For whatever reason, omg said he wanted a hit of my pipe tonight. His face sucking in and puffing out as his jaws massaged raw gums, he was finally up for a toke for the first time since I moved in. I’d just given my spiel about why I spring for the high grade when he asked.
He pretty much coughed out the contents of the bowl I’d filled. I warned him to go easy on that little silicone steamroller but anyone whose ever dispensed that advice knows how it ends. Shredded lungs weren’t an issue for him, he claimed, then created a mushroom cloud of perfectly good bud, damn near fell on the ground as he clutched his chest, gripped with uncontrollable coughing.
“You don’t get off unless you cough!” Laughing, I knew he was going to get royally wrecked (he was probably eight beers into the evening).
Reverie Royale is a hybrid that rocks just over thirty-one percent THC. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any baby-step alternatives (why smoke that shit?) so omg got the reals. Happy days.
Word is, he’s out of here the fifteenth and his place is rented the first. There was Boomer speculation that he wouldn’t be gone until well past Christmas (and there’s some wisdom in that speculation) but I hope we’re on track for omg to be gone by Sunday.
It was the farewell party omg threw for himself that prevented me from heading to Camp Rucker but that’s my plan for this weekend. In fact, if I can get PTO for Thursday and Friday, I’ll light out after I get off work at three, there should still be enough sunlight to set up camp once I claim a spot. And when I get back on Sunday, omg should be gone, another chapter of Boomer drama closed.