Also, it was a Saturday and I was bored.
The idea of going to some shady medical marijuana clinic to be questioned by a disbarred gynecologist was just too amazing of an experience to pass up, so I called up a clinic in North Hollywood named, conveniently, “Marijuana Doctor”. Apparently, they don’ t need to be very creative to get customers.
I was also greatly amused to find that, like all other clinics I’d called, they answered the phone, “Hello, doctor’s office.” I’d then ask which doctor’s office and they’d say, “This one. This is a doctor’s office. Can I help you?”
A consultation and one year marijuana prescription is $60. Annual renewals are $45. If you successfully recommend a friend, they’ll mail you $5 in cash! If the cops confiscate your paperwork and throw you in prison, they’ll pretend they’ve never met you! And finally, the centerpiece of the entire experience: The name of the clinic’s physician is Dr. Colon.
You may think I’m making that name up, but I’m not. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m a seasoned comedy writer and it would be far too obvious a gag. But Dr. Colon is as real as his name is funny. He normally specializes in radiology (anal radiology?), but like most cannabis doctors, he’s just making some extra money on the side by writing marijuana prescriptions.
I entered the clinic, which was housed in an old check cashing place that had been stripped of everything. The walls were bare and creepy. Cords were still sticking out in some places. The male receptionist slid open the glass window and said, “What.” I told him I had an appointment. He had me sit down and fill out a six page questionnaire.
Oddly, the only two other people in the waiting room seemed like they legitimately needed medical marijuana. One was an old man in a Hoveround who literally looked like he could die at any moment, and the other was a younger black guy who could barely walk. I kind of felt like a smug twat, sitting there with my working legs and lack of cancerous goiters. I begged the receptionist to take the old man first. “Look at him,” I said. “He’s going to be dead by lunch!” The receptionist yawned and continued reading a magazine.
Five minutes later, I was brought into a dimly lit back room. It was empty but for a man in a white coat at a table. Dr. Colon would either remove my organs and sell them, castrate me for fun, or grant me the right to purchase weed. I had listed “anxiety” as the medical condition on my questionnaire, and was pleased when Dr. Colon asked me questions instead of pulling out a rusty knife.
“You have anxiety problems,” said Dr. Colon, telling rather than asking. “You’re nervous, you’re jittery, you worry about things too much, you worry about things too long, you worry about illogical things, you’re irrational and jump to conclusions, you have trouble sleeping, you assume the worst, you’re restless, you cannot concentrate, sometimes you sweat, you feel detached from reality, you can’t relax, you dislike life.”
“Yes, in that order!” I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
I wasn’t bullshitting. All of the things he listed are true. You should see me when I meet a girl I like. I basically hide under my bed for two weeks and dream up all the horrible things that could go wrong. If there was a reality show for “America’s Most Anxious Person”, I’d be a strong contender. Granted, I wouldn’t show up for the taping, but neither would any of the other contestants, so we’d all win.
“I assume you’re here because you don’t like pills?” asked Dr. Colon.
“Sure,” I said.
“All right,” said Dr. Colon. “Don’t drive a car, don’t ride bikes, don’t smoke it outside your home. We clear?”
I agreed not to ride bicycles while blazed, and Dr. Colon shook my hand and walked me back to the receptionist. They printed out a cheap certificate and put it in a nifty plastic sleeve. It’s exactly like one of those “good sport” awards they give out in little league baseball, complete with a cheesy gold stamp. They also offered a wallet-sized photo ID card for an extra $20. I was told this was an easy way to get into dispensaries without having to lug around your certificate. It’s a scam. No dispensary would even look at it.
The receptionist gave a recommendation for a nearby marijuana dispensary they get kickbacks from, and I was done. I was in and out in 20 minutes. I know people like to complain about this country and how flawed it is, but if a healthy, albeit slightly retarded individual like me can a marijuana prescription in 20 minutes for a mere $60, then god bless this wonderful place.
The marijuana dispensaries were even more interesting than the clinic. Depending on the location, they either resembled a hip nightclub with lots of bouncers (in the valley) or a rape bunker with bulletproof glass, vault-style doors leading to the sales room, and enough cameras to film five or six pornos simultaneously (East Hollywood).
They’re very picky about only letting one person into the sales room at a time. Since pot is still in a legal gray area, police don’t really respond if dispensaries get robbed. So they take care of themselves. But oh, the wonders inside! Imagine a futuristic bank vault opened to reveal 18 strains of indica, 16 strains of sativa, four hybrids, brownies, cookies, Rice Krispies or Fruit Loops squares, even lollipops and boxed chocolates. $5-$10 per edible, $20-$60 per 1/8.
When I got home I ate half a brownie, and within a few hours, promptly forgot my name, my mailing address, and what ethnicity I was. The only disappointment was when I woke up the next morning and realized I was Caucasian, lived in a dump, and was named after a member of The Beatles who is much handsomer than I could ever dream of being. But hey, what do you want for eight bucks? Life is good.
- Beware of the haunted house! It’s extra scary this year! Due to budget cuts, all workers paid to act as ghosts and monsters have been replaced with convicted sex offenders who graciously agreed to work for free.