#bong hoots

[anitabonghit420]

Last night was so freakin fun!!!

Every time I see Stickybuds I have the best time and feel so full of joy after.

And we looked fuckin goooooooood too. 💨🖤💚

[crucialfox]

[awolgina]

don't think it's hindukush tokesntalk but waffle cone glob in my banger ...

TGIF 🥳 🙌 🤪 💚🍯🌬🌬😁💋🐝 trying hindu kush strain, I don't think it's actual hindu kush like I had in the 70s, I'll give it another try tomorrow. the waffle cone glob after this video has me knocked 💀 😂 I had the shakes for a minute then every muscle released, luckily I was sitting by then 🤷‍♀️🐝🤪🤣👵💋

[paper-mario-wiki]

Hi ^_^ I’ve been wondering ever since you made that weed info post: does bong smoke hurt you, personally? I’ve been suckin on that thang for 10 years or more and still if I ever want to take a ‘serious’ hoot and not a modest one my throat burns bad and tingles for a couple hours >_< Tell me Scout! Is this a skill issue?

you speak like a forumite millenial, and i find that endearing. keep being you.

smoke has the capacity to hurt me, but smoking itself does not. i can take in too much at one time, which hurts and has me hacking and coughing for a sec, but otherwise it's just a matter of takin smaller puffs! slow and steady wins the race.

[kushycat]

Bong hoots 💨

[mermen]

me to my neighbor when he says "u want a hoot?" and his bong water has its own ecosystem

[namira]

When I was in high school one of my friends had a gas mask bong and when I was using it we were sitting in a muddy yard and I took a big ol rip and like had an anxiety attack because I got flashbacks to my past life as WWI soldier (having to wear a mask to protect against mustard gas, suffering in the mud, etc) and when I took the mask off I was thousand yard staring but everybody was hooting and hollering cause I did such a good job taking the hit without coughing (I was only able to do this because my past life mode was activated and I was relieved it wasn't mustard gas)

[ask-hunten-and-the-slimes]

Note:?!

This evening I consumed two left over fuge cubes, turned out they were coffee flavoured, and now I'm energetic and happy over nothing as the world slowly falls apart I never them every single day like one or two maybe. Is this what it feels like to have coffee? You just dance around like a stick bug in bed thenààà jumping out of bed and "running and "jumping " around your dark room like a sleep walking spoooder anoying the shit out of the person next door and silently giggling to yourself as you post your nightly nonsense only relising no one understands enough to hive a hoot? Oh and let me just do a chant to end think hear,

ehem- oogabooga hooga booga dooga booga HOOMEEJAAAH! HINK HONK, donk DINK, DONK, DONK, DONK, BINK BONK DONK, HING DONG BING BOING BUNG BONG. OOOGAABOOGAHHAHHHOOMEEHAAAHH!!!

AaaaaaaAAAAAAHH AAAAAAAAAAHH HELP HEEEELP AAAAAHH SOMBODY AAAAHH-

OK bye.

You shall never understand myy

Sense of humour

[martian-martian-martian]

never once have i heard smoking from a bong referred to organically as “hooting the tube” or “horkin and shmorkin” and if i need any more proof that weed culture isn’t welcoming and inclusive for people like me, i guess i can look no further.

[sevendeadlymorons]

bro

fuk

im so high

i got high from my dad at 3

took 2 hoots

and i got so high

but my dad had one of his buddies earlier

but since i got rlly fucking high

it felt like kne of those druges

where ur body goes weak

and i got uncomfortable so i left

and i went to a friends house and took a nap

i ended up deciding to sleeo over

and rn its 3am

so its been 12 hours sjncd i got high with my dad

and i got high whth my friend

and fuck

my dad had a bong

but not like a modern bong if yk what i mean

but my friends bong was modern ig???

and img

im dk high

You’re high a lot lately. Are you ok? If you need anyone to talk to, yknow..

[blood-of-a-mermaid]

meet me in the corners of my head

The parts that can never be fed

Atmospheres a must

Cigarette smoke, bong hoots, and tokes

choke your liquor back

shot after shot

dark turns to light

bats turn to robins

what the night feeds the day breaths

meet me in the corners where i feel free

where there is abundance and the sky is all I see

tell me no lies

set me in the river, toes first

shivers up my spine

the endless time is divine

my mind is free

blackhole

[awolgina]

the joker 1973 Steve Miller band #tokesntunes with a boomer learning series

tokesntunes for adults the joker 1973 Steve Miller band 🤘🙌🎶💃💚🍯🌬

[cocaineyoga]

I haven't had a bong hoot in a week... BRONCHITIS FUCK OFF PLEASE!

[houseoferem]

i just got two fillings and half of my face is numb and i am trying to take bong hoots and it's fucking hilarious

[uchuujinu]

remembering a summer during college when i worked at my university’s lodge.

in the first two weeks, one of my coworkers got mono. our boss tried to convince her to stay because “everyone works through mono.” we all laughed and they went home the next day.

there was a group of us who would skinny dip in lake michigan, nightly, so many times that we came up with a synchronized swimming routine that everyone knew. it was excellent exercise.

i learned to make a windproof bong out of a water bottle and a pen. there was a 10’x10’ spot about half a mile down the shore, closed in almost to the waterline by white cedar. it usually took two or three backtracks to find the offshoot - which is partly why i liked it; if even i had trouble, it was going to be completely solitary, except for the pelican who watched me smoke weed about three times a week.

i worked in the dining room and would spend service hours going the extra mile for octogenarians - it might be their last time here, you know? - and lovingly cleaning the coffeepot, keeping it spotless every moment. when barbara wanted tea i actually did care whether she wanted caffeinated or herbal and what kind. i kept my guests charmed, goddamnit.

and yet when someone overfilled the coffeepot during service, and hot hot liquid brewed all over the floor, my boss looked at me like she knew it was me and i just wouldn’t admit it. that was the day i realized some people are just nasty to people like me.

i really liked (95% of) the guests. they cared about us. joking around with them was fun.

at the start of each new seminar we (the student staff) would line up in the dining room to introduce ourselves on a mic: name, age, hometown, major. the guest’s absolute favorite was when we would line up all three rachels on staff,

“hi I’m rachel, etc etc,”

“hi, i’m rachel,” one or two titters from the guests, “etc, etc.”

“hi, I’m rachel,” most guests laughing openly, thinking it’s a joke, then a brief break for the rachels to reassure they are all genuine rachels

and then my turn,

“hi,” a longer pause than usual,

“i’m rachel.” some guests hooting, wtf who has these many rachels. then they settle, thinking well if there’s 3 swearing on god then there might be four, let’s not insult the girl.

“no, i’m just kidding,” audible sigh of relief,

“my name is kat.” guests laugh and relax. they think they are safe.

and then,

“but you can call me rachel.” ba-dum tsss. double the hooting. it was hella stupid but never didn’t get laughs; one time a particular man shouted, “i love you, rachels!!”

that man stayed two weeks, and he was funny. “wanna be my wife?” he sang once; gesticulating grandly across the dining room, “oh, honey, you’re the kind of woman i write music about!” and i was not uncomfortable. there was a twinkle in his eye. i was his table’s server every meal, not by coincidence.

we walked two miles into town to get drunk quite frequently, through the dark forest towards the harbor. running ahead, groups of three and four, i learned that people want to spend time with me. ordering a fried everything basket together - mushroom, broccoli, cauliflower cheese curds, chicken tenders, holy fuck you can’t get that anywhere on the west coast.

one particular bench overlooking the lake - staged perfectly next to a tree, adjacent to a stavekirke, looking like somewhere an american playwright might set a confession scene or a murder. it is the highest point on a low hill, feeling like a boat on the lake.

the part that ripped off my subaru while doing a 35 point turn on the quad-only trail with six people in the vehicle is still in my glove box.

[popoaniani]

I found my old journal from 2016

I was working on a book that I completely forgot about and never finished. It surprised me and also made me laugh so I had to share it (I don't really write like this anymore lol). Here's an excerpt:

“HARD CORE PORN!!!” Mike bellowed at some unfortunate tourists, imitating the street vendors peddling their wares. Hot Dogs! Genuine Cajun Cooking! Ghetto Burgers only three fitty! then Mike: “HARD CORE PORN!!” Nobody indicated interest in making a purchase.

I decided to join in supportingly. “Soft core porn?” I suggested in a low, sultry tone to passing tourists who had snubbed Mike’s loud offer.

“HARD CORE PORN!!!” Mike hollered. 

“soft core porn” I cooed.

I am uncertain how long we kept this up, as my perception of time came and went in gross, unwelcome waves. We received surprisingly few acknowledgements; our seedy offer folding in seamlessly with the debauched hustle and drug addled bustle. A permanent, Charlie-Sheen’s-forever-bachelor-party vibe in the New Orleans French Quarter.

Earlier in the evening, we had purchased two hits of acid from a teenage girl sitting on the step outside Checkpoints. After about a half hour of no visuals, we cursed her for burning us and turned to a new connect. Aha hooked us up with some green jelly tabs that did the trick. The rest of the night is a demented blur. Mike had gifted me a small baggie of cocaine that was in his possession. He told me blow makes him throw up. Why he had it in the first place was unclear, but I sat down on a tree stump next to the fire station to do a few bumps. The chaos of the tourist jammed streets was all the cover I needed. With all the real crimes being committed in the Big Easy, one grows acclimated to a certain false secure feeling while engaging in recreational drug use.

In a city where sex tourism and alcohol abuse make up the best part of the economy, it’s easy to believe that in fact most of the people around you are tripping balls, and those who aren’t really have no business being here at all. 

“BUTT PLUGS!! HARD CORE PORN!!” Mike publicized his latest offer.

I have a vague memory of someone with a bong stopping us for a smoke break on his front step. New Orleans was that kind of a city. A well meaning observer sees two belligerent nut jobs running down the sidewalk, hooting and hollering in the queasy depths of an acid binge, pupils dilated, sweat pouring from foreheads with pulsing blue veins and crazed grinding smiles cracked across their sticky, pale faces. He thinks to himself, those guys could use some mellowing out, packs a bong and invites them over. There is no other city in America that even comes close to the ill-advised hospitality, the genuine New Orleansness, of New Orleans.

It was a comfortably warm October night and Mike and I had made the lack of arrangements that goes well with staying out all night long. My Chrysler was safely parked in a neighborhood with no meters where I was unlikely to find it until I sobered up the next morning. We had no plans and nobody knew or cared where we were. Or so we thought. 

We finished the bowl, thanked our new found friend whose face we would never remember, for his hospitality, then resumed our walk around the neighborhood. 

I don’t remember the chronology of events that night, so I’m taking some liberty in the order in which I tell the story. At some point we had some weed and some candy. We sat on the front steps to some house in the Quarter and asked passersby if they’d like some M&Ms. If they said ‘yes’, we shared our candy with them, then invited them to smoke a blunt with us. If they said no to the M&Ms, we inquired if they’d like to smoke a blunt with us. We even made the acquaintance of an older gentleman who gifted us a handful of magic mushrooms in exchange for walking directions to a good burger place.

“Do you know how to blow smoke rings?”

“No”

“Do you want to learn how?”

“No”

“Ugh, look it’s easy. Just make an O face.”

I laughed

“Just make an O face! An O face, like this.”

Mike shaped his mouth into an O and made little puffing sounds, demonstrating how to blow the smoke. I laughed hysterically.

“What’s so funny? Stop laughing and let me see your O face.”

Mike and I were finally getting a chance to get to know each other better and ask all the questions we’d had on our minds. “Have you ever played happy wheels?,” he asked me.

Just then, (or maybe significantly later) Mike’s phone buzzed: an incoming call.  

“Just let it go to voicemail” I advised.

“No, I have to take this.” Mike replied.

“Why?” I was confused. You don’t have to do anything, I thought to myself. And whoever is on the other end of that call probably wants nothing to do with your fuck up, acid brain conversation right now. What time is it anyway? It’s got to be late.

The volume on the phone was high enough for me to clearly hear the menacing, low male voice on the other end. 

“Come home Mike.”

“I can’t come home right now. Jazmine and I are staying out all night. We’re tripping balls.”

“But you HAVE to come home.” Holy creeping christ. The voice was that of a cartoon super villain. Somehow I knew that wasn’t the drugs talking either. Whoever it was, they were creepy as fuck. Tonight, tomorrow, fucked up or sober, that voice belonged to a mad man.

“We can’t drive right now. We’re still coming up I think.”

“It doesn’t matter how you get home. This is your home. You need to come home at night. Every night. You will come home now.” The call ended.

“WHAT. THE. FUCK.” I gave Mike a look to emphasize my bewilderment.

“That was Rooster. Can you drive?” He asked.

“You’re not seriously going home are you? Why would you listen to that psychopath? He’s obviously nuts and creepy as fuck! Why does he want you to come home so bad? Why does he treat you like he’s your pimp? What the hell is going on anyway? Is he your pimp? Has he ever touched you inappropriately? I must be missing something.”

“Look, we just have to go.” He wasn’t kidding. I told him there was no way in hell I’d get behind the wheel of my car.

“You don’t have to. I’ll drive. I’m not even tripping that hard anymore.” He offered.

I got behind the wheel of my car. There was some comfort in knowing we were at least sober enough to find the car in the first place.

Mike pointed out turns and warned me of upcoming stop signs as we sped back to Rooster’s apartment.

If this god forsaken roadway would stop expanding and contracting, this drive would be a hell of a lot easier, I thought to myself. Or maybe out loud. Either way, Mike responded. The possibility of him having mind reading abilities was not out of the question. I eyed him suspiciously. 

“You’re doing fine, babe. Only three more blocks straight ahead. There’s a stop sign at this next intersection.”

I was going too fast to stop. We’d have to cross our fingers, hope for the best, and gun it.

Again, Mike interjected, “You know, you can go a little faster.”

I peeked at the speedometer, the numbers dissolving away as I tried to focus on them. I deduced we were in fact idling down the road so I pumped the gas. Dear god, it’s a miracle there are no pedestrians gawking at us or other motorists flipping me off. The neighborhood had an abandoned, 4 am kind of feel. It must have been some ungodly hour of the morning when even New Orleans sex tourists take a breather and weathered French Quarter hookers get a drink and rest their bones at the Spotted Cat before calling it a night.

We pulled up and parallel parked smoothly on the grass in front of Rooster’s apartment. He must have been watching from a window because he opened the door to the main building entrance as we approached.

“Well, well, well. Welcome home Mike… and… Mike’s friend.”

Evil villain voice. I shuddered. Then I smiled. I tried not to but I couldn’t help it. My acid brain was pulling hard on my cheek muscles.  An uncontrolled grin twisted across my face. I couldn’t look directly at Rooster. I knew the moment I did, he would twist into something blotchy and demonic. And I would laugh. Which I couldn’t imagine would help things.

I followed Mike up the stairs to the apartment. Rooster asked us to sit down in the room where another couple was sitting on the floor, playing with scattered tarot cards.

“Do you know why I needed you to come back tonight?”

“No.” Mike replied. I decided to let him handle the situation, since I had only recently arrived and had little background information on his and Rooster’s working relationship. 

Rooster sighed. “I didn’t expect better. Drugs…. and sex…. they corrupt a person. All this coming and going. And your friend… Jazmine, is it? I’ve hardly gotten to know her. Why is that?”

Now the attention was on me. There was uncomfortable silence. Was it the acid blocking some receptor in my cerebral cortex that was stopping me from understanding? What did he want from me? I was starting to get a rapey vibe. Was he trying to ask why Mike wasn’t sharing me with him? I knew he and his girlfriend were swingers. He would bring women over and his girlfriend would watch them through a mirror in the bedroom, unbeknownst to his female guests. Mike confided in me the first day I came over that Rooster had begged Mike’s permission to sleep with either me or one of my friends as some sort of perverted birthday present. 

And if that isn’t what he was asking, why should I have gotten to know him? I’ve only been here two days. Or was it longer than that? Suddenly I couldn’t recall. It couldn’t have been a week already?

“What exactly do you want?” I asked. Maybe a straightforward question would elicit a straightforward response from this mad man.

“If you are learned in philosophy, as I am, you will understand. One can only do so much, to make themselves clear. I have thought it over for some time and have been as polite as I can be. I cannot go on however, in this way. There are others to consider. My girlfriend, for one. I want to be sure, first and foremost, that she is comfortable. Do you follow? Why are you smiling at each other? Do you think this is funny?”

I had been putting all my strength and effort into not laughing. But I couldn’t hold it in. The acid was too good and Rooster was too strange. I was also terrified and laughing was all I could do. I looked at Mike and felt I could read that he was thinking the same thing. That Rooster had lost his mind. I snorted loudly, trying to suppress a laugh. Overcompensating, I considered my words carefully, then spoke.

“I’m sorry, Rooster. I’m just too high for this. Maybe if we had this conversation when I wasn’t tripping balls it would be more productive. I am having trouble understanding what exactly you want from us. Do you want money? How much money do you want to end this conversation right now? I have $300 cash. That covers half your rent for the month.  Let me know if that works for you.”