Short, shameful confession: I lost my weed again!

It was looking to be a long, dry summer. My usual-suspect dealer was without his typical distribution, and I had finished smoking even the resin on the screen two weeks before July 4.

There's nothing like a good ol' buzz when the fireworks are blowing high in the sky, the roar rushing around you in the hot summer air, the grass soft under the blanket, and even the mosquito whizzing by your ear is a welcome part of the experience until you crush the bloodsucking little fucker. But this year, it wasn't going to happen, because I was out of ganja.

So when the wife produces a bag on July 3, I sprung off my ass and asked gleefully, "Wooo-hooo, sugarbuns, I love ya! Where'd ya git that?". :D

She gestured toward a decorative quart beer tankard I won at the St. Taffy's Peter Pulling Contest (or was it at St. Peter's, pulling taffy? :p ), and said, "It was in there."

Oh. Riiiigggght.

See, last January I was fixing a bike in the basement. Knuckle-deep in Phil Wood's synthetic green bearing grease, I thought, "Mmmm, it's always 4:20 somewhere." So I packed me a bowl and smoked me a hit. And another. And one more for good measure.

Then I remembered, plumbers were coming. I didn't want them poking around my stash in the basement, so I brought it upstairs to find a suitable hiding place. Seeing a decorative beer tankard that I won by doing something other than drink beer, I thought, "Beer tankard is to beer as pipe is to weed." ;) So I stuffed the weed into the tankard.

I was supposed to remember doing that. I didn't. Not until the wife saved the fireworks, July 4, and the whole United States of America. (I do love that woman!)

The pages flip forward. The summer sun retreats, and the deep verdancy of that season is transformed into glorious autumn yellows, reds and oranges. It's this past Sunday, and I'm out for a spin in the country.

I come home, and sure, ain't it 4:20 time again? So as I'm putting my bike into the shed, I retrieve me wee bag o' cannabis, and create from it a fine, fiery cone that makes my legs wobbly and my eyeballs jiggly with its smokey psychotropic rush.

Last night, I'm in the bar with my bud, watching the Red Sox and the Yankees. He's got a bag for me. We go to his van, do the deed, and pretty soon I'm on my wheel, flying home to catch the end of the game. (Little did I know the game wouldn't end for another three hours, the two teams involved going for another six-hour baseball death match. Gotta love those Sox!)

So I take my new baggie, and head to my stash box. "Gonna finish off that big, gnarly bud I got saved before hitting the new stuff," sez that voice in the noggin.

I open the box, and -- holy short-term memory loss, Batman! I LOST MY GODDAMN WEED AGAIN! :eek:

I have to stop doing this. Do you think I should get a retired police dog as a pet, just to help me find my pot?