Mr 420

When mother nature whipped her first cone it was inevitable that she would also cough up an unpleasant mucous. That unpleasant mucous is Simon. He dresses in confused-chic: white boy dreadlocks that sit underneath a Rastafarian beanie, a novelty shirt, Balinese fisherman pants and a pair of black socks with green leaf prints.

His smoking den consists of weird posters, a middle eastern Hookah and a DVD rack full of nutjob conspiracy theory shit. His throne is a disgusting couch that sits next to a table full of empty cigarettes, butchered Rizla packets and scatterings of bud. It smells as you’d expect.

Simon rolls out of bed at 10am and tries to fist bump his cat, “wake and bake brooooo”. He punches a cone and then expends the limits of his cookery skills by messily banging together 3 packets of Mi Goreng into a large mixing bowl.

Feeling nourished, he proceeds to log on to Facebook to find some herb. He updates his status “Jason Green???” He grows impatient after 5 minutes and re-posts, “wicks???” As subtle as a cold sore at a Carmex party mate.

Later in the day, Simon decides to make a rare public appearance at a mates gathering. He drifts in like a red-eyed space cadet and stinks pungently of bongs. He makes a point of telling people for the 100th time that he doesn’t drink alcohol and disappears briefly.

He reappears with a length of garden hose that looks suspiciously like the host’s beloved hose. He fashions together a Gatorade billie in front of the whole table, “sorry guys, forgot my papers, this will have to do”.

Now shit-talkingly blazed, he turns his focus to a girl sitting nearby. He tries to impress her by going hard on some industrial hemp facts, “you can’t even smoke it, so why does the Government resist?”

In case she wasn’t in a total state of drought, he brings out the big guns and compels her to watch a clip of Zeitgeist on his disgusting phone. Jesus and he wonders why he gets less wrist action than a Saudi thief’s hubby.

He announces to the group he is going home to “blaze”. He picks up his car keys, “another benefit of not drinking, I drive better baked, ha ha!”

He gets home only to pass out and burn another hole in his pants with a half-smoked joint. Thus completing another identical day in the cycle of an idiot.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?