got weird. Halfway through our beers, Brian nudged me and said: “Are you getting off?” And yes, I was. All of us – very experienced stoners btw - were blitzed on half a draft beer. WTF? We bolted.

We hit the street in a daze and headed south to the river to get away from the bar and to get some fresh air in the sun. We were nicely stoned for 2 hours. On what? That was the question of the day and the only answer that we could ever come up with was that the bartender slipped something in our beers. I assume that if we had finished them, the staff would have found some excuse to empty our wallets.

Needless to say, this freaked us out a bit, so we spent the night at the KOA in Kenner without going back into the city. This was a much busier campground and we tried to be friendly with other campers but they were not having any of it. The next day we retreated to our haven in Biloxi. I won’t go on about how the owner befriended us or about his dark-haired French Canadian daughter Chantelle who kept us drooling all week.

Anyways, on our last night, we scored a lid of pot! Yes, Brian went in to a local pool hall in Biloxi and like an absolute hero, he came back with the goods. We smoked our faces off that night. It was just OK pot – cheap Mexican or something but it did the trick.

The next morning, we rolled the rest of the lid into joints for the drive and headed north. Taking turns at the wheel, we drove straight through to Toledo, Ohio with only fuel and food stops, gradually working our way through our stash of joints and beer. I think it was Brian that went through a paranoid phase at one point. We were approaching a tollbooth and he freaked and started throwing beer cans out of the window and yelling that we were going to get caught by the highway patrol. We didn’t of course. Which was amazing . . .

Outside of Toledo we found a car wash that was open at 6 am. We vacuumed the car – including the seat crease. We didn’t want to risk another border problem. The kid running the car wash was delighted to accept our last 2 joints. We had had enough and we were smoked out and exhausted. As it turned out, our caution was not needed because we were waved through customs and I drove the rest of the way home without any issues. Just over 24 hours point to point.

Teenaged angst. John quarreled with Sharon about Gary and decided to leave town and forget all about her.
Except he was a stoner with neither job nor money. Dope he had, and after a joint of enhancement came up with the answer.

Banks have money. Firing up another joint he and his buddy put on a whole lot of thick pancake makeup until they no longer recognized each other underneath the garishly bright layers of red, orange. green, and some color that was supposed to be green like dope but turned out more like green the puke.
The robbery went down great, about $6,000 which served their immediate interest, a plane ticket out of town.
Down hill followed. The surveillance camera was black and white, completely ignoring the bright primary colors. In our neighborhood it was "Look, John robbed a bank." Front page picture, fine focus and no identity question at all.

Why not? I gave him a ride to the airport and chatted while in line for a ticket. Almost immediately after the purchase the FBI came out and handcuffed the lot of us.

Me being a young smart ass at the time I jumped through the cuffs so my hands were now in front of me.
Yes, I was fairly stoned.
"Must not be tight enough." the agent calmed commented as he squeezed the cuffs to where dents were left in the bone.

During the individual questioning the agent held out a stainless steel can with a half ounce of organic matter inside and a label stating "NOT BUNK".
"What's the difference?" he asks.
"Takes less" I answered.

"Not my concern" he finishes. He then takes off the cuffs, hands me back my stash, and sends me on my way.

My buddy only served three years while I was lucky and walked.

We were teenagers though, and definitely not known for intelligent forethought.
I did take away a lesson from this, "Do not smart off when helpless in handcuffs." Good advice to this day.

All such great amazing stories. Thanks all for sharing.
Please keep the stories coming.