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Daily Dabble: The Final Hit — A Stoner’s Exit Strategy

Daily Dabble: The Final Hit — A Stoner’s Exit Strategy

Death. The big sleep. The grand fade-out. The one appointment you can’t push back on your Google Calendar, no matter how busy you are or how good your excuse is. Most people treat the topic like it’s the IRS calling — they’ll do anything to avoid it. Me? I think about it more than you’d expect. Not in a “wearing black turtlenecks and writing poetry about ravens” way, but in a what’s my endgame plan here? kind of way. It’s the stoner philosopher in me — give me a quiet night, a good indica, and Kushie snoring beside me, and my brain will wander from “Do I have snacks?” to “What happens when my sitcom’s final episode airs?”


Because that’s how I see life — like a sitcom. You’ve got recurring characters, running gags, plot twists you didn’t see coming, and the occasional Very Special Episode. And eventually… credits roll. But how you go out? That’s where things get interesting.

The Fear Isn’t Death. It’s Dying Weird.

Let’s get this straight: I’m not scared of being dead. You won’t catch me lying awake thinking, Oh no, what if I’m nothing but dust and cosmic debris? Nah — the thought that rattles me is how I go.

I don’t want my obituary to be tragic and stupid.

Like:

“Passed away suddenly while trying to make a bong out of a pineapple.”

Or:

“Died heroically while attempting to retrieve snacks from the top shelf in socks.”

I’ve seen enough weird death stories to know I don’t want to be the guy whose departure turns into a Reddit meme. I want my exit to have a little style. Maybe even a laugh track.

My Preferred Send-Off

If I got to write my own funeral script, here’s how it’d go:

  • No funeral homes. Too formal. Too sterile. Rent out a dive bar or a bowling alley. Somewhere with neon lighting and questionable carpet.
  • Cremate me. I’m not picky about the urn, but bonus points if it’s shaped like a lava lamp.
  • Roll me into a joint. I’m not saying smoke me, but… I’m not not saying it. Let my friends pass me around like the world’s most suspicious blunt.
  • Soundtrack. None of that sad organ nonsense. Play the Seinfeld bass riff every time someone gets up to talk. Slide in some Grateful Dead, Anderson .Paak, and a little Steely Dan for flavor.
  • Food. Potluck. Pun fully intended. If someone doesn’t bring brownies, I want my ghost to flip a table.
  • Décor. Put one Dorito on my urn. Don’t explain it.


It’s not about disrespecting death — it’s about keeping the energy high (pun intended). I want people laughing through tears, swapping dumb stories, and passing around my memory like they would a lighter at a party.

Mary Jane’s Version

Of course, if Mary Jane is in charge, none of that’s happening. She’d keep it classy — framed photo of me in a collared shirt, tasteful flowers, maybe a slideshow of my “respectable” moments (translation: any picture where I’m not holding a bong or wearing pajama pants). It would be sweet, sentimental, and almost certainly under-catered. She’d mean well. She always does. But I know my friends — halfway through, they’d be sneaking out back for “fresh air,” telling the real Bud stories.

Kushie’s Perspective

Kushie would handle it the way dogs handle everything — simple and honest. If I went first, she wouldn’t sit around mourning in the human way. In her mind, I’d have just “gone to the store” and not come back yet. She’d probably keep my spot on the couch warm, sniff my hoodie every now and then, and side-eye anyone who tried to sit there.Sometimes I think she’d be the best one to give my eulogy: “He gave good snacks, always kept the walks interesting, and smelled like a campfire made of pine trees. Also, I know where he kept the stash, but I’m not telling.”

Why We Avoid Talking About It.

Here’s the thing — most people don’t like to talk about death because it feels too heavy. Too final. And yeah, it is. But avoiding it doesn’t make it less real. If anything, it just leaves everyone scrambling when the time comes. As a stoner, I’ve had more deep, late-night conversations about life and death than your average sober office drone. THC loosens the brain bolts just enough to let the “big stuff” roll in. You start with, “What if time isn’t real?” and before you know it, you’re wondering if your great-great-grandkids will ever see your face in an old photo and feel that little spark of recognition.

Baked Philosophy Break: Death as the Big Intermission

One of my favorite baked theories is that death isn’t an end — it’s just the world’s longest intermission. You get up, stretch your legs, maybe hit the cosmic snack bar, and then step into whatever Act Two is. Could be reincarnation. Could be the afterlife. Could be some weird energy recycling where your molecules become part of a tree, a breeze, or a bag of trail mix on someone else’s hike. I like to think Act Two has all the best parts of Act One — your favorite people, favorite places, and zero paperwork.

The Worst-Case Scenario

Okay, fine — here’s my actual nightmare scenario: I go out in a way that’s so absurd, it becomes a TikTok trend. Like, “The Bud Challenge” where people try to recreate my last moments for views.

Imagine the headline:

Local Man Found Dead Surrounded by 47 Empty Pizza Rolls — Officials Baffled.

That’s not the legacy I want.

Legacy Goals

If I had to pick, my legacy wouldn’t be about what I owned or earned. I’d want people to remember that I was the guy who:

  • Answered the phone for friends, no matter the hour.
  • Always brought snacks.
  • Could make you laugh when you didn’t feel like laughing.
  • Never said no to a late-night walk, even if it was mostly an excuse to smoke.

I’d want people to miss me, but not in a way that leaves them stuck in the sadness. Miss me like you miss a song that makes you happy every time it plays.

The Stoner’s Advantage

The truth? Stoners are secretly great at accepting death. Not because we’re morbid, but because we already practice the art of letting go — of stress, of grudges, of that one terrible high school haircut. When you’re high, you get comfortable with the idea that everything is temporary. The good moments, the bad moments, the snacks… they all pass eventually. That’s what makes them worth savoring.

Death’s just the same thing on a bigger scale.

If I Could Haunt…

Look, if haunting’s on the table, I’m doing it. But not in a scary way. I’d be the most low-effort ghost ever.

  • Flickering the lights only when the pizza delivery arrives.
  • Knocking over bongs just to see who blames who.
  • Whispering “check the sock drawer” at inopportune times.

Kushie would probably see me, tail wagging, and think, Finally, someone who still understands me around here.

The Last Bowl

When my time comes, I want my people around me — the ones who’ve been there for the highs and lows, literal and figurative. I want to pass the joint one last time, clink glasses, and say, “See you on the other side — I’ll save you a seat.” And when the credits roll, I hope the audience laughs as much as they cry. Because if life was my sitcom, I want the finale to stick the landing.

Final Puff of Wisdom:

Don’t wait to talk about death until it’s knocking at the door. Figure out how you want to go out, what you want to leave behind, and who you want in the room for your last puff. And for the love of all that is holy — if you’re going to be remembered for anything, make it for living loud, laughing often, and never letting the joint canoe.