On the Sunday after Thanksgiving, when the myriad of wine bottles you finished alone are placed curbside and the tryptophan has begun to gently ebb, there is only one thing that is incredibly necessary to ensuring a lovely week ahead: a dimebag.
And for some reason, against my better efforts, procuring one last night proved absolutely impossible.
We called our dealer, whom we shall deem "Bob" to protect his identity, around 4pm. He sent us this mass text a half-hour later:
"Sorry we're not walking dogs at the moment, but should be around later this evening. Give us a call in an hour."
So we waited that horrible hour and then called. And then we called again. And again and again and fucking again. "Bob" did not pick up. "Bob," for all intents and purposes, is a dick.
Then we tried this random kid who lives in our building, but after a long weekend of spending countless hours with his family, he was dry. Despite the familiar musky pot smell seeping under our neighbors' door, he too could not quench our growing thirst. I even texted this random person I have in my phone under the name "Weed" and even that motherfucker was dry.
So what is this? Is the War on Drugs finally coming to some sort of governmentally successful end? Or did all my sources smoke themselves so far into oblivion over Thanksgiving weekend that they left me to fend for myself in the sad and stone-cold sober world? Whatever the case, if "Bob" does not answer his phone tonight, there will be hell to pay: hell hath no fury like a pothead scorned.