Do I Look Like a Drug Dealer?
Almost every day without fail, some screwed up person finds this blog by Googling some variation of ‘smoking cilantro.’ I cannot fathom why any person would want to smoke anything, but cilantro? Why would anyone want to inhale a detergent-like substance into the lungs? Anyhoo, for all of you twisted people who find this blog while trolling around on line for some smoking cilantro weed, this one’s for you.
Bubba decides to smoke some cilantro. After about three massive pulls, he starts to feel strange urges. Inexplicably, he notices dirty clothes scattered everywhere and, in a frenzy, picks up every single stray piece of clothing from the floor.
“Cool. My girlfriend’s Fourth of July hair band!” he exclaims as he drops the tower of clothing to fondle the glittery star covered monstrosity. He flops on the clothes pile and mindlessly strokes the head gear for several minutes.
He feels giddy, and then, immediately, he feels dirty when he realizes that he’s lying on a pile of filthy clothes on his grungy floor. He jumps up, Fourth of July a twinkle on his head, and stuffs everything into the washing machine. To make sure the lot is nice and clean, he dumps an entire container of washing detergent, dish washing liquid and four bars of soap in with it.
He decides to take a shower but becomes distracted by admiring his image in the mirror. “That shiny hair band is REALLY a good look for me,” he says to himself as, buck naked but for the hair band, he strikes various fetching (he thinks) poses in the mirror.
Until the mirror fogs up with steam, reminding poor Bubba that he needed, craved, a shower. He jumps in, hair band and all, and he lathers up repeatedly, making sure to scrub his face so that he can lick the suds away. Tasty. He chomps on a couple of soap bars and rinses with a swig of shampoo, suddenly realizing that he is famished.
And, he wants Indian food, mass quantities of cilantro-laden Indian food. “Hey, the guy around the corner is Turkish, isn’t he? Surely that’s kind of close to India? He sort of LOOKS Indian. Maybe he’ll have some Indian food,” he haphazardly thinks. Donning his wrinkled shorts on his still wet and rather soapy body, he wanders to the shop around the corner.
He’s still wearing the glittery hair band as he struts through the door. He becomes confused when he sees a skinny teenage girl behind the register and no Turkish or Indian, or man period, in sight. Then, he manages a crooked smile. Blearily, he addresses the girl. “You’re sort of hot….Oh! Salsa!” he cries as he scoops up four jars of it, pays and runs back home, leaving the bewildered shop girl in the dust.
He rummages through his freezer, finding a warehouse club package of 50 chicken nuggets with the expiration date of October 2007. “WHY did I never EAT these?” he muses as he rips open the box and pours them, frozen, onto a plate, covering them with a full spice container of curry powder, the four jars of salsa and a fairy dust sprinkling of dried cilantro. “Let’s eat!” he screams with his mouth already bulging.
He comes to on the grimy kitchen floor that looks like fourteen washing machines erupted in unison on it. He wonders why he’s covered in dry soap, wearing nothing but a torn pair of boxers and a ridiculous shiny hair band, with the worst indigestion he’s ever had. “Smoking cilantro is bad news, man,” Bubba proclaims.
So, if you’re here looking for your cilantro fix, I’m definitely NOT your drug dealer.