For Whom the Bong Tolls

For Whom the Bong Tolls

“Hey dude,” Bill said as I answered the phone.

“Hey man, wassap?”

“Can I come over?”



I took a look at my old style, analogue clock and decided, “Around 4:20, that’s when I smoke up.”


I got kind of… absorbed, in an Adam Sandler movie, so I was surprised when the doorbell rang. I looked over at the clock. 4:20. Perfect.

“Bill, my main man! Come on in, I was just about to load a bong.


I knew Bill thought I was a slob, and the state of my apartment didn’t disprove that theory. I led him into the living room and motioned to the armchair as I sank into my own favorite, an old bean bag chair I’d found at a garage sale twenty years ago, when I was nine.

I grabbed my bong. Now, there are bongs, and there are bongs. My bong was, if I do say so, impressive. It was a foot high, made with psychedelic colored plastic with an opening almost too big for my mouth to cover. I packed it as full as a I could, and grabbed my Zippo. I lit up and pulled as much smoke as I could into the bong, then into my lungs. I passed to Bill.

Now, this was some quality shit, not quite as strong as Moon Rocks, but a kicker Indica of about 30% THC. I probably should have warned Bill, who smoked way less often than I did; but I knew he wasn’t driving. He tried to take a drag as big as I did, but coughed halfway through. Still, I could see him react to the head rush and the weed all at once.

I took the bong back, took  hit and refilled it. I took my drag and passed to Bill. Bill was a little more careful this time. This went back and forth about eight times. By the end of it, Bill was completely wasted, just sitting back in his chair grinning.

I watched him, and then took a look at the old clock before refilling the bong.

Bill’s eyes opened as I passed the bong again.

“I’m not sure man, that’s strong stuff.”

“Don’t be a normie, have a hit.”


After this one, Bill was totally blissed out. “Wow, man” he slurred.

“Good shit, eh?”

“Yeah. But I thought you only smoked at 4:20?”

“I do. Look at the clock, dude.”

He managed to turn and look at the clock, struggling to focus his eyes.

“See,” I said, “4:20.”

He struggled to think. I could tell something was confusing him. Then, his eyes opened wide in a eureka moment.

“Dude,” he said, “Your clock’s stopped.”