--Written By Everybody--
What if we had to get caught at something horrible? Do you think our parents don't know the horrible things we do? They ask what do we do at night. "We go and we drive places." "Where to?" "Mostly just Hy-Vee." "That's it?" "Well - oh! And- wait we already said that one." Because we're stoners. Except for Cuddle. And Supple. And Towel. We'll never claim anything too dastardly on here because you never know who reads these. What if you had to get caught?
And not just at smoking. Hey smoking. That's mentally addictive these days, you know. Like heroin only in your head. And it's cheaper. And you live through it. It's ferociously dangerous stuff - it makes your eyes red. And Jesus said something about it being evil. Well he didn't. Somebody had to've, though, and you can bet your mentally addicted ass it was so poignant that today only chemically addictive things are allowed on store shelves. These things draw out your suicide into a safer, more workable format. Thanks to the awareness as to the harmful effects of marijuana, our culture is safe from calling up that mystery number that is for some reason in your cell contacts under The MAN!! and going "Look - just listen - it snowed. We should smoke now. On me. This is Dan. Torson - oh. Oh Shit Gramma? Are you fuckin kidding? Oh shit sorry. (Fuck I think it's my Gramma). Listen we're at Hy-Vee and do you want doughnut holes or anything?"
But what will you say when it happens? When they come in and you fucking freak out and close all the pop-up ads you can so hard and with such vitality you get polio and one of your eyes turns inside-out but there's seventy-three of them and only one cursor and their [x]'s just dance about and in a moment of inspiration you roundhouse - spin all the way around - knuckle-punch the glass of the monitor. These are those situations that have happened to us but parents just always seem to 'barely miss' the crime - the infraction. The deception. The behind-the-scenes look at what keeps you from going sexually insane. Both of you pretend that TKOing the computer is a humane method of resolving technical difficulties and the silence that threatens to ensue must be halted: You meagerly, awkwardly hurl some awful unnecessary chatter that accidentally starts off as a shout "THE INTERNET... is... good. When things are... in the world. And are beautiful." They still manage to utter some reply along the lines of "Oh. Uh, laundry. Blankets. Folds."
My question is what if you HAD to get caught? If your parents were paid the right amount - everybody's got their price - they would know where to attack, wouldn't they. You have no moral business being online after 2 in the morning. They could stealth their way up to behind your desk chair - watching so cautiously you and your dumb, horny half-parted mouth lit up in the pitch black room only by the blue-white glow of the google image search - and tie your shoes together and ultraglue your hair to the back of the chair and your minister - he would be there in his robes - he would flick on the lights and in all fire and brimstone proclaim "YOU ARE NOT THE MASTER OF DECEPTION!!" and he would crash two biblically proportioned symbals together as your parents danced ominously on either side of you and your shit would fly backwards through your intestines up your esophagus and down your trachea into your lungs. You would gag for the poopless air as you bolted upwards but trip over your goddamned laces and be headyanked unmercifully by the hair glue and meanwhile all the climactic parts would be punctuated by symbal crashes and boistrous church organ chords. Is this motivation not to look at porn? A resounding God I Don't Fucking Know. You unsure readers ought to know that, for all we know, porn is mentally addicting and therefore dangerous as there are no chemicals involved. I read that somewhere important. The bible I think. Zebediah. Would this strain your family ties? Or strengthen them?
They know where to look for your stash. It is in the socks. Or in the emptied-out-battery-holster of the unfunctionable water-damaged piece-of-shit shower radio. Or the hidden compartment of your purse. The belly-pocket of your stuffed kangaroo. The hollow of your bass amp. The abandoned backpack. The X-Box. The allibi's glove compartment. The little cubby hidden under the floorboards in your bedroom that the architect of your house went "and this here is where your son will hide his weed, mr. and mrs. torson." (Just Kidding - We all know Mr. Torson designed his own house - he would have said "our son" and "my fellow Torson" in the oral explication of the blue prints.) And oh how they would pounce if someone paid them enough to be brilliant mercenaries. It would be a trounce of a pounce. They would lay out the plans and set up a trail of booby traps beforehand.
You come home and try to open the door but the handle is actually made of a brittle marzipan and it shatters in your grip so you squeeze the hyper-electrified caddle-prod stuck in the doorknob's place. When you woke up seconds later thirty feet away from the porch, you would opt to climb through the side-window instead. A spring mechanism would unhinge from behind the glass, sending a circular saw to come penduluming at your face. Some shattered glass and a near-death experience later you would be inside where your parents sit at the top of the stairs with bee-bee guns strapped around their shoulders, your stash in their hands, egging you on going "I'm gonna call the cops! Better come get me!" You would grumble menacingly as you took to the staircase and not even notice the paint can soaring at you until it shattered your nasal passages and sent you sprawled on your back to the base of the stairs. And all that. (Really the Torsons don't have a second floor in their home.) In the end you'd get shoveled in the face by the guy you thought was evil all along but really was just suffering emotional - even literal - isolation and hung up by your collar on a coat hook for the police to come seize your sorry fucking soul. Is this motivation not to smoke weed, though? A resounding God I Want To Watch Home Alone 1 & 2. What the hell else is there to do in Omaha? Sleep? Brilliant.