There we were, inspecting the townhouse we were going to buy. It was me, my wife Cat, our (superb!) Realtor (Hi, Lynda Cook if you read this!), and Tony, our frightfully knowledgeable house inspector. Cat and Lynda were sitting at the dining room table belonging to the [major health care provider with a thriving practice] who was then renting the place, and I was tagging along behind Tony, wondering if I was even vaguely fooling him into thinking I knew anything about plumbing and/or electricity.
As he began inspecting our might-be kitchen, Tony pulled down the oven door—and voila: Weed-o-Rama.
“Whoa,” said Tony.
Looking over his shoulder, I said, “Okay, now this I know about.”
“Who lives here again?” he asked.
“What is that smell?” said Cat from the dining area.
“Oh my God,” said Lynda. “I know what that smell is. That’s pot.”
Now, I don’t want to too dramatically conjure the Major Stoner I used to be, but, quality-wise, this was about as “good” as (evil, evil, evil) weed gets. And as you can see from the photo that I totally took of it, it wasn’t exactly a minuscule amount of it. Back in the (awful) days when I used to smoke, that would have been enough weed to last me for … well, that’s really beside the point. The point is, it’s mucho dope.
“Isn’t the guy who lives here a [major health care provider with a thriving practice'” asked Tony.
“He is,” I said.
“That’s so awful,” said Lynda.
“Can you email me that picture you just took of it?” Tony asked me. “I give classes for home inspectors. I’d like to use it as an example of why it’s important to look inside the oven before turning it on.”
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “And, by the way, if you want this weed, take it. It’s not like Dr. Feelgood is going to come asking where it is.”
Tony laughed. “No, thanks. I have a life.”
Throughout the house we found other evidence—roaches and clips and so on—proving that the guy who lived there was a dedicated stoner. (And drinker. And world-class slob.) He didn’t even bother trying to hide it (even though he knew we were coming over to inspect the place).
Isn’t it awful, to know that somewhere out there are patients willingly putting the care of their health into the hands of a man who, just before he began working on them, at the very least had to make sure to use a hand soap strong enough to cover the stench of smoked pot that he knew was on his fingers?
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Related posts o’ mine: Proof of How Easy It Is to Buy Marijuana in California; Proof People Get Stoned at Work, and My Visit to a Marijuana Anonymous Meeting.
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