Luas tickets ‘unroachable’ says expert

Luas Tram, DublinMayhem in the ranks of pot-heads ensues as Government clamps down…


Uproar has greeted the introduction of Dublin’s new light-rail system, Luas, which was unveiled this month. Numerous complaints have been lodged with gripes ranging from the outrageously overpriced fares, the garish colour-scheme, the total absence of blank spaces to vandalise, the distinct absence of that much-loved stench of urine and the almost hilarious fact that the two lines do not connect.
However, depsite the many grievances which have been acknowledged by Luas authorities, the latest bug-bear to rear it’s ugly head, is the complete unroachability of Luas tickets, which has left Dublin stoners aghast.
Says Humourless McFuckwit (Clontarf-based President of ‘M.O.N.G’) “…this is simply unacceptable. First they outlaw smoking a fag in a pub, and now they foist these new bloody tickets on us…”
The row stems from the fact that previous rail tickets (manufactured from old-fashioned, straight-ripping card) are being phased out and replaced with new card tickets which have been coated in an almost indestructible layer of plastic. This has had the effect of rendering them unrippable and thus unroachable.
“They used to be just perfect” roared McFuckwit through a fuggy haze, “they were tailor-made for roaching. The right size, consitency and rippability for that 2 o’clock in the morning number when it’s imperative to roll lest the smoker chews their own face off. I will never vote for this Government again. Bastards.”
No Government spokeman was available for comment at this time.

damien

Damien DeBarra was born in the late 20th century and grew up in Dublin, Ireland. He now lives in London, England where he shares a house with four laptops, three bikes and a large collection of chairs.


4 comments

  1. THE SMOKE OFF
    S. Silverstein
    In the laid back California town of sunny San Rafael
    Lived a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly knew her well.
    She’d been stoned fifteen of her eighteen years and the story was widely told
    That she could smoke ’em faster than anyone could roll.
    Her legend finally reached New York, that Grove Street walk-up flat
    Where dwelt The Calistoga Kid, a beatnik from the past
    With long browned lightnin’ fingers he takes a cultured toke
    And says, “Hell, I can roll ‘em faster, Jim, than any chick can smoke!”
    So a note gets sent to San Rafael, “For the Championship of the World
    The Kid demands a smoke off!” “Well, bring him on!” says Pearl,
    “I’ll grind his fingers off his hands, he’ll roll until he drops!”
    Says Calistog, “I’ll smoke that twist till she blows up and pops!”
    So they rent out Yankee Stadium and the word is quickly spread
    “Come one, come all, who walk or crawl, price – just two lids a head
    And from every town and hamlet, over land and sea they speed
    The world’s greatest dopers, with the Worlds greatest weed
    Hashishers from Morocco, hemp smokers from Peru
    And the Shamnicks from Bagun who puff the deadly Pugaroo
    And those who call it Light of Life and those that call it boo.
    See the dealers and their ladies wearing turquoise, lace, and leather
    See the narcos and the closet smokers puffin’ all together
    From the teenies who smoke legal to the ones who’ve done some time
    To the old man who smoked “reefer” back before it was a crime
    And the grand old house that Ruth built is filled with the smoke and cries
    Of fifty thousand screaming heads all stoned out of their minds.
    And they play the national anthem and the crowd lets out a roar
    As the spotlight hits The Kid and Pearl, ready for their smokin’ war
    At a table piled up high with grass, as high as a mountain peak
    Just tops and buds of the rarest flowers, not one stem, branch or seed.
    Maui Wowie, Panama Red and Acapulco Gold.
    Kif from East Afghanistan and rare Alaskan Cold.
    Sticks from Thailand, Ganja from the Islands, and Bangkok’s Bloomin’ Best.
    And some of that wet imported shit that capsized off Key West.
    Oaxacan tops and Kenya Bhang and Riviera Fleurs.
    And that rare Manhatten Silver that grows down in the New York sewers.
    And there’s bubblin’ ice cold lemonade and sweet grapes by the bunches.
    And there’s Hershey’s bars, and Oreos, ‘case anybody gets the munchies.
    And the Calistoga Kid, he sneers, and Pearly, she just grins.
    And the drums roll low and the crowd yells “GO!” and the world’s first Smoke Off begins.
    Kid flicks his magic fingers once and ZAP! that first joint’s rolled.
    Pearl takes one drag with her mighty lungs and WOOSH! that roach is cold.
    Then The Kid he rolls his Super Bomb that’d paralyze a moose.
    And Pearley takes one super hit and SLURP! that bomb’ defused.
    Then he rolls three in just ten seconds and she smokes ’em up in nine,
    And everybody sits back and says, “This just might take some time.”
    See the blur of flyin’ fingers, see the red coal burnin’ bright
    As the night turns into mornin’ and the mornin’ fades to night
    And the autumn turns to summer and a whole damn year is gone
    But the two still sit on that roach-filled stage, smokin’ and rollin’ on
    With tremblin’ hands he rolls his jays with fingers blue and stiff
    She coughs and stares with bloodshot gaze, and puffs through blistered lips.
    And as she reaches out her hand for another stick of gold
    The Kid he gasps, “Goddamn it, bitch, there’s nothin’ left to roll!”
    “Nothin’ left to roll?”, screams Pearl, “Is this some twisted joke?”
    “I didn’t come here to fuck around, man, I come here to SMOKE!”
    And she reaches ‘cross the table And grabs his bony sleeves
    And she crumbles his body between her hands like dried and brittle leaves
    Flickin’ out his teeth and bones like useless stems and seeds
    And then she rolls him in a Zig Zag and lights him like a roach.
    And the fastest man with the fastest hands goes up in a puff of smoke.
    In the laid-back California town of sunny San Rafael
    Lives a girl named Pearly Sweetcake, you prob’ly know her well.
    She’s been stoned twenty-one of her twenty-four years, and the story’s widely told.
    How she still can smoke them faster than anyone can roll
    While off in New York City on a street that has no name.
    There’s the hands of the Calistoga Kid in the Viper Hall of Fame
    And underneath his fingers there’s a little golden scroll
    That says, Beware of Bein’ the Roller When There’s Nothin’ Left to Roll.
    http://www.lfoot.freeserve.co.uk/alight/skins/puffpprs/

  2. I would rather it snap off along a tectonic fault line, drift halfway to China and establish itself as a new country.

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