Happy Earth Day.

You’re a day late, you dumbass.

Whaaaat?

Earth Day was yesterday.

Whoaaa, dude, I missed a whole day.

Seventeen-year-old Sterling shoved the pound of weed he bought from Palmer into Palmer’s chest.

That’s a big part of what’s wrong with you. You’re fried all the time. Maybe that’s why this shit’s no good. I smoked ten joints before and after my shift at the supermarket and only got the worst headache of my life.

If I get high from it why don’t you?

You have permanent brain damage. You’re high when you’re not high. Your brain on reality is worse than that fried egg on drugs in the TV commercial.

The pot is aged, like those fine wines our parents drink.

Our parents are aged.

I’m down to my last couple of pounds of pot. All I got in my last postal service delivery was two pounds. My distributor’s having trouble with his supplier. It’s like an embargo. Even the Cali Deadheads are having trouble scoring, man. I’m tapped out.

The whole golf team is pissed. So are the rest of your customers in the junior class. Every stoner kid in school depends on you. Nobody got high with what we bought from you the other night. What are you going to do about it?

Between all our parents we probably have enough opioids to last us a couple years. They won’t miss half of what they stockpiled. I’m down with blasting off with painkillers, how about you?

Oxycodone into the ozone!

I’m thinking about randomly mixing a couple different bottles and calling it Buzzsaw. My mom’s a real dopioid. She’s got dozens of bottles and her dentist is prescribing all she wants since she can’t get her teeth whitened. Says she’s in the worst pain of her life.

Yeah, sorry about your mom, man. Her story’s all over the internet. My mom and her Zoomed each other the other night for hours, crying and drinking peanut coladas live on the screen. Them and four other women golfers all blasted out of their minds trying to console your mom. I videoed them and posted it on my Instagram.

Yeah, mom’s in seclusion.

Finally flipped, huh?.

Almost died dying her roots. Talk about fried. She’s wearing a buzz cut and looking like a marine recruiter. My father’s getting bad, too.

What’s up with him?

Mom won’t cook meat, anymore. Says we’re Covidtarians. Ashley is worried her breasts will stop growing.

Yeah, we’re even running out of liver at the meat counter in the supermarket. Chicken? Forget it? Steaks? The boss is marking them up like you wouldn’t believe.

My dad says he knows a guy who can get all the steak you can eat. Cheap.

I’ll tell my dad. We’re grilling here in the garage tonight.

You still got beer?

Tons and the guy my dad says got meat also has liquor even though the state stores are closed.

Too bad he doesn’t have weed.

Sterling popped a Budweiser and gave one to Palmer.

Buzzsaw for everybody, Sterling said.

He and Palmer banged cans in a toast, spilling foam over the sides.

One big question, Palmer.

Ask away, bro.

Ashley’s breasts won’t really stop growing will they?