I might actually pee my pants

Which reminds me of this post last July
Heart attack man

Long ago, before the Flick children, before my current job, before I knew better, I may have sampled the weed now and again.

Typically what would happen is that I would be meeting up with my younger brother, who was in college at the time, and he would go about helping me "take the edge off”. As this was a prohibited activity as far as Mrs. Flick and my parents were concerned, this would often involve very complex and contrived scenarios to get us out of the house long enough to take care of business, get some gum, get some Visine, and then nervously reintegrate ourselves back into the family function. We were like the James Bonds of stoners.

In retrospect it was really far too much work, but at the same time I think that was half the fun.

After one particular escapade that was cut short, my brother said to me, "Here take the rest of this and put it to good use," and handed me the ragged remnants of a hand rolled “cigarette.”

About a week later on a Friday evening after a particularly stressful week, I thought that it was time to put the plan into action. The main problem was that Mrs. Flick was at home and does NOT in any way approve of said activities. So I immediately went into 007 mode. While she sat in the living room watching TV, I offered to cook us up some dinner. I pulled out a big kettle and started boiling up the spag. As she watched TV and I stirred the spag, the plan was put into motion....

Me: So how was your day, dear?

Mrs: Oh it was ... (while she talked I ran out to the garage, busted out the J, lit it, sucked as hard as humanly possible, held...held...exhaled...ran back into the house)...... ....and then we went out to lunch.

Me: OH WOW, that's great (stirring the spag). Where did you go for lunch?

Mrs: Oh we went over to the Olive Garden, the wait wasn't....(out the door again...lighting and sucking like I was trying to get a milkshake through a cocktail straw...huge breath....hold it....hold it...getting light-headed...blow...run back inside...stir)..........and the desert was terrific.

And this continued for like 10 minutes. Her talking, me running out to the garage, power smoking, and then rushing back in to pick up the conversation.

Finally, after a few minutes I realized that I was ripping high. I don't mean normal high, I mean that I was having a hard time figuring out how to use the ladle to stir the spaghetti. Remember I was a very infrequent user, a rank amateur if you will. In my frantic haste to get the job done, I may have...no make that I definitely overdid it.

So as I'm standing there, trying to speak, trying to stir, and trying to keep my head together, it started happening. The "IT" was my heart. It started going nuts....BOOM.............BOOM.....bababababababababababababab......long pause.....BOOM BOOM BOOM.....bababababab…

In retrospect, it's no wonder. In a 5 minute period I had taken about 10 HUGE breaths and held it as long as I could AND I had run back and forth as fast as I could from the kitchen to the garage 10 times both way. Drugs or no drugs my body had to be wondering what the hell was going on.

And so it continued...babababababab....BOOM......BOOM BOOM....

I started to panic..."OK, dude.... you're having a heart attack.....what did they tell you in boy scouts....hmmmmm....oh, I'm supposed to lay down and elevate my feet.....oh wait that's for shock....fuck....what do you do for a heart attack....OK check your left arms...that shit's cool.....OK....maybe if I lay down and put my feet in the air I can get all the blood to my heart. YEAH! That shit will work, I'll get all the blood to my heart and that will chill it out."

So I lay on the kitchen floor and put my feet up on the counter...taking long and slow breaths.

The whole time this is going on Mrs. Flick has no idea. From her perspective we're having a nice conversation. And seeing as I don't want to draw attention to my stone-assed heart attack situation, I tried to carry on the conversation as normal as usual.

The problem was that since I was laying on my back (having palpitations and trying to remember if I had made out a will) the tenor of my voice must have changed, bouncing off the ceiling and into the living room. This caused Mrs. Flick, who was relaxing on the couch, enjoying the beginning of her weekend, to look up curiously.

"Why are you laying on floor?"

"Ummmm, because.....ahhhh....now don't over react...but I think I might be having a heart attack."

"WHAT!?!?!??!?!?!??!" Mrs. Flick leapt from the couch and rushed to my side. “YOU’RE HAVING A HEART ATTACK? ARE YOU SERIOUS?"


"Yes,” I answered. The tears were starting to well up in my eyes...I was too young to die... “Honey, I love you."

"I'm calling the ambulance.” Now we were both panicked...she grabbed the phone and held my hand.

"Honey...just in case I should black out..."

"Yes?"

"Well...one of the first things that they'll want to know..."

"Yes?" She was dialing and trying to listen to me at the same time.

"Well they'll want to know if I've been on any medications."

"Right?" She looked at me sort of puzzled.

"Well you see....you have to tell them....for my own safety...you'll have to tell them that I may have just ...you know....smoked a bunch of marijuana in the garage."

She stopped dialing.

"YOU'RE NOT HAVING A HEART ATTACK, YOU ASSHOLE. YOU'RE HIGH." With that she stood up, threw the phone at me, and walked back into the living room leaving me lying on the floor like the idiot I am.

A dozen years on and I'm still not allowed out of sight with my brother, and we rarely have spaghetti without me getting at least one disgusted, disapproving look.