by Allen Ginnett
The Hot Box Hero is back, baby! The smoke has cleared and your boy has manifested a college degree somehow throughout the haze of being an East Anchorage mobber. It’s been awhile since I hit you with the depths of the pothead world so watch out, we got much to discuss.
First off, I’m seeing more and more dispensaries popping up all over town except for in my region, the eastside. It’s like they know how crackin’ a dispo would be out there and don’t want to see the east winning man. Shout out EA legend Josh Boots though, soon the fire will be supplied.
In other news, the hero has set a new record for the least amount of change to get a Swisher Sweet from Holiday: Seventy Eight cents. Now don’t dismiss this as something that doesn’t take talent; you must have some real skill to pull this off. You go up to the counter with all your change; hopefully you have a lot of pennies, too, because that will discourage the cashier and make it more time consuming. They already have a lot to worry about, a large line of burnouts, knocks in the bathroom getting high, shitty kids trying to shoplift like it isn’t obvious — Holiday is one of the hottest public places in the city.
This time I was at the Debarr Holiday, which is top-notch with the fuck shit. Anyways, I went in there with my seventy eight cents with the goal of getting a ninety-nine cent Swisher. I already had to work a lot of god-like magic just to find this change all over my house, cuz’ I ain’t smokin’ no joint, hittin’ no bong — none of that shit, I’m smoking a fucking blunt! So, after you dump the change on the counter and act like this is the first time you’ve counted this change, you start doing the pocket pat down, like, damn, you could of swore you had more change on you. What happened? After that, if they aren’t completely fed up and ready to just hand you the Swisher, you decide to charge the rest on your card, damn well knowing that your account is in the negatives and your about to get declined for twenty-one cents in front of all these top-notch citizens in line. If all these tactics haven’t worked, your last move is go out to the car to grab change, you know, because.. there’s a cup full of change you overlooked on your way in there, right? So you go out there and pretend to look for change, find nothing and come back devastated by lack of change to get what you want — the Swisher.
This isn’t something you can try everywhere. For instance, I tried to do this at a local smoke n’ gift on Boniface and the Asian lady who ran the shop was not having it. She instantly was wondering where the other sixty-seven cents was for the two-pack. She’s trying to get every dollar for her wholesale tobacco that probably costs her next-to-nothing. I walked out and went up the street to get on a session when I quickly realized that I dropped my wallet in the parking lot. I went back to find the wallet gone, but not without looking completely burnt the fuck out wandering all over the parking lot and going into the shop multiple times to question the lady in the store. This is what my life has come to: a lost wallet investigation in a Boniface strip mall, pressing hard skepticism on an old Asian lady who thinks I’m crazy as shit. The wallet was found and I was contacted on Facebook about it, but the whole fiasco had me really questioning whether I should be smoking as much weed as I do.
That questioning continues to this day, and I continue to burn heavy. My job prospects with my college degree are being hindered as well as my presentation as a citizen in the “normal world” as I’m almost turning the corner into my thirties. One thing remains though: my happiness. Maybe I’m gassed out — who knows? But I will never let society dictate how I want to live.
Speaking of gas, here’s another one out the Hot Box Hero vault. I went to go smoke with the homie on my birthday and my tank was on E. I’d been heavy mobbin’ off the rippery. So, I go to park my car on this incline and let the session commence when I realized that I would not be able to start my car when I came back and I was blocked in to get my car to flat ground. What the fuck am I doing with my life? I really am, “The King of Burnt.” The story gets better, or more “gassed up” as one would say. After making some calls and getting a friend to bring me gas I finally got a hold of the guy whose car was blocking me in and was able to get my car started and off the incline. Being me and the fact that I was coming off a fat dutchie, I wasn’t thinking straight and just threw the gas can in the car splashing gasoline all over my blazer.
The next day my car reeked like gas, pure fumes coming from the floor mats. The hot box hero doesn’t stop though and soon I found myself wondering why the fuck I was so high in my car. I think you get the gist of it — the Huffington Post cutty. Someone please save me from myself, or get me a gram of Honey Banana Kush, something to take the edge off this headache. I’m gassed up literally!