Daily Dabble: Back to the Munchies — How Edibles Became My Time Machine

Intro: Great Scott, I Missed Thursday

Here’s the thing about edibles: they don’t just get you high. They don’t just give you the giggles, the munchies, or the urge to reorganize your sock drawer alphabetically. Edibles bend time. They are the DeLoreans of weed — clunky, unpredictable, and always dumping you somewhere you didn’t plan to be.

One minute, you’re sitting on the couch watching King of the Hill reruns. You glance at the clock — it’s 8:42 p.m. sharp. You’re feeling smug because the brownie “isn’t even working.” You open a bag of popcorn “just to have a snack.”

The next thing you know, you’re waking up with salsa on your shirt, Kushie giving you side-eye, and your phone screaming that it’s Saturday afternoon.

Great Scott. You didn’t just get high. You time-traveled.

Forget the DeLorean, the hoverboard, or Doc Brown’s chalkboard full of equations. All you need is a half-eaten gummy and the false confidence to say, “These don’t feel strong.” That’s the ignition switch. The flux capacitor is your digestive system. And the result? The closest thing to time travel that your average closet stoner can afford.

Chapter 1: Why Edibles Feel Like Time Travel

Smoking a joint? That’s like boarding a city bus. You know where you’re going. You feel the stops. You smell the diesel. You can ring the bell and get off anytime.

But edibles? Nah. Edibles are Amtrak trains with no schedule, piloted by a conductor who’s also high. You don’t get to “feel” the trip. You just black out, and when you come back online, you’re at a station you didn’t even know existed.

Scientifically speaking (and let’s pretend I’m Doc Brown here, waving my arms around like a mad genius): when you eat THC, your liver metabolizes it into 11-hydroxy-THC — a chemical compound that’s way more potent than what happens when you just smoke it. The onset is delayed, like waiting for Windows 95 to boot. Then it spikes. Hard.

So instead of slowly climbing into a gentle high, edibles hit you like lightning striking a clock tower. Nothing. Nothing. Still nothing. Then suddenly: boom. Time collapses.

Doc Brown was right:

“When this baby hits 25 milligrams… you’re gonna see some serious sht.”*

Chapter 2: The Stages of Stoner Time Travel

Every edible journey has its stages — and trust me, I’ve mapped them out like a scientist with a notebook full of doodles.

Stage 1: Takeoff (0–30 minutes)

Confidence is at an all-time high. You take the gummy, chew thoughtfully, and declare to nobody in particular: “I don’t even feel it.” This is the Marty McFly stage. You’re cocky. You’re sure you can handle anything.

Stage 2: The Wormhole (30–90 minutes)

The screen starts to shimmer. Netflix episodes seem longer. King of the Hill is now a spiritual odyssey. Time doesn’t pass linearly anymore — it folds in on itself. You think an hour has passed. The microwave clock says five minutes.

Stage 3: The Skip (90–180 minutes)

You blink. It’s tomorrow. Crumbs are everywhere. There’s an open jar of peanut butter on the coffee table and a single spoon in your hand like a weapon from the future. Kushie is glaring at you like the canine Time Variance Authority.

Stage 4: The Alternate Timeline (the day after)

You wake up convinced it’s still Thursday. Your calendar, your phone, and your wife (Mary Jane) assure you it’s Saturday. You’re in a brand-new timeline. You didn’t choose it. The edible did.

This is the paradox: edibles don’t just alter your perception of time. They steal it.

Chapter 3: Kushie the Canine Time Cop

Every Marty needs a Doc. Every Doc needs a sidekick. And every stoner needs a dog who reminds them that yes, you are very much still on Earth.

Kushie, my Brittany bird dog, has become my unofficial time cop. She’s the one constant in the madness.

Picture this:
I’m slumped on the couch, pupils wide, hoodie half-unzipped, a blanket cape draped across my shoulders. I whisper, “It’s working… it’s finally working.”

Kushie tilts her head, sighs audibly, and places her paw on my chest like she’s grounding me in this dimension. She is Marty McFly in dog form, pointing at me with her little paw:

“Bud, we gotta go back!”

Except instead of saving the space-time continuum, we’re saving my dignity.

Sometimes I swear she’s judging me. Like when I eat two brownies “just to be sure,” and she paces the kitchen like Jesse Pinkman in a tiny beanie, barking: “Yo, Mr. Bud! We gotta cook!”

Chapter 4: Back to the Future Parallels

The older I get, the more I realize Back to the Future wasn’t about time travel. It was about stoners before stoners knew they were stoners.

Think about it:

Marty McFly = the rookie edible eater. He’s always in over his head, confused, and falling down stairs.
Doc Brown = the experienced stoner. Wild hair. Erratic energy. Always building gadgets that might work. He’s basically the guy who invented the Magical Butter Machine.
The Flux Capacitor = your liver metabolizing THC. It doesn’t look like much, but it’s the whole damn engine.
1.21 Gigawatts = 100mg gummies. Too much. Nobody needs that much power.

Edibles are Back to the Future. The science is shaky. The timeline is messy. The ride is unforgettable.

Chapter 5: The Edible Experiments

Over the years, I’ve conducted my own “time travel experiments.” They weren’t scientific, but they were unforgettable.

The 1985 Nap
- Took an edible at 9 p.m.
- Woke up at 11 a.m. feeling like I missed prom.
The McFly Snack Run
- Ate 20mg.
- Blacked out halfway through King of the Hill.
- Woke up at 7-Eleven holding four bags of Funyuns. I don’t even remember leaving the house. (Relax, I walked. Don’t cancel me.)
The Biff Tannen Incident
- Accidentally ate too much cannabutter spaghetti.
- Spent an hour yelling at my fridge: “Make like a tree and get outta here!”

Chapter 6: Rules of Stoner Time Travel

If you’re gonna dabble with time travel, you need rules. Here are mine:

Start Small. 5–10mg. You’re Marty, not Doc. Don’t break the timeline.
Clear the Schedule. Don’t eat an edible before family dinner. Unless you want to explain to Aunt Linda why you’re staring at the green bean casserole like it contains state secrets.
Stock Your Snacks. Trust me — your future self will thank you.
Don’t Double Down. If it doesn’t hit right away, don’t eat another. That’s how timelines get destroyed.
Ride It Out. No matter how weird it gets, the high always ends. Unless you actually are in 1955. Then good luck.

Chapter 7: Cartoon & TikTok Hooks

This blog practically begs for cartoons — and TikTok loves quick visual jokes.

Cartoon Idea 1: Bud in a lab coat, chalkboard behind him with messy equations: “Edibles = Time Travel.” Kushie in a red Marty McFly vest shouting: “Bud, we gotta go back!”

Cartoon Idea 2: Bud eating a brownie, clock on the wall spins like crazy, next panel he’s in pajama pants at 3 a.m. eating peanut butter straight from the jar.

TikTok Hook:

Scene 1: Bud pops an edible, looks at the clock. 8:42 p.m.
Scene 2: Quick montage of Kushie staring, the TV flickering, a clock spinning.
Scene 3: Smash cut to Bud waking up with salsa stains, phone buzzing, “Saturday 2:00 p.m.”
Caption: “Edibles aren’t a high… they’re a time machine.”

Conclusion: Bud’s Final Puff of Wisdom

Edibles are sneaky little time machines. They don’t warn you. They don’t tell you the year you’ll wake up in. They just drag you along for the ride.

Back to the Future had hoverboards, paradoxes, and Doc Brown screaming about gigawatts. Stoners in 2025? We’ve got gummies, cannabutter, and the uncanny ability to lose whole days to King of the Hill marathons.

So the next time someone asks you when edibles kick in, just smile and say:

“It’s not about when.
It’s about where they take you.”

Because in the end, every edible is its own DeLorean — clunky, unpredictable, and guaranteed to get you somewhere you didn’t expect.

And as Doc Brown himself would say:

“Your future is whatever you make it. So make it edible.”