Wigwam Boner Hole

I jumped awake and pulled my nunchaku from under my pillow. There was someone in the house. I slipped into my “game of death” suit and put on my Bruce Lee mask with night vision. There was a noise from my attic. Someone was fuking with my hydro setup. I sneaked up the ladder until I was near the light switch. I flipped the lights to surprise them and jumped with my nunchaku flailing. There was nobody there. I pulled of my mask. Nothing, nobody. Then a voice came down from the ceiling. “Pradlcykbo. You shouldn’t grow this much weed without sharing.”
“What do you mean? It’s my weed. I’ll smoke as much as I want.”
“Yes. But there is a scatological limit. Anything beyond a couple lids a day is pure selfishness.”
“Well what the fuk do you suggest I do with the extra grass? Who are you anyway?”
“I am the ghost of stoners past. And as for the extra grass, there are several things you can do. The first would be to donate it to retirement homes. Those places are filled with needy stoners. Do you know how hard it is to get good grass in a place like that?”
“I had no idea. Well that should be easy enough.”
“That’s not all. Don’t forget about those of us that have passed on. There’s no good weed in the afterlife.”
“Well there’s not a whole lot I can do about that. I’m surprised you guys can’t get grass there.”
“We get it. But its all bammer.”
“Well if there’s something I can do let me know. I was planning on giving my shake to the local Elks Lodge.”
“No shake, sonny,” said the ghost. “We need some mean fukin nugs. Some crippling super buds.”
“You got it. Feel free to come back during harvest and take as much as you need.”
“Very funny. Instead, I’m gonna have you Fedex it to a special address. They will know how to get it to us.”
“That’s no problem. What’s that address?”
The ghost gave me the address and then disappeared. The next day I sent the weed.
About a week later I was chasing a squirrel on the roof and I found a wire. I followed the wire to a speaker in my attic. God damn fukin winos.

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