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Benjamin tamped down the sweet little cherry of a coal he had stoked in the elfin ceramic bong he’d bought last summer at the Big E. His faced puckered into the hit holding look Doug recognized from the time they toked Thai sticks behind the thresher in Braintree. At last he billowed out an ionized cloud of sticky ganja mist which clung to his lepidopteron (that’s right!) brow, accreting crystalized tetrahydrocannabinol like green hoar frost. So they both knew that worst case they could always smoke his eyebrows.
Date Written: September 19, 2005
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 3.5