My roommate had a bag of Funyuns. I had a bag of Nacho Cheese flavored Doritos. My other friend had brought over a bag of Sour Cream Ruffles with ridges that he mistakenly left on the coffee table the night before next to the bong, the rolling tray, and the dab rig. There was a Domino’s pizza box with a couple slabs left over, too. We heated up the pizza and placed one slice on two separate plates, then as a side dish, combined three handfuls of each style of chip and mixed them all together. We called this dinner a Pot-Purri.

One time my cat, whose name is Todd, nibbled a bud that had somehow trickled its way underneath the recliner where it sat undiscovered for months. Well, when Cannabis gets aged, the THC slowly degrades into CBN through oxidization creating a very relaxed, sedated result when used. So, when the effects started to take hold, Todd proceeded to find his favorite spot in the crib atop the pile of dirty laundry right next to the water heater in the pantry and didn’t move for 14 hours other than to get up, take a drink of water, dine on some Fancy Feast, and poop. There were a couple times we thought to take his pulse to make sure he was still alive if it weren’t for the continuous vibrating circadian motor in his chest accentuated by an unmistakable Cheshire smile. We call this Pot-Purri.

And by the way, last time I was in World Market I saw a $16.00 bag of dried bark and walnut shells that smelled like grandma’s foot deodorant. They called that Potpurri.

It didn’t even get us stoned.

What in the hell is this world coming to?