“Jack Herer”, he said to me. “Hydro stuff. Take it easy if you haven’t tried it before, it’s got a bit of a kick to it”.
Who the fuck did he think he was talking too? Hell I’d smoked some personal crop from a Papua New Guinean farmer that could knock a wild pig off it’s feet with the smell alone. If I could smoke that stuff and be alright, then a little bit of Jack Handbag couldn’t be so bad. I toked back on the scoob pretty heavy for a few rounds, and then thought I’d go play some more pool. That’s when it all started to go wrong. As I stood up, and moved over to the table, I could feel the colour run out of my face, and this nauseous feeling in my gut hit me like a train. Oh god, this didn’t feel good. I put the queue up against the wall and started looking around the room with a wild look in my eye for the doors to the toilets. I looked over at the bar, and the barman, seeing the distress in my eyes started frantically pointing to door over on a wall opposite where I was. I clenched my teeth as hard as I could determined not to hurl in public and thus ruin any chances I might have had at getting laid, and made a run for it. I just managed to get the door open to a mens cubicle when my stomach gave a violent heave followed by a projectile line of puke coming out of my mouth at high speed. It hit the water in the bowl with such force that the splashback nearly hit me in the face. For the next two hours it was like something out of The Exorcist in that little space; me heaving and grunting with powerful force and puke going everywhere, followed by guttural curses and hellish denouncements of the devil and his satanic weed of death.
By the time I had managed to pull myself together enough to go upstairs to my dorm room bunk, the place was empty, and all the lights were off. Small mercy really because I didn’t want to have to face an audience in the condition I was in. Especially with the women. Guys might understand and have a laugh at you, but women will never forget and never let you get their pants off. In my bunk the room was spinning wildly and I had to concentrate hard not to hurl again. The last thought I had before finally passing out was of a teeshirt I had seen in a tourist shop with “Welcome to Amsterdam. Do smoke too much”, written on it, and making a mental note to buy one for mum next time I could walk.
Andy
The Welcome to Amsterdam. Do smoke too much! The story of my first day and night! by Mentalechoes, unless otherwise expressly stated, is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
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