What is the point in doing something unless you are going to be the best at it? You can settle for second or third. You can accept mediocrity. You can be the kind of loser who walks into a dispensary and buys a couple edibles, maybe smokes a one-hitter before a show. That can be you. That's not me. I'm a winner.
I start my day with triple dose of edibles, dabs, I have protein powder infused with cannabis, I have a vape mask I wear while I pump in my home gym. I do high weight, high rep, large dose. Willie Nelson while I do my ab work. Marley and Pink Floyd's early stuff while I work on my arms and legs. Throat singing during cardio. I need to stay focused on my intake.
I spend the next two hours before lunch working on my puppet routines. Weedie, Dr. Cannabis, my high terrorist character. I get my puppets high. My pets high. I push weed on family and friends. I will not ride anywhere in a car unless it is swimming in smoke. You want to drive sober. Fuck you. They're called highways for a reason.
Noon is hot yoga, followed by a nap, followed by snack time, followed by crush lines of dehydrated hydro. My nose walks the green mile. You're not taking this seriously unless you are down with toots, goofers, hoops, pops, nibs, and injectables. Cannabis oil injectables will give you a crisp, no-headache high. If you don't stick it, get out of my fucking gym.
Late afternoon, get my munch on with reservations at the hottest restaurants in the city. Reservations at Nosh, Nourish or Table X. Once Michelin has been there I wouldn't wipe my ass with your menu. I go to underground eateries, secret eating clubs, and I only work with chefs who will incorporate cutting edge marijuana derivatives into their food for me. Sun Chips and cookies are for stoners who have given up. Go ride a roller coaster or something. You're fucking done here.
After eating, get a firm fit from your tailor. You want someone who knows how to make you look good in a hoodie, a t-shirt, cargo shorts, sandals. People think the look is casual. How you look, how you present yourself, is as important as any other part of being a stand up.
Do you want to walk out on stage and tell people you're a stoner? Fuck you. No. You want to tell a story with your pre-stained baja hoodie. You want people to wonder if that is old mayo or semen on your Lucky cutoffs. I have horse-torn jean shorts. Do you know how much that costs? It takes two horses and a special clamp to make the legs uneven like that. Get the look right or don't even bother slinking out onto that stage to tell some half-joke that not even Richard Marin and Thomas Kin would have let out of their mouths.
Evening. Weed laugh. Go to the sense dep pool, triple up on gel tabs of cannabis, hit the dark, no music, just me and my laugh. I think about funny things and laugh. Some people think Seth Rogen has a good weed laugh. Fuck Seth Rogen. He has a pussy beta laugh. A weed laugh is how you exert your authority on the stage. It starts in the belly, sort of vowel gurgle, works its way up into a repeating tone, should be in the "Butthead zone" and then you let it out against your upper teeth and palate. Hnnahnnahnaa.
It took me nineteen fucking years to master that. Seth Rogen can go fuck himself.
Night. TV time. Dr. Who, re-runs of 1990s sitcoms, Adult Swim. 2 hours 15 minutes. Vape volcano using piss to reuptake THC from the urine. Be sure to only use three cycle piss. After that the acid building up in the urine starts to break down your cannabis. You might as well be using regular water after a certain point and people who use regular water might as well kill themselves.
Spend 10-15 minutes playing with one of those plasma orbs or doing a book of mind-teaser puzzles. Write at least three tweets about the nature of the universe. If it's a Sunday or Monday night, I head to the Comedy Dungeon to work on my routine. This is secondary. If you're really good at being high, the best at it, then everything else is going to fall right into place: the podcast, the stand-up, the documentaries about being high and doing stand-up and podcasting.
You want to fuck with that? Of course you don't. You wouldn't dare.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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