Dude, I got caught half a dozen times. My mom hated me smoking, only because she thought it affected my grades in high school. So, this adventure starts when I introduce one of my rich-ass, non-smoking friends to a little bud I bought from my brother. After he smokes his first bowl, he's hooked. "Do you think he'll let me buy, man?"
Cut to a week later, this guy's got all the paraphernalia: bong, one-hitters, papers, one of those bullets, and a couple spare bowls and downstems. So, I invite the guy and his friend over to my place to smoke since my mom didn't get off work until late. The guys show up on a fucking moped, with the most illegal backpack ever - this bright blue bong is sticking out of the top of it, and the whole thing smells like bud. They also pull out five foot-long Jimmy John's subs. We head to the back porch and start smoking, just going bowl-for-bowl on some dank shit. After about the sixth bowl, we go inside, start playing some video games, listening to music, giggling like fucking crazy.
Then, our worst fear: we hear the garage door start to open. Instantly, we're on our feet, eyes bulging with stoner terror. We peel off upstairs, sandwiches in hand, intent on hiding in my room for a while. We get up there, get settled, turn on the tv, and hear the door shut downstairs. Safe, right? We're in the clear, upstairs, with English textbooks out because we're "studying." And it dawns on us: where's the bong? Shit, where's the backpack? Where's the fucking bud?
It's all on the back porch, in plain view from the kitchen.
So we sit, unable to make a noise, just listening to her footsteps get louder, louder, closer...
My mom just comes upstairs, knocks on the door, and says, "I got off work early. Do you stoners want me to make you some fucking cookies?"
We still laugh about that one.
