Two Tuesdays ago, like many other Tuesday afternoons before it, I was at the Palladium dorm hall, smoking a bowl with Carl. I'd wanted to go to Salvation Army afterwards, as my apartment was in need of second-hand re-furnishment, but soon enough, mobilization seemed impossible, and Carl was much more interested, remarkably, in doing homework. I was reading through one of the most boring books ever published (Consequentialism and it's Critics), when he got a phone call. It’s important I mention that he sells weed, and charges standard fare for standard product (predominantly), otherwise the following dialogue wouldn’t make sense to you. I didn’t hear the entirety of the conversation, but some of it went like this:
“Wait...two for what? Two for thirty?”
“A deal??! He’s whacked, I never told him that. I don’t make ‘deals’ like that.”
It wasn’t until after he got off the phone that I found out that the person on the other end was his mother. Apparently, the two of them run a family business together.
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