Comedy night at the Canna Clinic…

CDUC13EUUAAAXkEToday I learnt two things. The first is that penguins have knees inside their bodies. Yes. Knees. Inside. I’m not even kidding.

The second is that if you go to a comedy show in a cannabis clinic and don’t smoke/consume a thing, you will get high anyway and you will laugh like a toddler on half a kilo of gummi bears, even at the jokes you know aren’t funny.

You will also laugh at people and things you shouldn’t laugh at, like the man who’s off his tits in a specially reserved chair, which you assume is a chair he’s branded as his own, so high in the chain of Vancouver pot smokers is he. You find yourself frowning in mild disapproval at the state of him; drooling, guffawing, shouting when he shouldn’t shout, but also gazing in awe, marvelling at how you too are in a wondrous world in which one can have a specially reserved chair for stoner’s events in a cannabis clinic.

How did this happen?

The show goes on. The comedians joke; strut the stage with joints behind their ears. They hand some out at random to the people laughing loudest. The plumes of passive smoke fill your lungs like magical stardust, forcing your brain to cloud and your smile to touch your ears without your consent.

Wait. Was the joke funny? You’re not too sure, you can’t even remember it now, but you’re smiling anyway and oh… was that a unicorn?!?!

The man in the special chair won’t shut up. You’re frowning. Frowning and laughing at the same time. You assume the nonsensical outbursts he’s ejecting into the fog of the room are the result of the ‘Death’ or ‘Vegan Tuna’ or any one of the questionable names for the weed on sale that he may have consumed. But no, no, you’re wrong about that.

He is retarded, you realise with a pang.

And you are a terrible, terrible person.

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