No, I mean, not my weed. Let’s just say theoretically it was my weed. I don’t suppose I could just swing by and liberate it could I? It belongs to a very powerful man with a hairless cat and a heinous case of glaucoma. Wait, let me take a step back here.

Perhaps you’ve heard by now that the Florida Highway Patrol found two deliciously large bags of weed on I-4 today and are really bending over backwards in an attempt to return them to their rightful owner. You know what I’m talking about kids; I’m talking about weed, mary jane, reefer, chronic, the stinky stinky skunk fuzz, Grinch pubes, 100% pure motivation, the cliffs notes to quantum theory in a bag, or, as I like to call it, the place where 7th grade went, or, more specifically, the reason why I came to blows with my friend Matt Rice over the issue of which was a better metal tribute to Native Americans, Maiden’s “Run to the Hills,” or Anthrax’s “Indians.” Sorry about what I did to your Datsun, brody.

Anyway, the FHP went so far as to publish their number in a press release about the misplaced Xmas decorations, noting that anyone who is missing their weed should call them. Seriously, 813.631.4020. What a swell bunch of dudes.