You've got to be an idiot to think that there aren't any space creatures out there. Whether they are nice or not probably depends on how we end up on this planet. Those fukers are watching. Betting. Waiting. Waiting to see how much the weed costs. And then they'll come down in ships or get beamed down and they'll grab all our weed and take it up to where ever they are from.
Even the worst weed that I have smoked is better than the crickets me and Lithium Jim used to smoke. We would put a piece of duct tape out on the sidewalk overnight to collect bugs and then we'd put then into a hookah and bong our lungs out all day long and then Lithium would practice his knee-spins.
I rode my fukin BMX everywhere. Bunny-hopping curbs. Bike dancing. Some ass wipes rode up to me and Lithium and roughed him up a bit. I learned how to make a super good blowgun. So I'd carry it to school in a secret pocket sewn into my jacket. I could ride my BMX with no hands while I blow gunned birds. I learned my lesson when I shot a dart into some dude's stomach. Luckily before I did it I decided that I didn't need to put copper rust, which is poisonous, on the tip of the dart. The Pukester and that guy later became good friends.