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The lounge recently witnessed a spirited debate in regards to proper terminology for a particular recreational activity. A poster who, at least superficially, represented something of the freeper mentality, persisted in using a term that quite a few knowledgeable DUers had not encountered. In order to resolve this debate, I did a little research. (in my CD collection) The following is, as far as I know, the most comprehensive collection of Marijuana pseudonyms ever collected.
The Smoke Off (performed by Shel Silverstein)
(sung to a hokey folk guitar accompaniment with a slightly country rhythm)
Now in the laid back California town
of sunny San Rafael
lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake.
You probably knew her well.
She was stoned fifteen of her eighteen years,
and her story was widely told,
that she could smoke 'em faster,
than anyone could roll.
Well her legend finally reached New York
that Grove Street walk-up flat
where dwelt the Calestoga Kid,
a Beatnik from the past.
He been rollin' dope since time began,
now he took a cultured toke
and said "Jim, I can roll 'em faster
than any chick can smoke."
So a note gets sent to San Rafael
for the championship of the world.
The Kid demands a smoke-off.
"Well bring him on!" says Pearl.
"I'll grind his fingers off his hands.
He'll roll until he drops!"
Says Calestog "I'll smoke that chick
'till she blows up an pops."
So the rent out Yankee Stadium,
and the word is quickly spread.
"Come one, come all, who walk or crawl!
Tickets just two lids a head."
And from every town and hamlet,
over land and sea they speed,
the world's greatest dopers,
with the world's greatest weed.
Hashishers from Morocco.
Hemp smokers from Peru.
And the Shashniks from Baggoon,
who smoke the deadly Pooggarroo.
And those that call it "Light of Life".
And those that call it "Boo".
See the dealers and their ladies,
wearing' turquoise, lace and leather.
See the narcos and the closet smokers,
puffin' all together.
From the teenies who smoke legal,
to the ones who've done some time,
to the old man who smoked "Reefer",
back before it was a crime.
And the grand old house that Ruth built
is filled with the smokes and cries
of fifty thousand screamin' heads,
all stoned out of their minds.
And the play the national anthem,
and the crowd lets out a roar
as the spotlight hits the Kid and Pearl.
ready for their smokin' war.
At a table piled up high with grass,
as high as a mountain peak.
Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers,
not one stem, branch, or seed.
I mean a Maui Wowwy, a Panama Red,
Acapulco Gold, Keef from East Afghanistan,
and that rare Alaska Cold.
And there's sticks from Thailand,
Ganje from the islands,
and Bangkok's bloomin' best,
and some of that wet imported shit
that capsized off Key West.
There's Ohaccan tops,
and Kenya bang
and Riviera fleurs,
and some rare Manhattan Silver,
that grows down in the New York sewers.
And there's bubblin' ice-cold lemonade,
and sweet grapes by the bunches.
There's Hershey Bars, and Oreos
in case anybody gets the munches.
And the Calestoga Kid, he smiles,
and Pearly, she just grins,
and the drums roll low,
and the crowd yells Go! Go! Go!
and the world's first smoke-off begins.
Well, the Kid, he flicks his fingers once,
and zap, that first joint's rolled.
Pearly takes one toke with her famous lungs
and whoosh! That roach is cold.
So the kid he rolls his super-bomb
that would paralyze a moose.
And Pearly takes one mighty hit,
and shoop! that bomb's defused.
Then he rolls three in just ten seconds,
and she smokes them up in nine,
and everybody sits back and says "Hey,
this just might take some time."
See the blur of flyin' fingers.
See the red coal burnin' bright.
As the night turns into mornin',
and the mornin' fades to night,
and the Autumn turns to Summer,
and a whole damn year is gone,
and the two still sit
on that roach-filled stage,
smokin'... and rollin'... (cough)
With tremblin' hands
he rolls his jays
with fingers blue and stiff.
She coughs
and stares... with bloodshot gaze
and puffs through blistered lips,
and as she reaches out her hand
for another stick of gold,
the Kid, he gasps
"Dammit bitch, there's nuthin' left to roll."
"Nuthin' left to roll!" screams Pearl.
"Is this some twisted joke?
I didn't come here to fuck around.
Man, I came here to smoke!"
And she reaches cross the table,
and grabs his bony sleeves,
and crumbles his body between her hands
like dry and brittle leaves,
flickin' out his teeth and bones,
like useless stems and seeds.
Then she rolls him in a Zig Zag,
and lights him like a roach,
and the fastest man,
with the fastest hands,
goes up. In a puff. Of smoke.
In the laid back California town
of sunny San Rafael,
lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake
you probably know her well.
She been stoned twenty one of her twenty four years
and her story is still widely told
about how she can smoke 'em faster
than any dude can roll.
While off in New York city,
on a street that has no name
are the hands of the Calestoga Kid,
in the Viper Hall of Fame.
And underneath his fingers,
there's a little golden scroll
that says: "Beware of bein' the roller,
when there's nuthin' left to roll."
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