Columnist Maureen Dowd of The New York Times sampled legal weed in Denver -- and wrote a column that's weirdly informative for all the wrong reasons.
Actually, it's not precisely clear what Maureen was aiming for when she ate an unnamed number of pieces of marijuana chocolate... but if the goal was to entertain us, Dowd succeeded and then some.
The blogosphere is gleefully dissecting the writer's dramatic description of edible pot consumption, complete with the obligatory near-death freak-out -- which makes us question her evasive assertion she'd eaten "one or two" pieces of the weed candy... after all, if we're scaremongering on dosing, isn't that kinda important?
Dowd hit Denver, and in a column titled "Don't Harsh Our Mellow, Dude," she explains in details the reefer madness that soon plagued her for a whole watered-down David Lynch movie night.
It all started innocently (and again, vaguely) enough, where it seems Dowd's desire for a buzz may have caused an overeager start. She says at the start:
"Sitting in my hotel room in Denver, I nibbled off the end and then, when nothing happened, nibbled some more. I figured if I was reporting on the social revolution rocking Colorado in January, the giddy culmination of pot Prohibition, I should try a taste of legal, edible pot from a local shop."What happened next is a spiral of rapid decay involving hallucinations, existential despair, and green corduroy pants. (Don't toke and Talbot's, kids.)
Dowd's shrill account continues, describing an hour of initial deceptive sobriety and even a craving for Chardonnay before the terrifying effects of the marijuana gripped her:
"But then I felt a scary shudder go through my body and brain. I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn't move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. I was panting and paranoid, sure that when the room-service waiter knocked and I didn't answer, he'd call the police and have me arrested for being unable to handle my candy."
Stop laughing! You have to read this bit!
"I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me."One Twitter user quipped:
Hang on. What if @NYTimesDowd really *did* die from her weed candy bar and *we* are her afterlife?The entirety of Maureen Dowd's column can be found via the link above, and in it, she argues against legalized marijuana edibles because, ostensibly, they lead to terrible discretion in trouser selection.
— Jake Silverstein (@jakesilverstein) June 4, 2014