Since the early 1990s 4:20 has been slang for the recreational consumption of cannabis santiva -- originating from a group of 1971 California high school scholar-aficionados using the time as a code for partaking in the practice of burning trees. 4:20 is now something of a prayer call to the devil's lettuce.
4:20 p.m. is for the stoners, while 4:20 a.m. is for the stupid. When I wake at 4:20 and partake in a completely different ritual it produces similar physiological effects as the toke bakers: elevated heart rate, dry mouth, bloodshot eyes, time distortion, an uncanny desire to talk to strangers, and definitely an extreme appetite. I'll take three corndogs, two bags of Funyuns, five napkins, hand full of these Pixie Sticks, and a 72oz Mello Yello with a side of extra mellow. Can you dig it, man!? Oh yeah, put the rest on pump six.
There is something about waking up at twenty past four, driving to a pool, jumping into "oh that's nippy" water, putting in 3500 yards, then driving home before most sane folks are thru their first snooze button cycle. (You ever wonder why snoozes are nine minutes long?) My drive home has feelings similar to a key 4:20 trait; euphoria. Except if I get pulled over by a cop it's not a felony DWI stop, it's because I'm probably driving ten under the speed limit in the fast lane with my left turn signal on. No sir, I haven't been smoking, and that's not chloroform you're smelling. That is chlorine and good decisions.
I need a nap.
