Man, I gotta tell you, I am blitzed. I was watching Danny Danko’s cultivation seminar and I was looking around at the crowd, and for a second it felt like I was human. I got locked into that homosapien mindframe. You know -- whiny. The chair was too small for my ass, you weren’t allowed to blaze inside the building, and most of the discussion was about indoor growing. I got about as much use for that as a salmon has for a walking stick.

I got a little sad. I wished that my friend, Brother Bear could be there. Brother Bear is my smoking buddy back in the Cascades. I originally wanted to bring him, but humans, they’re prejudiced, you know? It was weird enough for me to walk in there, can you imagine if I was accompanied by a 600-pound grizzly? The potheads would soil their board shorts.

He would have tripped hard on what was going on, all this legal pot, and would have been too blissed out to mess with anyone. Brother Bear is like a weed addict, a hibernate-and-bake sort of dude. A funny motherfucker, too, just about the sickest predator I know. Like, you’ll be sitting around and he’ll come out with some crazy shit like, “I ate these Chinese campers once, and an hour later I was hungry again.” He likes to rip hits from this bong he made out of a park ranger’s skull. We’ll get really high and then he’ll hold the skull up and start moving its jaw like it’s a ventriloquist’s dummy and say, “I don’t know Yogi, I think you better give that picnic basket back to them campers.”

Truth is, real bears hate Yogi like real Native Americans hate that Cleveland Indians mascot. Real bears don’t take shit from anyone, especially not no Ranger Rick. Sometimes they take shit from me, though, because in my neck of the woods, I am the O.W.G.—the Original Wilderness Gangster. I’m the apex predator, bitch.

But I made new friends at the Cup. Have you heard of this dabs business? That noise was made for folks like me. When you’re eight feet tall and weigh 400 pounds, joints and bongs are a woefully inefficient method for delivering the vast amounts of THC, CBD and CBN to my system that I need to meet my medical and spiritual needs.

It started when this pretty lady from the Oil Slick booth approached me and asked me if I wanted to treebase. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she looked good saying it, so I said, “Sure.” She took me over to their dab station, sat me down in a chair, put a helmet on my head and then pulled out a blowtorch -- and that totally freaked me out. Ask any critter big or small who calls the woods their home, and they’ll tell you they don’t dig open flame.

But I’ve done dumber shit at the suggestion of less-desirable females, so I went with it. She heated a nail until it was glowing red, then dabbed a bit of shatter on it, and told me to inhale. Let me tell you, when that smoke hit me, it felt like there were thousands of ice cold salmon swimming upstream through my veins and laying millions of cannabinoid eggs in my brain.

Anyway, I’ve enjoyed my time at the High Times Cannabis Cup. Brother Bear, if you’re reading this on some dead hunter’s iPhone, I just want you to know that I miss you, bro. And I do believe that eventually things will change for our kind. Some day humans will understand that predators like us are not their enemy, and we only eat them when they’re acting like assholes.

Or if we’re hungry.

Peace out, bitches.
Squatch