The Jamaican Clam Bake Debacle - December 2, 2006

(Reconditioning Batteries)

I used to smoke a lot of weed. I always thought I would never give it up as it was a great pastime for my friends and I - getting high, laughing a lot, stuffing our faces at convenience stores before we even paid at the counter, etc. until one fateful night at my friend Micah's apartment. After that, I would never touch that evil green shit again.

One afternoon in February 2000 I got a call from my friend Micah on my cell phone:

Micah: "Mikey, come on over to my place tonight. I'm having people over and we're going to attempt a Jamaican clam-bake."

Me: "What the fuck is a Jamaican clam-bake? Is it food related? I just ate, man."

Micah: "You fucking moron. Just show up whenever."

I arrived at Micah's and there were about eight of our other friends already hanging out drinking. The shower was running, but Micah was hanging out with the guests. Confused, I cracked a beer, still trying to figure out the whole Jamaican clam-bake mystery event.

Me: "Micah, what the fuck is this Jamaican shit you were talking about?!"

Micah: "Dude, wait twenty minutes, you'll see."

Me: "Who's in the shower?"

Micah: "Your fucking mom. Don't worry about it. Twenty minutes man."

Christ. Nothing is worse than anticipation for me, especially when it's over something I am fucking clueless about. This is exactly why I was always caught every year sneaking a peek at my presents before Christmas when I was little. Well, I guess if you want to get technical, I got caught because I was shitty at sneaking around.

Twenty minutes passed. The shower was still running and steam started misting through the tiny space between the door and the carpet. Micah went into his room and emerged with a three- foot glass bong, a glass bowl, and a giant gorilla-finger sized blunt behind each ear. He then opened up the bathroom door and told everyone to get in. All eight of us filed in and closed the door behind us, leaving us less room than an occupied Lane Bryant dressing stall. You couldn't see a damn thing in front of you from all of the steam that had been collecting for about forty-five minutes.

Micah then told everyone to shut the fuck up so he could address the group.

Micah: "Alrighty folks, this is it. The Triple-B Olympics. The events: Blunt, Bowl, Bong. You are not allowed to open the door for any reason. The hot steam from the shower will open up the capillaries in your lungs allowing more THC to enter your bloodstream, getting you higher than normal. If you open the door, you are out of the bathroom for good. Last man (or woman, there was a chick in there with us) standing wins. Let the games begin!"

I was intimidated by this immediately. I already had beads of sweat forming on my forehead from to the sweltering rainforest-like atmosphere and I was having a hard time breathing. I liked to smoke, but not like that. Never like that. I was always more of a drinker; I could at least control myself marginally when drunk. This was not my event.

The first blunt was lit. I took my first pull, exhaled, and passed it to my left. I was surprised at how smooth it was going down, the steam really made the smoke easier on my lungs than normal. The air quickly became heavily laden with the smell of ganja, adhering to the water molecules in the air making every breath a hit in itself. The blunt came to me again. This time I took a bigger pull, expecting it to be as easy as the last. Sure enough, it went down easier than my senior prom date. After that one I was visibly high and giggling at anything that came out of anyone's mouth. How the hell am I going to finish this? I was slightly worried, but that feeling dissipated shortly after the second blunt was finished.

The bowl: This glass instrument of torture had room for an exorbitant amount of the sticky-icky. While Micah packed it, I surveyed the situation: Everyone else was extremely high which made me feel better about my own state of being. I was truly fucked up and I wanted out but my legs had abandoned me and wouldn't listen to my brain. The only way I could stay focused on conversation was by staring at the tiled floor. Most of us had sweaters or hooded sweatshirts on when we first walked in, but by this point they were discarding them on the bath mat.

I was sweating my ass off and in dire need of a glass of water - or better yet, a beer. The girl that was in the room took the first pull off of the bowl, coughed uncontrollably, and passed it. After my turn I felt nauseous and overheated, with sweat pouring out of every orifice. The girl who was sitting at the edge of the bathtub fell backwards into the running water, completely dehydrated and incoherent. Some of the other people in the bathroom picked her up and shoved her outside, quickly shutting the door afterwards. The air from the other room was so cold...so fresh. I was so jealous. I could only look on, I was unable to move and my vision was starting to become staggered. I was beyond that stereotypical paranoid high. I had entered schizophrenic high, if that is even possible.

The bowl ended up being consumed by flame three times before the bong was brought out. Only four of us, including Micah were left at that point. I was only wearing a wife-beater and boxers, sweating profusely and dripping wet. The hopes of making out people's faces and conjugating complete sentences had been abandoned entirely. I was retarded in every sense of the word.

I looked around again. Everyone was down to their boxers. Four sweaty half-naked dudes sitting altogether waaaaay too close to each other. This wasn't a Jamaican clam-bake; this was a Turkish bath house. The bong was passed to me. I filled the tube as thickly as humanly possible before releasing the carb.

I was done.

I started seeing quick flashes of light and quickly began to lose consciousness. I hadn't had a breath of fresh air in what seemed like a forever and that was all I wanted at that point. The game was a stupid idea and I wanted out. I stood up, staggered towards the door, opened it, and was hit with what felt like a blast of artic air. My knees gave out and the side of my face hit the beige carpeting with a hollow thud.

Unconsciousness covered me like a flight attendant on the red-eye.


I came to sitting on the couch upright with a plate of Chinese food on my lap. I squinted (well, not squinted my eyes were as Chinese as the food in front of me) at who was sitting around me as everything began to register. Everyone was still here, staring blankly at an infomercial on T.V. shoveling food into their mouths. I heard someone throwing up in the bathroom.

Me: "Whaaaaat the faaaaaack happennnnned?! Who won?!" (Rubbing my eyes)

Micah: "Duuuuuuuude, you passed out mannnn!!! Hahaha!!!, what a fucking nancy boy lightweight!"

Me: "Who got the Chinese?! How did this get on my lap? Wait, I just asked you who won...who won?!" (Piling food into my mouth by the fistful)

Micah: "Oh, we all gave up after you passed out on the floor. It was a three-way tie."


My stomach started churning like hell. I was trying to ignore the burning pain in my gut and join the other drones drooling at the picture box, but the more I tried to stay focused the more the pain in my stomach amplified. Finally I set my plate aside and shot into the bathroom, hoping I just had to take a dump. I had my elbows on my knees hunched over on the toilet so I could study the tiles on the bathroom floor at I pooped. I started to relax, taking deep breaths and collecting myself. Finally, my sense of normalcy is coming back.
That's when the tiles started moving

"Holy shit. I am tripping."

I glanced towards the towel on the wall; it was waving like a windsock on a yacht. I closed my eyes, hoping that when I reopened them I would be sober and happy again. I reopened them and a wave of nausea hit me like a Louisville Slugger. I had to throw up right then and there but I was still shitting. Quite the conundrum. Thinking fast, I switched my seating so I was on the toilet side-saddle while throwing up in the sink, evacuating my insides from both ends. I was always good at multitasking.

Darkness takes over again.


(Furious knocking and yelling) "Mikey, did you die in there?! Hey, we're going to the Tiki Bar, come on, let's go!"

I came to once again, in the same position with my head resting on the cold porcelain sink. The water was still running. I started to question my decision-making skills. "Why the fuck did I elect to do this?! I am such a retard - I'll never touch this stuff again", I mumbled to myself as I pulled my pants up and staggered back into the living room. I was scared. My heart was beating a mile a minute, I couldn't breathe regularly and nobody could notice the panicked look in my eyes because they were too stoned to get their winter jackets on, let alone judge someone else's state of being.

We arrived in downtown Portsmouth moments later. Micah and everyone we were with filed into the Tiki Bar except for me, the door guy wouldn't let me in because I wasn't 21 yet. I yelled for my friends but they were too high and the bar was too loud for them to hear me.


It was February, freezing cold, I had no car or any way to get home (at that point I lived about 10 miles away), I had no money on me whatsoever, my cell phone was dead and I was high. Not just high, I was actually tripping, staggering around in my own little scary dream world with my fists nervously balled up and I just wanted it to stop.

I started stumbling through the street trying to make out peoples faces in the hopes that I would see someone I know that could give me a ride home, but they were all jumbled and disfigured to me. The situation was so dire it became comical to me. I started laughing maniacally out loud. Pedestrians were looking at me like I was some crazed vagabond that had just stepped away from huffing paint thinner to find a bush to take a dump in. My eyes were tearing up from the savagely cold wind bombarding me and the wetness was starting to freeze to the side of my face. "Maybe I should start walking home; I could make it in a couple of hours. What the fuck was I thinking, smoking that much?! Mike, you are a total retard. You are never smoking weed ever again. Stick to what you know - you know booze." I am not sure whether I was thinking that or talking out loud to myself.

"Mikey, what the fuck are you doing wandering around here?! Dude, its freezing out - whoa, you are fucking wrecked!!! What the shit happened to you?! Where's Micah?"

Me: "I am tripping. I'm too fucked up to talk, get me the fuck out of here. Do you have food?!"

I was saved! My best friend, Baby's Fist Birthday, was standing in front of me shivering his ass off. By some strange coincidence/will of the Almighty, he had been downtown meeting up with someone and we randomly happened to run into each other.

We got into his car and started driving to his place. I filled him in on the night's events and he just laughed at me. I didn't understand what was so funny about what had happened, but I didn't argue. The trails that the oncoming headlights of the traffic in the opposite lane were making were keeping me busy.

Once inside his house, I consumed an entire box of oversized Cheez-Its and promptly passed out sitting up on his couch with my winter coat zipped up and my shoes still on.

Posted by KungFu Mike at 4:17 PM

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Posted by: anon at December 14, 2006 09:44 PM

So it's good that I don't do any drugs, legal or illegal then huh?

Posted by: Wayland at January 8, 2007 09:03 PM

I feel for you! I too have been in that sort of situation, but instead of passing out and landing on carpet I cracked my head off a toilet.. fun times! Jamacian Clam Bakes=stupidest effin idea EVER!

Posted by: at January 9, 2007 12:12 PM

Up here in Canada we call them Jamacian Hotboxes, but yeah, same thing. They are awesome. I never get that ridiculous of weed, but shrooms are different. Don't take too many of those! Jesus.

Posted by: cienade at January 10, 2007 05:11 PM

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