So I’m sitting in my backyard, enjoying the sun, listening to some music when I hear the magical sounds of the steel drums. My ears perk and it’s a familiar song from the eighties, “Pass the Dutchie.” I know that song and I know what it means. I look over my fence and sure enough it’s a vehicle that looks like an ice cream truck but plastered on the side is a giant marijuana leaf with “Weedman” in rainbow letters under it. And that fragrance. Is there a skunk in my backyard? Unmistakable.
What a great idea, I say to myself. The possibilities are endless. You’re sitting on a beach with the love of your life. The sun is going down, burning low behind the mountains. Romantic perfection to the nines. But you’re missing something. A joint would be perfect right now, lending a relaxing and mellow vibe to your romantic interlude. You hear sounds in the distance, “How do you feel when you got no weed, Pass the Dutchie.” The fragrant aroma of a thousand skunks under your porch wafting in the sunlight. The weed man has arrived. “Honey, hold on just a minute. I’ll be right back,” and you sprint to the Weedman truck like a ten year old running for a Sonic the Hedge Hog ice cream bar. You score and slowly walk back to the beach, but the sun has already set. Not for you though, an ember glows like the midday sun. Ten minutes later, you are fast asleep in your lover’s lap.
Or you’re downtown in the food truck line up, but in the distance you hear those familiar drums. “Pass the Kouchie on the left hand side.” Oh yea, the Weedman is here. You score a little appetizer from your Rasta waiter. After the appy, you hit the gourmet hot dog truck and gobble down a bacon and spicy guacamole dog. Then, with about ten seconds consideration, you hit the poutine food truck. The Weedman earns another commission. You wouldn’t have bought those extra fries, curds and gravy with out a hydroponic embellishment.
And all the other options. The folk music festival although I’m sure the Birkenstocks might be pissed at having the Weedman ruin their traditional stomping grounds. For each festival the Weedman adjusts the tune blaring from his truck. Country music festival, “It’s all going to pot,” Willy Nelson and Merle Haggard. This works also for the Calgary Stampede or any rodeo where good ol boys hang out. Folk music? Let’s go with Dylan and “Everybody Must get Stoned.” I don’t think there’s a musical genre exempt from the Weedman.
I’m looking over my fence and the Weedman passes. Pass the Dutchie is fading into the summer sun. What do I hear next? The Ice Cream truck song (which apparently is the most racist song in the world) followed by the potato chip truck and the pizza truck. Man, those munchie guys are making a killing because it’s not kids running after the food, it’s middle aged guys flying out of their backyards. Mowing the grass has a whole new meaning here in suburbia.
Thanks Meningrey for the image