Contrary to common belief, 420 is not a police scanner code.

The mixtape of the past six years of my life will tell you.

(Scanners provide for a lovely score to a newsroom. The background noise makes for a sexy soundtrack. Back off, Ennio Morricone.)

"4/20" is a term originated in the '70s by some hairy high school hash hoarders whose attempts at cultivating insider jargon proved successful.

Those sneaky bastards. (Your mom's diary told me whispering is a more recent development.)

Hence, the spread of 4/20 culture.

Smoke a joint in the morning (4:20 a.m.), smoke a joint at night (4:20 p.m.). Smoke a joint in the afternoon, or whenever. It's 4:20 somewhere, right?


This just in: The only numerals that change on a world clock are the digits to the left of the colon. Take another hit and read that again. (Except for a handful of countries who are only 30 minutes ahead. So "4:20 somewhere" still doesn't work. Nice try.)

Anyway, since April 20 is here, the Norlin Quad is going to look like a flock of prepubescent teens wrestling a pack of daddy's Playboys.

4/20 is for laymen.

The "holiday" not only takes away from poor Earth Day's birthday, but you are also celebrating the day Adolf Hitler was born.

"Celebrating" and "Adolf Hitler" are just wrong in a sentence together.

So loadies, as neat as it is to gather on a field and get high, you're effing up my traffic.


Thanks for making my drive home to Denver today -- amidst a sea of teenage assholes stuffing their face with Grilled Stuft Burritos -- unpleasant. It will just take me that much longer to get to my gram of Agent Orange.

These Fantzy pants don't hate pot. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. Just keef it in your own damn pants.

Note to selves: I dressed those brownies with salvia. You're not stoned. Remember that party when you got so tanked? It was an N/A keg. I like watching you make an idiot of yourself.

Good talk.