Friendship, it’s potentially the most imperative virtue in life. Because without some form of reflective exchange with another living animal, it’s nearly impossible to apply meaning to our existence.

In fact, since our great grandfather times a hundred Erg the Nomad wandered the plains foraging for mushrooms and crunchy insects wiggling under Woolley Mammoth dung, knowing that another bone-wielding human had your hairy back has always been what keeps us going. Be it a person or a pet, we need to feel as if there is another organism with eyes that finds our existence worthwhile.

And one true measure of a real friend is a person who makes the attempt to reciprocate the association. Which often determines the varying levels of friendship.

First, you have your pretend friends. These are the ones who are around because you have something to offer. It isn’t based on leveling up as much as it is on climbing the social ladder or making their lives better by what you can provide for them.

There are also remote friends. These are the pals you communicate with once a year or so, just to re-establish that you still have a connection that is important, albeit superseded by current circumstances that require more immediate attention.

And then there’s your tribe. These are the peeps on speed dial with whom you counsel for social activities and relationship opinions. They are in your periphery, sharing meals and outings on grassy plots on sunny days, deeply involved in the events of your development, helping to navigate the course of your journey. They are responsible and dependable, having stood the test of time, supportive and aware of some deep secrets.

But there is another important friendship that belongs in the upper echelon.

This is the friend that generously reciprocates the bounty of green fluffiness out of the kindness of their supernova heart. They comprehend the commonality that is imperatively based upon positive intentions. Even if for only one sesh, this friend is true and should be revered. They are welcome into your space and judgement should never be passed.

Interaction in life is critical.

And a friend with weed is a friend indeed.

Khaki is a baby boomer color. They used to be into safaris. You see, fifty years ago they were the ultimate adventure, which is why these dust-colored outfits are made with waterproof panels and leftover mosquito net that blend with the Serengeti.

Now, I’m not making fun of all boomers, just the one’s filling the gas tank to the Chevy Avalanche and grabbing a stick of jerky on their way to a jungle cruise. With all those pockets and hooks on their cargo pants and shirts, they think capturing that Pulitzer pic for Nat Geo is a sure thing once the golden hour commences.

I know, this is insensitive. It’s just that there’s only one Indiana Jones and he wasn’t even real. Sure, you fashion yourself an adventurer who voyages the seven seas to faraway lands where accidental romances are waiting to be written in your self-published memoir, but the only ones who will read it are your grown children, indirectly forced to choke out the word spellbinding. Meanwhile in the real world, you’re so far from east Africa that your outfit will have to suffice like a child who wears Spiderman pajamas to the grocery store.

Let’s pretend for a second. There you are on an African excursion with your pasty white legs, Cheesecake Factory belly, and a 35 ml camera strapped over the chest while you waddle out of the Hummer just before the lioness pounces for a swift gnashing. Sorry, my guy, but the light brown cotton and mesh couldn’t camouflage the scent of maple syrup and Irish Spring soap to prevent that wild beast from clamping into the back of your hairy neck for a quick fast-food drive through triple bypass burger. Sound familiar?

Don’t get me wrong, safaris are cool. Rasta safaris, that is.

To be great at America’s favorite pastime, you only need to succeed three out of every ten attempts. We’re talking about getting hits in baseball here, not getting lucky between the sheets. However, for you men out there, the numbers are pretty much the same. For every ten times you try, if you get action three out of those, you’re doing better than most of your neighbors. Unless, of course, you live next to a college dormitory.

Or a retirement community.

Sorry for the visual.

One reason why getting laid has been compared to hitting a home run is because it’s not always easy. It takes skill and practice. I mean, if you’re uncomfortable in the batter’s box, getting to first base can feel very intimidating, much less advancing to second and third. And none of it matters unless you get to fourth base. That’s called home plate. Which is coincidental, because fourth base is where babies are made. And those babies end up living at your home, endlessly screeching at an empty plate.

Anyway, to effectively score and win, you need to be physically and mentally adept with good timing. You wanna keep the ball in play because that’s where the action is. If you’re swing is too erratic, you’re not going to find the gap on the field. And You only get three strikes until you’re back in the dugout watching the other players take their shot. Also, it’s good to keep the pace moving because the more the game drags on, the longer it takes to get to that victory.

By the way, did you know that the Major League Baseball Player’s Union recently announced that each team can now carry 14 pitchers? There are 30 teams in the league. That means there are 420 pitchers overall.

Looks like baseball is catching up with the times.

I know, you’re wondering if this is a topic that really needs to be discussed. Or can we just bundle it up and toss it in the washing machine, pretending it never happened. And my response is that it does need to be discussed for two reasons. The first being because it’s good to create healthy discourse about things you are normally too embarrassed to bring into public view. And two, because we’ve all peed the sheets.

No one is ever proud of this unfortunate mishap, but it’s ok, everyone knows you didn’t do it purposefully, it was just an accident more than once. And either because you were a child traumatized by your divorcing parents, or you simply have an old lady’s bladder.

Or you blacked the fuck out.

Listen, I’ve had a few hard drinking friends who should’ve had a plastic wrap around their mattress. But can you picture the look on a person’s face when you’re getting romantic, and the first sound is that of lying on top of an unopened Amazon package? Talk about a buzz kill. No one wants to feel like they’re about to get busy on a hospital bed. I mean, putting on a condom is awkward enough.

I’m gonna come clean here. I was a bed wetter until the age of ten. In fact, I soaked my pants during recess in the 4th grade, terrified to re-enter the classroom. Hiding the wet leg wasn’t so difficult in the self-imposed solitary confinement of the boy’s restroom but passing through the gauntlet to my desk in the back of the room after the bell rung was a different mission. And sure enough, Reggie the class clown caught me dead in my tracks. “You Peed!” he yelped, pointing directly to the massacre.

Wetting the bed at that age was humiliating, but peeing your pants was a scarlet letter. It’s ok, I’ve come to terms with it, and it made me a stronger person.

Maybe this is why my favorite weed strain today is Cheatah Piss.

Humans have been walking upright for nearly 200 million years. The average life span of a Neanderthal was 32 years. The number of people that have existed over this course of time is, well, a shitload.

And through all of that, you are here now. The fact that you are reading this now is proof. Yes, your imagination can do wonderous things but transcend the physical plane of time is not one of them. You have consciousness and you have the body to transport it through this reality, which means you pretty much have what we can assume almost every dead sentient being is no longer experiencing, which is life.

There is no life in the past, it doesn’t exist. There is no life in the future, it doesn’t exist. What only exists is this moment right now. And you got it, friend.

Mozart is not here now. He lived 32 years. Christ, John Smith, Nefertiti--their energy has manifested into other forms. Yet you still possess the core reactor, that spark that sets the heart pumping nutritious blood to every cell in your body. You are surrounded by skin. The entire thing moves at the will of your thoughts.

Isn’t it amazing?

And a day will come when you will be gone, and time will roll for another 200 million years plus.

You are armed with sensors--nose, ears, eyes, mouth, and skin—everything necessary to flow through this one and only journey. Heaven? You mean there’s something better? I’m not convinced. So, let’s apply our focus to what is tangible because time is precious. And that’s waking up tomorrow after a healing rest for another unfolding day of breathing quality air.

And while we’re on the subject--you can’t breathe without lungs. And Cannabis gives those sponges a good Rain-X coating of resin, which is good.

Hey, Bob Marley did not die of lung disease.

And if it didn’t get him, it ain’t gettin’ nobody.

Yes, pinky swears are a lighthearted agreement rarely enforced, but we all know that there exists a code with the intention of not being broken. Because in this sue happy world of painful litigation, if we don’t respect the sanctimony of a real deal, then why agree to it in the first place?

Locking pinkies is a silly way to execute blood brotherhood without the pricks. And I’m not referring to the kind of pricks who drive BMWs, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle to draw a drop of blood. I’ve seen blood bonding in movies where two warriors will cement an agreement by slicing a line in their arm before the compulsory forearm broshake, then sealing the bond by wrapping a leather strap.

The man love is palpable. In fact, you think they might rub beards.

Either way, the hand is the tool that secures alliances, and the inconspicuous pinky can be the secret weapon of assurance. Sure, most pinky swears aren’t taken seriously, but if we create a legally binding understanding that once a pinky swear is consummated there is no way to overturn it without going to hell, or some shit like that, they can be enforceable. It needs to matter more. Along with saving polar bears.

This is good.

Because even though the pinky is the runt of the litter, it has plenty of potential. Your ring finger is cool but is basically employed for the purpose of identifying the symbol for a ball and chain called the wedding ring. The middle finger, well, that’s a no-brainer—very useful indeed. The index finger is essential for booger harvesting and pointing at cool shit, which is of great importance. But the pinky has been underrated.

Therefore, as unlikely as it is that it will work out, sometimes you’ve just got to see how it goes because it’s the best option available.

Kind of like when you’re out of weed, but you’ve got a dirty pipe with a bunch of resin collected in it.

Make bad decisions. End of story.

Well, there’s more actually.

See, we all know that It’s difficult to think clearly when gazing through the glowing lens of beer goggles. Because when everything in your periphery is enhanced by fuzzy Glamour Shot lighting, the miscalculation alarm can be severely compromised when your weaker senses are enticed.

Suddenly, casting caution to the wind makes perfect sense, and you are down because you’ve just unlocked the jailed trap star who runs the city. That antisocial video gamer who clocked in this morning with a Best Buy name tag just got run over by the tank that is the new confident and boastful Chief Executed Baller. With a couple of shots and a beer satiating the gullet, the amazing new you has emerged. And this dude is a fucking player who struts with swagger and makes the calls, ready to order some rounds and make some forgettable memories.

This is the juncture in the evening where terrible ideas become sound opportunities to prove to the world that the tin man just needed a few drops of oil to lube up the joints. A few of these ill-advised decisions include tossing back a fifth shot of Fireball whiskey, doubling up on the stack of waffles, and cranking the ignition on the Hyundai. It all makes beautiful perfect sense. Oh, and hooking up with your childhood bestie.

Not all decisions made when drunk are bad, however. The moment you decided to hit a homeless guy’s pinner on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of calling Guido for an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week.

Thankfully, the evening wasn’t a complete loss.

There’s not a damn thing wrong with socks. Hell, life without them just wouldn’t be as cozy. In fact, I can’t say that there’s a more soothing sensation than pulling up a brand spankin’ new pair of cotton fluffiness over the feet. It’s a reward for those soldiers, a way of thanking them for taking a pounding and being the trusted vehicles that get you from point P to point Q.

Did you know that your feet are among the heaviest producers of sweat in the body, and socks are there to soak all that up and prevent the scent of cheese from settling into your shoe? I know what you’re thinking, the smell of cheese in your shoes is not Gouda. So, you better Brie ready to head to Monterrey, Jack.

Awkward silence.

Anyway, we’ve become spoiled. Because socks are now a commodity we take for granted. What was once a true luxury of the bourgeoisie has become a mass produced, commonplace afterthought found on the discount aisle at Marshals. And getting them as a gift almost feels like a gyp.

But you can’t blame grandma, her purpose is to keep you clothed and well-souped. Afterall, her grandmother grew up in the Great Depression, so having the ability to provide comfort for her brood is her way of expressing love.

And socks have become cool with their graphic prints of Hindu patterns and weed symbols. In fact, socks are a great way to make a statement. And that statement is that you are so fucking fashionable that when it comes to dressing, no stone is unturnt. “And if they think my socks are dope, wait until they get a look at my underwear.”

Now, it should be noted that getting socked in the face sucks. Unless It’s with a bag of weed that smells gouda.