So this year's Superbowl just happens to be a meeting between teams from the only two states that have legalized recreational marijuana use. Cause and effect? Mere chronological coincidence? Who can say? No doubt the question will long be pondered and debated over many a contemplatively toked fatty.
But if the interconnections remain elusive between the mutual decision of Washington and Colorado to free the weed and the impending showdown between the Seahawks and the Broncos, one thing is abundantly clear: the influx of friendly local shwagmarts and ganjaterias into Denver has obviously led to some serious local overindulgence. Are they handing out free samples down there? Because based on what we've seen being posted online by our colleagues at the Denver Guild somebody has definitely been venturing a bowl or three too far lately, on what looks like a fairly regular basis. In fact, if we were not familiar with the wholly mythical character of amiable Mary Jane's unfair reputation as a gateway drug (and because we'd blush to suggest such a thing about our fellow Guild members) we'd be tempted to think that everyone in Denver had rushed headlong straight from the bong to the crack pipe.
A closer examination of the Denver Guild's post (and in particular its accompanying artwork) does indeed lay any hard-drug fears to rest. A giant magical prancing blue horsey. Massive lightning bolts pounding down on some kind of Lord-of-the-Rings-knockoff landscape. Trippy mirror images lurking in a reflecting pool. Yes, everything here points to the hazy, slow-mo, like-wow-man visions of a myth-fixated stoner. And when you consider that the post itself is written as a kind of blissful daydream of an imaginary future in which the Broncos have somehow won the Superbowl ("It was all so REAL, man! It was like I could actually SEE it!") the conclusion just becomes that much more clear. No doubt even at this moment the Denver Guild office is a dim cave fogged with pot fumes, the windows blocked with batik prints, sitar music plonking in the background, empty Dorito bags crunching underfoot, where the inhabitants drift about muttering to themselves: "Peyton. Broncos. Yeah! Man, that was a great game we played!"
Regrettably, I'm afraid we're going to have pop that bubble. To which end, we'll just offer our Denver brothers and sisters this quote from the Book of R. Sherman, Chapter 1, Verse 1: "Ain't. Gonna. Happen." Or as it's alternatively translated in the ESPN Revised International Version: "Don't you think you can throw in here!" While all of us have enjoyed watching Peyton Manning rehabilitate his career tearing into one puff-pastry AFC defense after another (sorry, I forgot I shouldn't use food metaphors with someone in your condition) I'm afraid he's going to find the cookie crumbles a bit differently against the Hawks (darn, did it again). And just in case you think we're just about defense, or we talk too much, I'll turn the mic over to the Prophet Marshawn, who makes a point of saying this: "..." and of doing this.
Think of it as an intervention. You guys are going to have to come back to earth some time. Because, dudes (if we may speak to you in your own language) as fellow hemp-promoting, spliff-rolling, blunt-passing, brownie-baking, medical-necessitating Liberators of the Good Herb, we have to say you guys are seriously messing with our hard-won legitimation of the chronic, man! You're going to mess it up for EVERYBODY by sitting around and talking crazy like you are. So, ENOUGH, man. But we won't expect you to go cold turkey when the hard light of reality breaks in on Sunday afternoon. Take a couple of weeks to ease out. Cushion the blow. Let the sting dissolve. We'll even care-package over some Frito-Lay Mixed Jumbo Combopaks and Taco Bell gift cards to help you through. Peace out.