If in doubt, follow the weed edible golden rule: Take no more than the recommended dosage and then wait 20-30 minutes. Literally just follow the instructions. And for the love of god if you’re going to leave them laying around you’ve got to label them. Now follow these rules, be safe, and have fun out there.
8. On the job.
So this was actually last Wednesday to be clear. I work at a tire shop. About two months ago a customer came in after her vehicle was finished and asked me if I would take some weed brownies if she brought them over. I said well yes of course ! I even told my boss and he just laughed it off. Fast forward to last Wednesday I’m sitting on a stack of rims eating my Korean BBQ for lunch. She walks in with a bag of brownies sliced into small square cubes. I divide them amongst my two coworkers evenly and I eat one piece (she advised one piece would be plenty.) the smart guy I am. I waited bout 15 minutes and said jeez these are weak ! So I ate about 4 more pieces. Two hours later I might as well be a vegetable. Can’t even speak a full sentence. Got hit in the head with the hood of a balancing machine so hard that I literally went to the bathroom mirror to make sure I didn’t have a huge dent on my scalp. Could barely do any work and grew more paranoid by the minute. Could not wait to go home. Also at the end of the day I as having a smoke with my manager and I told him I ate the brownies at lunch. He was pretty mad, but I figure I’d tell him because my eyes were as red as the devils dick.
7. High, hungry. I’m dad.
At the time, my grandmother (bless her heart) was in the middle of kicking cancers ass (recently just got confirmation she is cancer free, fuck yeah!). Being the loving grandson I am, I began to think of alternative ways to combat the illness. After consulting with a local medicine man, I had my hands on some medicated honey. Thinking my grandma would love the idea of feeling at ease while drinking her morning/evening tea. Instead, being the born and raised catholic lady she is, she called it the “devils work” and declined. So, I held onto the bottle for awhile. After my father took a tumble and was suffering from headaches and restlessness at night, I decided to give him some of the medicated honey to help out. After telling him “eat a meal, drink some water and have a teaspoon with your tea an 1-2 hours before you’re going to sleep. Instead, the poor man, just took a spoonful of the honey and went to sleep. Now, this honey just sat in his system for roughly 7 hours, he got up, went through his morning routine and on his way to work he got hit with a flying right hook from your dear old friend THC. He was now high as a kite and starting work. My dad has never tried any form of weed so this freaked the hell out of him. Everyone talked slow to him, had a case of the giggles during a meeting and he had ran to the corner store twice to fulfill his cravings for beef jerky. Ended the day fine and had a beautiful sleep that evening. Luckily we have a good relationship and we laughed about it the next day. I think it is safe to say though, he will not be dipping his feet in the marijuana waters for awhile.
6. I will remember you.
I had ground up some medical MJ in the blender (for making edibles – I have insomnia and don’t smoke. You can’t get edibles where I live) and didn’t wash it. I decided to have a smoothie for late, late breakfast and used the blender, of course. I decided to go to the gym to steam and do some running but waited a bit as I was answering some emails. I guess I took a bit too long and headed out. Traffic was slow just around the corner from the gym and I saw that there was a County Sheriff sobriety check point. I don’t drink so no biggy. They were taking their sweet time just having drivers wind down the window and chatting “politely” with them to see how Thanksgiving weekend wasted they might be. I looked in the rearview mirror and then suddenly out of nowhere, the stone hit me. I was fucked the fuck up. It took me a moment to realize what the problem was, but then I got it: blender, weed, mushroom stoned. I pulled up to the Deputy and buzzed down my window. He shone a light into the car and greeted me. “Good evening, sir. Have we been drinking this evening?” (I bilked at the “we” part – a pet peeve of mine.) Nope. I don’t drink. I’m going to work out. “O.K., sir. Happy Holidays – here’s a pen, have a nice evening.” He handed me a pen with the name of the Sheriff’s dept on it. In what seemed like eons, I held it, looked at it and then for some reason, and I do not know why the fuck I did this, I said: “Thanks, deputy. When I use this, I will always think of you.” His smile disappeared and he looked at me quizzically. I thought that I was screwed, but somehow I mustered the wherewithal to buzz up the window, and then slowly drive on. I tried not to check the rearview, but couldn’t help myself. He was staring at my car as I drove as cautiously as possible into the distance.
5. The in-laws.
Recently, I traveled to Denver, Colorado with my wife and my wife’s parents. As a resident of a non-legalized state — and as someone who is too much of a pussy to regularly buy illegal drugs — the thing I was looking forward to most was the chance to buy fancy legal weed. What could possibly go wrong?
So the first thing I do upon arriving (and after successfully ditching the in-laws) is drag my wife to a nearby dispensary for a shopping spree. And oh my god, it was just like in my dreams. Tons of different options in neat little sample jars and a team of helpful stoners walking me through the various strains:
“Are you looking for a mellow body high? Or do you want something that gives you a bit more pep and energy? Or are you just hoping for something light to take the stress off?”
“Yes, yes and yes!” I reply eagerly, like a fat kid in a candy store, and request an eighth-ounce of about 7 different options. In hindsight, if I learned anything from this experience, it is that my math and science teachers never taught me basic information, like “what is an ounce?” or “how much weed can a person consume in a single weekend?” Sure, I can tell you when two speeding trains leaving separate stations will collide or recite Avogadro’s Number, but it turns out that none of that information is particularly relevant to getting high in a responsible and efficient manner.
And it was at this dispensary that I also learned that you can’t actually smoke in public places (including the hotel that my wife and I were staying at). As a result, before leaving, I begged my wife to buy some edibles that I could munch on until we found a place to properly get lit. After expressing shock as to the absurd volume of drugs that we were buying (unlike me, she is the product of private school and understands the Imperial measurement system) she relents, and we walk out of the store with what felt like a dump truck of weed plus a small package of seemingly-innocuous gingersnap cookies.
When we finally get back to the hotel room, I tear those bad boys open… only to find about a dozen tiny cookies roughly the size of a quarter. What the fuck, Denver? Seeing the skepticism (and hunger) in my eyes, my wife warns me that I should go easy and look at the back of the package first before trying one.
“Dose size: 1/2 cookie,” I read silently as I start taking micro-bites from the edges, like a giant chinchilla gnawing on a sunflower seed. But what kind of a savage only eats half a cookie? So a second later, I covertly pop the remainder into my mouth.
And then I quickly stuff another two cookies in my mouth for good measure the moment my wife turns her back. We may not have legal weed back home, but I routinely devour an entire package of Milanos in one sitting without breaking a sweat. Your move, tiny gingersnaps.
About 30 minutes later we are in the backseat of her parents’ rental car on the way to dinner. And that’s when things start to go tits-up. My stomach growls. Loudly and angrily. My wife looks at me with inquisitive eyes that seem to say “Diarrhea?” But I merely clutch my tummy and mumble something about altitude sickness.
“You didn’t eat a whole cookie, did you?” she asks, 10% in genuine concern and 90% in seething irritation.
“Of course not.” I respond, avoiding eye contact for the remainder of the car ride.
A few minutes later we are climbing out of her parents’ rental car and heading into some trendy farm-to-table restaurant. I don’t remember how I made it to my seat, and I don’t remember even looking at the menu, but I do remember the concerned look on the waiter’s face as he asked me if I was doing alright.
“Keep it together, man,” I say to myself. But my wife’s sudden groan suggests that I may have also said that to the waiter. Things are going downhill fast.
The waiter nods sympathetically, takes our orders, and then heads to the next table.
The moment he walks away, my wife is staring daggers at me. I start to worry that the jig is up.
“You are sweating… from your entire face,” she says with both pity and disgust. Not quite knowing what to do, I reach for my napkin and proceed to blot my cheeks, nose, neck, chin and forehead.
At this point, my wife’s mom looks over at me with some concern. “Are you alright?” she asks kindly.
“Yeah, the food’s just a bit spicy,” I reply, far too quick to realize that we had literally just ordered and that there is nothing on the table except for a basket of dinner rolls.
My wife kicks me under the table to grab my attention. “Bathroom. Now.” she hisses. “Get it together.” I reluctantly get up from the table and head for the toilet. After splashing several handfuls of water on my face, I approach a urinal and start to pee.
Now, one of the more disconcerting effects of those tiny gingersnap monsters is the feeling that time has become untethered from reality. As I am peeing, I start to get the very unsettling feeling that I have been taking a piss for the better part of an hour and that my wife must be pacing around the restaurant worried about me.
But deep down I know that is absurd: I’ve been peeing all my life, sometimes multiple times a day. I’ve probably taken more than 50,000 leaks, and it usually only takes about a minute at most. So given that my typical pee is no more than 60 seconds — and given that it feels like I am about half way done — that means that I’ve probably only been standing here about 30 seconds, right?
But the guy at the urinal next to me doesn’t respond, and instead starts shuffling away from me mid-stream, like a startled penguin. I try, albeit unsuccessfully, to break eye-contact.
After finally finishing, I again splash some water on my face and return to my seat, making sure to apologize to the table “for being gone such a long time” just in case my math was off.
Next, I try briefly to engage in small talk with my wife’s father, but I am far too high to understand what either of us are saying. Not wanting to start laughing uncontrollably at the wrong moment — or, really, at any moment — I figure the safest idea is to nod my head periodically and drink a ton of water. Nothing cures mental fatigue like water, right? To my wife’s horror, I stand up, grab my water glass and thrust it out to the waiter, who unfortunately is on the opposite side of the restaurant. But he turns out to be really cool and, after making his way over to our table, tells me that he’ll do his best to keep me stocked with ice water for the rest of the meal. He also helpfully suggests that if the dinner rolls aren’t too spicy for me, I should probably eat one or two so that I’m not sitting there on an empty stomach.
However, after going through all of the bread on the table and three glasses of water, I start to get worried that I need actual food to offset the growing paranoia from those tiny gingersnap devils. “Do you think I should flag down the waiter again and ask what’s taking so long?” I suggest helpfully to my wife.
“What?! We literally just ordered three fucking minutes ago.”
And at that exchange, my wife loses her cool. “HOW MANY COOKIES DID YOU EAT?!” she demands.
“Whoa, easy there, Torquemada,” I respond, somewhat horrified at her outburst. “I had a few cookies, but keep it down. I don’t want your parents to know how fucked up I am right now.”
“REALLY?! THEY ARE SITTING TWO FEET AWAY FROM YOU. THEY KNOW.”
I look up and for the first time notice both of my in-laws just staring at me… for what literally felt like an eternity.
4. Good boy.
So, before I start I want to acknowledge that I am a terrible terrible person and an irresponsible pet parent. I’m pretty much posting here because I expect Reddit to tear me to pieces and I think I deserve it. Everyone I tell this story to IRL just laughs ????
This didn’t actually happen today, it happened on Friday. I was in my pool throwing balls for one of my dogs, while the other watched (he doesn’t like the pool, only smelly ponds will do for swimming). His name is Leo, and he is a one-year-old border collie. Bouncy and adorable and loving.
He lays down by the side of the pool and I swim over to pet him. He stays lying down. This is not normal for Leo. He is an EXCITABLE dog. Every moment is play time. If I twitch at 3am it’s OMG PLAY TIME NOW?! No Leo go back to sleep. So I start calling his name and acting excited. Stays lying down. Barely opens his eyes. I start to worry, so I get out and walk back to the house. He can barely walk. Stumbling and falling to the side. I start freaking out. I get him inside and he lies down on the floor and doesn’t move. He’s CONSCIOUS, he hasn’t collapsed, but all he’ll do is open his eyes and look at me he won’t get up willingly. So obviously at this point I’m freaking the fuck out. Could be heatstroke, it was a warm day. But there were no signs of it, he had plenty of water and shade, and he wasn’t vomiting at all.
So I take him to my vet. They agree he’s not right and want to admit him over night. But they don’t have staff there overnight and I’m worrying my brains out, so I take him to the emergency vet about 40 mins away where they have 24 hour staff. I get him settled there, and then they call me and tell me they really can’t work out what’s wrong, all his tests are normal. Not dehydrated, liver and kidney function are fine. Heart rate’s a bit slow but not terribly. But he won’t wake up and if he’s forced to walk he falls.
So they say they’re really worried about him, and they want me to take him to the specialists about an hour away. I inwardly cry, because my other dog has had a stay there before and it’s expensive. But a pet parent’s gotta do what a pet parents gotta do. So off we go.
We get to the specialist. It’s about midnight by this point. I’m exhausted and tearful with worry. They admit him and send me home. Over the next few days, he has every test known to man. All normal. He has about 10 different neurological exams. Normal. He seems to be slowly improving day by day. On Monday they say I might as well take him home, he seems to be improving and they’re waiting on some more tests results. Basically, there’s nothing they can do right now that I can’t do at home.
Over and over again they’ve asked if he could have gotten access to any toxins. And over and over again I say no. Nothing. He’s been with me all day. I can’t think of ANYTHING he could have gotten into.
Then on Monday it hit me. I had been cleaning out the outside freezer, and caught him with his head in the trash bag. I shooed him away and thought nothing of it. It was just old food with freezer burn. Nothing that could hurt him. Then I remember. I used to store edibles in that freezer. STRONG edibles. My first batch before I figured out doses. One chocolate would knock me on my ass for a day. My usual dose was 1/4 a chocolate.
He must have eaten one. The poor little fucker was high as a kite for three days.
Happy to say it’s been five days now and he’s right as rain. Currently demanding I throw balls for him in spite of a three hour walk this morning.
But … fuck. I feel fucking terrible. I poisoned my dog ???? poor little dude.
3. Forbidden cookies.
TIFU, well two weeks ago to be exact but the actions set in motion that day came to cessation this afternoon.
In the time between Christmas and New Years my Dad was rushed to hospital from his work after he was suffering, what he thought to be, stroke like symptoms. This was a massive scare for our family as it was the first big sort of medical issue now that my parents are getting on (dad’s 63, mum’s 58).
After a night in hospital and numerous tests performed on him to find out what could be wrong with him, he came home looking woozy and went straight to bed.
Now some back story.
My good friend Liam enjoys making our group of mates Christmas cookies.These cookies are made with the most potent canabutter he can possibly concoct. He then drives around and hand delivers them to us all, spreading Christmas cheer as he goes. Hes done this for a few years now and every year they get more and more potent.
So I’ve unwrapped my pressie, gone “oooooo cookies”, put them in the fridge, yelled out to anyone who was listening not to touch my cookies in the fridge (for which my father was present btw) and promptly forgot about them.
Ok now fast foward to this afternoon and ive suddenly remembered my cookies. Ive run upstairs excited as kid on Christmas morning to open the fridge, to my confusion and disappointment, they’re not there. I turn to my father whos been sitting on the couch all week, watching tennis, adhering to the doctors orders to keep relaxed and not to stress himself out to much.
Yo you see my cookies at all?
You sure they were in the fridge
What did they look like?
Umm they were “star shaped” with green and red icing on them.
Oh yeh I took them to work.
Sorry I didn’t know were yours (bullshit)
Uhh yeh all good, did you like them?
Yeh they were nice I only had one (thank fuck)
Wait… what day was this? Monday
The same day you went to hospital?
Yep I had one with lunch (the ambulance picked him up about three oclock)
At that point it clicked in my head as to what had happened which I just started laughing my ass off for a good minute or so and he’s just looking at me thinking wtf
Were there anything in those cookies?
In between my spasms of laughter
Awwww crap… you said liam gave them to you?
Yeh they’re laced with marijuana sorry dad.
So far hes taken it pretty well, I can tell he’s pretty embarrassed about the whole thing, told me to keep it to myself, says he sees the funny side to it. Mum cracked up laughing saying that’s some stress off her head. Me? Well im stoked my dads not going fall of his perch anytime soon and im not going to leave my edibles out and about anymore but my cookies are in his fridge at work and im not gunna see them till monday ????
2. Mom and dog go to space.
After finishing university last year, myself and my dog moved back home because my dads in the hospital due to his disability and my mom needs help around the house. My wonderful mother has no problem with my fondness of the herbal magic, she only asks that I do it outside because she does not like the smell. She also knows I like to make edibles and has no problem with it as long as It doesn’t smell when she gets home.
On to my fuck up. I woke up really early yesterday morning, put the dog outside, and started cookin’ giving me plenty of time before she got home. I made brownies, cinnamon buns, and butter tarts (Canadian thing) and made sure to make a batch of Virgin treats for her to enjoy. After it was all said and done I labeled both the special ones and the normal treats and went into the city to do a few errands. Well I have no idea what happened to the note because I came home to my mom a drooling mess on the couch. My dog was walking around like he was lost and he would stop and look at stuff, cock his head, bark and resume wandering.
I lived alone in my apartment when I was in university and my dog would beg for me to blow in his face when I would smoke so he has a history of wander barking. My mom on the other hand has only tried weed once back in college. I grabbed a few bottles of water (and my dog a big bowl as well), covered her up, and let her ride out the storm. When she finally came to 7 hours later I was informed that she ate 2 1/2 cinnamon buns and gave my dog the last half of the 3rd. No wonder she was so fucked.
We had a good laugh about it afterwards and she begged me not to tell my dad, which I did so we could both have a giggle at her expense.
1. I see dead people.
8 months ago my upstairs neighbor bestowed upon me a dozen or so cannabis confections which, to my dismay, had little effect on me. One night I was visiting my parents and was having a discussion with my mother about her high blood pressure and facetiously suggested she try smoking weed. To my surprise, she was far more receptive to the idea than I had ever imagined and suggested I buy her some. Somewhat disturbed by the mental image of my mom attempting to roll a joint, I decided to give her a few of the cookies my neighbor had given me. Part of me felt she would never touch them and would keep them as a novelty item, the other part figured they were bunk anyway and a placebo wouldn’t hurt. Well was I wrong
I returned to my parents’ home a few weeks later and asked them about the cookies. My mother gave me a silent, guilty stare and looked at my dad for embellishment. After several seconds my father, from atop his drunken high horse, explained that after a few glasses of wine my mother decided to eat one of the cookies. Not having even seen marijuana in over 30 years my mother was thrown into a cross-faded giggle fit for several hours and was then visited by her deceased father and had a conversation with him. I’ve never had any sort of visual hallucination from marijuana nor known anyone that has, which means the edibles were far more potent than I had anticipated. My mom isn’t upset by any means but I’m afraid I’ve lead my mother to believe marijuana allows you to communicate with the dead.