Promoted from our Community Blogs!
[Dtoid community blogger DoctorHair shared this… uh… well, he… yeah… just read it. It’s goddamn hilarious. –Mr Andy Dixon]
Welcome to Fantasy Blunt Scenarios: A new, ongoing original series concerning groups of people I’d like to smoke a blunt with, and what we’d do while chilling. Any resemblance to real life situations is unintentional, but still really cool.
For my first fantasy, I will be toking with a group of Nintendo legends:
Reggie Fils-Aime
Satoru Iwata
Shigeru Miyamoto
Masahiro Sakurai
We’d hang in Reggie’s basement in Redmond, WA and smoke a fat blunt on a couch shaped like a large apple. I’d bring my DVD boxsets of the Legend of Zelda cartoon and the Super Mario Bros. Super Show and we’d marathon every single episode. In between discs, I’d poke Miyamoto in the ribs and dare him to tell me he doesn’t like the shows. He’d giggle in Japanese.
Reggie would sit in a weather-worn blue beanbag chair and power-snarf pork-rinds. We’re talking bag after bag of greasy rinds; motherfucker barely even has to chew. He’d get swine oil all over the intake end of the blunt, causing the smell of burnt pork to emanate throughout the room. No wonder Mother 3 was never localized.
Meanwhile, Sakurai would sit uncomfortably close to me on my left side. He’d constantly [laugh] his signature [laughs] — I swear, in person you can hear him pronounce the brackets. He’d keep leaning in, his nose mere centimeters from my neck, and ask me if I want to know the complete roster for the upcoming Super Smash Bros. installments. “No thanks, compadre,” I’d say. “I’d rather be surprised.” He’d then tell me anyway.
Iwata would sit in the very middle of the glass coffee table, facing toward the rest of us. Luckily, Reggie’s TV is so massive that our view would hardly be obstructed by Satoru’s spindly frame. Real problem is, I imagine him to be the CEO of holding blunts ransom. We all know that guy who sits on smokeage like it’s a fine velour cushion; ‘Toru makes an artform of it. As he’d delay passing that sweet ganja over and over again, he’d assuage us with constant apologies. “I need a little more time,” he’d squeak. “Please understand.” We’d keep putting up with it because he’s the boss, but damn.
Meanwhile Miyamoto’s translator would make a bed of the soft, gray carpet beneath us. He’d have pestered Miyamoto all day to let him tag along, only to pass out cold after taking two baby-sized hits. Every once in a while Reggie would say that someone should “take a whiz on him”, to teach him a lesson. It’d be fine if he said it once, in jest, but his repetition would make it clear that he desires it on many levels.
Eventually, we’d have to disband when the sun begins to gleam through Fils-Aime’s freshly-windexed rose-colored basement windows. The big boys would remember that they have a multinational corporation to run in mere hours. Since Reggie’s hand would be too caked with congealing grease to grip a steering wheel, I’d wind up driving the others back to their hotel. And then, after prying Sakurai out of the backseat of my shitty ’96 Dodge Intrepid, I’d sleep it off in the parking lot.
Oh shit, I think I left Shiggy back at the BP!
