*suddenly emerges from mental fog brought on by decades of gay porn to find my clothes strewn about the desk, covered in perspiration, and a quart-sized bottle of Gun Oil in my right hand*
Just about every hotel room reeked of weed.
And, by reeking, I don't mean a faint hint that you couldn't quite be sure was marijuana or sage (yes, I said sage. Maybe a Shaman stayed overnight on his way to a sweat lodge convention and had to do a spiritual cleansing after the toilet wouldn't stop flushing at 3 a.m.). These rooms were saturated in it so badly that you could've sold the toilet paper in hemp stores. There was the overwhelming evidence that potheads had slept there: more discarded blunt residue than the floor of Method Man's BMW, rolling papers (pina colada flavored! who knew?), enough empty Pizza Hut boxes to build a cardboard replica of The Alamo with, empty Dorito bags, half-eaten bags of Funions, beer bottles domestic and imported, and bags of fresh corn tortillas (for weed enthusiasts that wanted fajitas afterward). Once I remembered the date all of this activity made sense; it was the weekend of 4-20, the National Celebration of Marijuana. Sure, this is a holiday that Hallmark hasn't gotten around to developing greeting cards for quite yet, but it's celebrated by enough people to warrant at least a weed leaf icon on calendars. And the guests at La Quinta had been so overjoyed to partake that they started a day early, infusing the hotel carpets so thickly that even the power of Fabreeze didn't make much of a dent.
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