Laura’s grandmother had just died. Laura was my oldest friend and so I threw my suit on and headed for the train station. Before leaving I stopped to consider what I could do to lift her spirits.

I had recently completed the est training and had begun to think that perhaps daily drinking and drug use might not be very healthy. As I looked around for something to give Laura I came across a small bong. When I purchased it I was too stoned to notice that it had a heart, flowers, and the words I Love You emblazoned on it. This limited its usefulness as my buddies busted my balls unremittingly about it.

I stuck it in my jacket pocket and took off. As I was waiting on the platform I observed a small but eclectic group of fellow travelers sharing a joint as they waited for the train. One was a conductor waiting to board the train to start his shift, another was a typical jersey boy in a flannel shirt and jeans. The other two were a couple clad in the height of punk fashion.

Eventually the punk girl, I’ll call her Sheena, began calling for me to join them. I declined with a wave of my hand. But Sheena was a persistent little punk. She walked over to me with the joint and, as she held the joint to my lips, said “Come on, one toke won’t hurt you!” I capitulated.

She and her companions laughed heartily, obviously thinking that she had just turned me on to pot for the first time. At that point any desire for self improvement was driven from my mind by the thought of the one hitter bong in my pocket. I have never been able to lay off a good gag.

So I walked slowly over to them and, as I pulled the bong from the breast pocket of my suit said, “Too bad we don’t have any water or we could use this.”

The uproar this produced was the kind of moment a class clown lives for. They insisted upon doing some one hitters without the water.

It was just as well, Laura and I would need to get high that weekend anyhow.