The Stoner Hubby
and the Plight of Stoner’s Wives.
Love, purpose, and contentment aside, adult relationships are a terminal checklist of tasks that defer arguments.
Annoyingly for their able-minded partners, ex-stoners - or, Jah forbid, current ones - make for the world’s least reliable box-tickers. The chances of a potholed brain even remembering the box, let alone summoning up the will for marking it, are up there in the high zeros. All the blim-burned craters in a stoner’s head, end up frazzling their partner’s minds too.
The average Stoner Hubby majored in the giggly analysis of daytime TV. A mum-funded exploration of rastafarianism, which almost ended in lamentable dreadlocks. Luckily, our die-hard herbalist accepted that they didn’t have the discipline for the upkeep. Too busy dedicating all their time and effort to unlearning basic cognitive skills. Living life in the layby. Carefully cultivating an outlook at the mellower end of the don’t-give-a-fuck spectrum.
Now the happiness of a blazer’s relationship depends on completing all the daily actions of a human being, with the mind, body and soul of a root vegetable. Rota-ing through all the damp, circular motions, these half-baked potatoes have successfully skirted for a lifetime.
A well-liked sofa-surfer can get deep into their thirties without ever contemplating the far-out mysteries of the utility bill. The task always falling upon a roomie with a passing interest in the days of the month.
Stoners’ wives accept the hopeless mission of grounding these space cadets in reality. Getting this daydreamer’s head out of the clouds and into a toilet is no small feat.
The husbandry of ganja farmers is not all bad. A stoner’s minder can flex a perfect record in kitchen-sink showdowns. Squabbles always involve recalling those pesky specifics. With no memories to speak of, the bickering playing field is unlevelled for good. Also, no career lenghead has the mental bandwidth for adultery.
No self-respecting partner will pick up the slack and shoulder it for a lifetime stretch. There comes a time in a grown-ass stoner’s life, when they either learn to live with someone - or, take the way-chill option, and die alone.
‘With no memories to speak of, the bickering playing field is unlevelled for good.’ 🤣I’m gonna need more though.
Wrong Channel, I read this aloud to my wife and we both howled at it. Neither of us are stoners, thank goodness, but you can't read your very witty piece without saying, "Hmm. Do I do that."
Thank you for starting our day off with such a terrific piece of writing.