Vices we love: A harrowing confession

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

A harrowing confession

I'm no good at sugar-coating things, so I'll just get right to the point, which is:

I have never smoked pot.

Now, I realize this makes me the only person in the Western Hemisphere under the age of 65 never to have done so. Really.

Our stoner ex-president? Done it.
Your family physician? Prescribed it.
The preacher? Condemned people for doing it. And done it.
The baby? He has the giggles.
Your little girl? She got the munchies again.
The child you'll deliver in two months? Check that sonogram REALLY closely.

Not I however. I say this with not a little amount of shame and feel the need to explain myself.
You see, being the small sickly sort, I realized early on that the only way I will get by in the world is with my brains and boozy insincere charm. As well as my genuine bitterness. Pot was not necessarily going to endanger these qualities, but from what I have seen it does not enhance them either.
My fellow students in high school fell into three categories: Oppressors, oppressed and outcasts. I was an outcast with oppressed tendencies.

The oppressors were the football players, the cheerleaders, the guys who were on a first-name basis with steroids and STD's. Oh how we envied them! We still do of course. We long for them to mock and rule us-hence we elect them to the White House.

The oppressed were the usual suspects: Black kid, Indian kid, cancer kid and anyone caught hanging out with them. Their presence taught legions of healthy white kids that even if they shtupped their cat in the outhouse every night (where do you think "more than one way to skin a cat" comes from?)and had no prospects beyond the local military recruiter, they were still better than other people.

The outcasts were the ones you wanted to oppress but couldn't because they didn't give a shit either way. This drove the oppressors up the wall as new and innovative ways were devised in hopes of garnering some attention and they all failed. I hung out with them but the accent and headgear made for easy oppression.

In hanging out with these kids, I realized that the only way they got through the day was pot. Blissfully stoned, their daily degredations washed away in a sea of artificial bliss and levity. I wanted in on the action. But couldn't, and this conversation illustrates why:

Me: "Yadda yadda yadda ad nauseam."
(25 hour pause)
Pothead: "Huh."
Me: "I said yadda yadda ad nauseam."
(75 day pause.)
Pothead: "Dude. You're way harshing my mellow."

This conversation should tell you five things:
1. I am way to stubborn to be a pothead. To be a pothead means being stubborn about nothing except getting pot.

2. I am so annoying even the potheads wanna beat me up.

3. Pot does not equate brain power.

4. Potheads can't be bothered with faking charm so they're not getting anywhere.

5. I don't get potheads. Or anything/anyone else really.

Which takes us to Silesia. I don't live here on a permanent basis. My chance of doing so is about the same as my chances of moving back to Korea. Maybe less. Which means that in a few weeks, if I manage to get a summer camp job in the UK, I'll be off. If not, I'll sulk and drink warka. Or just sulk.

My students, on the other hand, do live here. And considering the level of education that takes place at my Uni, they ain't going nowhere. Hence, it is understandable that they don't show up for class and when I see them around town, a good percentage of them smell very much like Jamaica Station did in Queens. I don't condone it, to quote a wise angry black midget, but I understand.

I do kids. Really. But remember- I will always be an outcast.
And all the oppressors are snitches for the Man.
And the Man smokes pot just like you. But he can't admit it.

2 Comments:

Blogger peemil said...

*Paranoid*

11:40 AM  
Blogger asiatown77 said...

Dude, that's totally PCP.
Or so I've heard.

11:47 PM  

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