Best Trippin Quotes

hahahah that sounds hilarious to watch

 

haha today i was running, and these two hobos were fighting, and i heard them, and thought of this thread! basically this is what happened-
one guy stumbled up off the floor and said he was a karate master, and wanted to fight this other hobo. So they start doing like slow motion karate chops at each other, then the one guy goes "hey dude you can't fly! thats cheating!" and the other guy looked really confused for a second, then said "alright dude i am gonna try to stay on the ground this time!" haha i kept running and didnt hear the rest, but i was cracking up the rest of my run

 

Me, my first time on LSD, looking down at my feet, then at my legs, torso, hands, arms, and finally focusing on my head:

"Oh my god...I'M INSIDE A BODY!"

Fox: "Ok! You! No talking allowed, 5 minutes!"

 

"man, you need to stop that elephant from humping that giraffe"

 

Me- "Where did all this sand come from?"
My boyfriend - "We brought it back from the beach and put it here instead of the carpet."
Me- "Oh, It feels sooo good between my toes!"

Me looking into a full sized closet door mirror - "Babe! I'm stuck inside of the mirror! I cant get out! I cant reach my pants!"

(On LSD for the first time)

 

I lol'd, its a funny mental image.

And Jeanie do you actually have sand on your carpet?

 

haha i have had that feeling just being superstoned. being like whoa... i am inside this like flesh bag, and i can move it around! crazy shit man

 

Been there done that

 

Just turned my friend on to 4 grams of shrooms and we were setting in a room with seriously weird wall paper...


Friend..This is the wrong room for this.

 

I walked past two old men in a store one day...I was stoned but I doubt that they were. I have to believe that they were talking about microwave ovens


Old man...Hell, I don't know. maybe there is a piece of uranium in there and the fan just blows it around.

 

hahaha the bum fight is good as.

 

Sorry this is so long. It was my first acid trip about 36 years ago. The story is true however, and it is just the way I remember it.


It was some English class sometime late in my freshman year of high school or perhaps it was History; doesn’t really matter . . . it was just for some high school class and we gathered in the auditorium to watch a movie of historical or dramatic importance. It took three days to go through one of these damn things, one hour a day and we did this about twice a year. I think it really just gave the teachers a break from dealing with the smart assed kids. No one really watched the things and there was never a test. Just set quietly and behave for an hour, that’s all. The teachers wanted peace and quiet, no more, no less. This was the third day of the movie and the big climactic battle scene was coming up and this was the only hour that Dave‘s, Robby‘s and my class schedules overlapped.

About an hour or so before the movie started, the several of us had gathered in the back bathroom behind the auditorium. A senior named Izzy had materialized one of those colored “barrel acids” that were prevalent at the time. I seem to recall the color was purple: might have been orange, no matter. The tiny little thing had already been divided into a partial unit. If it was a three way at birth it was barely a one and a half way now. Three of us had pooled our meager resources to come up with the necessary price of five dollars.

So there we were trying to break this flyspeck of mystic magic into something that resembled three even but smaller flyspecks. Once accomplished, I eagerly threw my tiny fleck of crumbled powder into my mouth and washed it down with spit.

Acid is a liver drug. I know that common knowledge says LSD work on the higher centers of the brain, but it doesn’t get to the brain until the liver stirs it around and fucks with the chemistry a bit. The liver never hurries at this kind of thing. Snort something special or smoke it and the nose and lungs rush the magic to your brain. This becomes the drug equivalent of the fifty yard dash, pony express and airmail delivery all in one. The liver route is a slow marathon. A cripple’s crawl through the vast cauldron of liver detoxification before that grand organ releases any of the drug into the blood stream and then ever so slowly into the brain. Often by then the brain has kind of forgot about the upcoming experience. The cerebral cortex gets easily distracted and by the time the liver comes through, the brain has moved on to something else. We forgot.

There we sat in the auditorium watching the final reel of “Fifty Five Days at Peking,” in the dark with a little bit of acid romping through our livers, not yet delivered to our sleepy brains. Fifty Five Days at Peking is a grand old movie that tells without mentioning it, how the great western powers fought and defeated the Chinese in a vicious battle to maintain western control of the drug trade in China. We were the drug cartel of the day. Many western fortunes . . . old money, upper crust blue-bloods were made and empires built at the price of opium addiction in China. And we really didn’t care so long as the dope fiends and helpless addicts were yellow Chinese and not white Europeans. Opium consumption had never been a serious problem in China until the great western powers saw fit to make it one. Of course we rail against the Columbians, Mexicans and Afghanis or any other nationality that should have the unmitigated gall to sell drugs here in our country today, but by damned its just good capitalism and market place savvy if we do it somewhere else.

There were the perfectly righteous Chinese trying to defend their sovereign borders from the foreign drug lords . . . us. The final climactic battle scene was breaking out and some asshole rolled an ox cart full of flaming straw down the ramparts at the opposing side. Great shooting balls of sparks and flames filled the screen and then rushed by my head with vivid reds, oranges, smoke and loud thundering noises. Gun fire and chaos! Just then Darwin’s little LSD monkey started crawling up my spine. I could almost feel him open my scull with his throbbing little monkey penis in his hairy little hand.

You haven’t done a big screen, blazing battle scene until you have done it in the first throws of an acid run. I had forgotten the little liver surprise was coming. I found myself ducking and dodging the burning carts like some kind of demented fool. Shit was happening all around me. The battle raged. My mind raged.

“Son of a bitch,” I moaned. “The bastards just about got me.” Flaming carts were everywhere. “Jesus, those fuckers are out to kill us all. Look Out!”

Dave’s voice in the darkness called, “Holy shit why are these fuckers shooting at me?”

The battle raged. Robby whimpered, whined and made ungodly sounds. Nothing approaching the English language came from his seat in the dark auditorium,

Sparks were flying all over the place. Bullets zinged by. I started making all kinds of weird noises as I tried to hide behind the seat-back in front of me. The shit was getting intense. I heard similar noises and cursing to my left and right.

“Quiet down over there,” the instructor barked.

I looked over to see my buddies doing the same things, ducking, dodging and generally acting insane. They looked at me, I looked at them and we all looked at each other. Then it all became hilarious. We had gotten caught up in the blazing glory going from a flat screen, two dimensional movie to a full 3D involvement without the weird little red and blue glasses. Hell, this was a lot more realistic anyway.

“Quiet down you little bastards,” A voice growled through clenched teeth in the darkness just behind us. I felt a presence in the darkness near my shoulder. A white shirt and wickedly ugly tie marked the looming outline of Mr. Schubunce. “If you don’t quiet down I am taking all three of you little perverts to the principal’s office.” That was cause enough to quiet down.

The principal, Mr. Dale, was a shaved head neo-nazi; a savage bastard that never smiled. He had fought in some global conflagration and was captured by the enemy, the last survivor of his lost platoon . . . so the story goes. P.O.W., tortured in unimaginable ways by the enemy; Germanese guards looked on while he was sodomized by giant jungle rats in a bamboo cage. These sadistic fiends held him in a water-torture, bamboo-under-the-fingernails hell somewhere on the other side of the Chosen Reservoir. The story varied—sometimes it was hard to tell the legend from the cold hard facts. At any rate, the vicious torture and mental abuse affected his mind. He never broke, but the demonic skull fucking had left him twisted and obscure . . . he liked pain . . . liked to inflict pain. A sexual thing caused by the rats.

He took it out on us kids, too. Mr. Dale’s demon cub was a three inch thick, eight inch wide six foot long tribute to “Walking Tall.” Inch and a half holes had been drilled at regular intervals along the considerable length to mitigate the impingement of air on the forward progress of the swing. “Bend over the chair” was the last thing many students remembered before passing out. Some stout fellows survived the first encounter with high-speed wood to suddenly swoon on the second pass. The shock waves from the ungodly impact raced up the spine. These high speed waves met and came to a focus at just about the level of the forehead, the spasmodic ripples pushed the victim’s eyes three inches out of their skull before they slapped back into their sockets. The lifting force of the sudden impact from Dale’s club momentarily disjointed the ankles, knees and hips. Once I stood flat-footed with my hands clenching the seatback of a metal chair and took three swings from the club . . . or so I was told when I came to on the gurney. Part of my tongue was missing and three teeth were cracked, my eyes ached for a month and I limber-legged around for quite awhile . . . until my leg joints healed. But I survived.

On acid that would be too intense. We chose not to see Mr. Dale that day. Damned Dale, his demon club would not get to limber up on my ass while the drugs were coursing through my brain. He could flash back and re-live his jungle encounters with other students. I was too groovy to feel the need.

The climactic battle scene was soon over and the Great Western powers were once again free to enslave the innocent people of China in opium addiction. The movie slowly came to a peaceful conclusion. A swell time was had by all and the heroes returned home to great glory and fanfare. I am sure that afterward we went to lunch but I don’t recall. I do, however, vividly remember setting in the next hour’s English class fitfully trying to discern why everyone else was speaking Cantonese. I was sure that they were talking about me. I could see the quick sideways stares.

“Damn Cantonese bastards,” I thought to myself. I quickly closed my eyes trying to find peace from these slope headed pricks. I suddenly discovered the backs of my eyelids were alive with writhing colors and shapes. Spiders!

“Jesus Cha-rist!” I screamed and jumped to my feet, eyes wide open.

Everyone stared. Someone dropped a book.

“Is there something wrong?” Mrs. Teel asked. Her normally red hair was living flames and radiant beams of light flashed off her glasses. She was a kaleidoscope of radiant colors and brilliant streamers.

“Ah . . . spiders . . . spiders. I am afraid of spiders and one . . . a big one, ran across my desk.” I stammered before quickly setting back down.

“Did you kill it?” The woman was going to persist on this topic and I wasn’t prepared to go along.

“Ah . . . I think it got away . . . I mean I tried, but the damn thing was real fast.”

I shouldn’t have told her about the spiders because now I was seeing the little vermin everywhere. I shooshed them away as best I could.

“Well if you see it again,” she slowly shuffled farther away from me to avoid the possible, still living spider , “try and kill it. I don’t like spiders.”

“I could do a Mexican hat dance in here with fifty stomping fools just like myself and not get them all,” I mumbled.

“Beg pardon?” She continued to move across the room.

“Oh nothing, I think I got him. Case closed.”

“Maybe I need to call the custodian,” her Louisiana accent had a certain lullaby allure to it. “Perhaps, he can call an exterminator.”

“I think that would be a good idea. Spiders can be treacherous fiends. We probably need to exterminate all of them.”

“Why, John Clay,” her voice was like deep southern silk, “I did not know that you were terrified of such things.”

“Things . . . not things, no things just spiders. And monkeys sometimes.”

Could she see the LSD monkey that was fucking my brain at that very moment? The hairy little son of a bitch was hunching really hard and fast now. The spiders were hallucinations. Hell I knew that. But that skull fucking Darwin ape was the real McCoy. Funny no one had yet mentioned it.

“Are you trying to be a comedian?” she sweetly drawled. “I do believe that you are just trying to be funny.”

“You’re on to me, Mrs. Teel.” If I played along maybe she would move on. “I was just kidding . . . except the monkey part.”

Oh god I thought. Why don’t I just shut up? This would be easier if Dave and Robby were here. Damn why did I have to do this class alone.

“The rest of us are going back to The Yearling,” she now moved across the far wall which somehow swirled behind her like the wake of a speed boat. “And you can quit monkeying around, if you don’t mind.”

At that moment the lights in the room began to take on a stroboscopic effect that seemed to be timed with the beat of my heart. The spiders quickly left. Time, light and my heart were in an incredible synchronous rhythm. Everything around me was stop action. Words and movements were choppy. It became very difficult to understand the English, Cantonese or what ever the fuck language was being spoken. My pencil slowly began to snake across my desk toward my hand; a yellow number two pencil-python was crawling across my right arm. Jesus this was going to be a long hour.

I survived English, two more hours to go. The next class was a carbon copy of the English class. Strange sights and sounds, weird unearthly people and a few bugs here and there. The checkered tiles on the floor began to switch places with each other. White with charcoal gray and back again. They seemed to swim around at random. I put my feet up; didn’t know if one of the dark tiles was actually hole to god knows where. Can’t take chances with shit like that.

When the bell rang I gathered up my stuff. The damned pencil-snake tried to crawl away again but I caught it without making too many people suspicious. In the hall the other kids zoomed by me with an audible swishing sound. They started to zoom by faster and faster, the sound got louder and louder. I could hear all of their voices at once . . . louder and louder, faster and faster. It was all a swishing blur.

“Slow the fuck down,” I screamed. “And shut the hell up.”

Suddenly the hall way was dead quiet. Not a soul moved as all eyes were on me. I looked around slowly with a sheepish grin creeping across my face.

“Fuck you moron,” Greg bumped hard into my shoulder and chuckled as he walked away. “Fucking hippy.”

“Yea,” came another voice, “Eat shit and die asshole.”

All motion resumed. I quietly zoomed and swished all the way to my last class.

Latin was a conscious choice of mine. Educated people learned Latin. Science is based on Latin and besides it has less of a backdoor reputation than Greek. What I found was that no one, anywhere in the entire fucking world really spoke Latin. There was no Latania. There was no Latanese. The last surviving bastion of semi-spoken Latin is found in the confines of nunneries and church services of branches of the religion that I did not attend. Latin survived two thousand years after cultural death by being the spoken language of the folks that killed God, or at least a near relative. Might makes right, again.

The original speakers of Latin (a brief paragraph to show that two years of this shit wasn’t wasted), were the fucking Romans. These were the gentle souls that spent long, sultry afternoons feeding their friends and neighbors to the lions. If the Romans did nothing else in their time on earth; if nothing else of great value in history can be written about the Romans; if there is nothing . . . absolutely nothing else that can be said, then let it be known that the Romans excelled at killing with more efficiency and dispatch than any other people in history. They lusted after death, and blood and gore was their staple diet. It was their chief and considerable pleasure to inflict pain, misery and destruction on all the rest of mankind. Therefore, we have looked to the Romans as both a National and Social model for our own culture. This knowledge has always filled me with terror.

I sat down in the desk nearest the window as always. Across the room was Randy. Randy was not a model student delving into the language and culture of bygone civilizations. Randy was not a model student. No one was sure if Randy was really a student at all. Randy was chaos embodied in mayhem and stuffed into a bullshit saturated sack of flesh. Discord and disruption followed in his every footstep; a great guy to help pass a normal afternoon. Normal was fucked today.

“God I hope Randy is subdued today,” I swore under my breath as I wrestled the pencil-snake back into my ring binder. “I don’t think I can maintain if that little shit gets fired up.” No sooner than my ass hits the seat a familiar voice calls.

“Hey Clay,” Randy never used first names. “Hey Clay. Throw me a pencil, mine broke.”

“Yea . . . Sure thing, man.” I was tugging on the snake as it tried to crawl up my sleeve. “Let me get it unwrapped from my arm.” I pulled the pencil-python of my arm and gladly sailed the miserable beast across the room.

“Don’t throw things in class,” Mrs. Bradshaw said. Her faded, calf length dress flowed like witch’s tress at full bore on a wicked broom ride. She continued to talk about god knows what as I stared at her. Her hair seemed to be blowing in a stout breeze. She exuded motion in a motionless state. I blinked and the old woman was back to normal.

“Pssst.” Randy had a huge grin on his face as Mrs. Bradshaw walked past him.

“Pssst.” the little bastard was trying to get my attention.

“Pssst. Hey Clay.” Randy hissed in a loud stage whisper. “Look!” Just then he flipped the sharpened pencil straight up with great force. With a muffled thud it stuck point first in the brittle old ceiling tile. There the pencil-python of mine and about forty other wriggling pencil snakes were stuck. The free ends of the trapped beasts wiggled and writhed trying to get free from the ceiling tile. I tried not to look. I tried not to stare. Jesus, the fucking things were going crazy . . . and so was I. A ceiling full of angry pencil snakes struggling to get free.

The floor tiles started to swim again and I saw sparkling boat trails in Mrs. Bradshaw‘s wake as she walked back to the front of the class. I slumped into my seat and held tight to the desktop. This was going to another long hour.

Later at home I sat alone in front of the television. The antique black and white Zenith flickered with the pulsing rhythm of the slapstick, sight-gag bullshit of Gilligan’s Island as the exhausted LSD monkey finally slid off my skull, down my back and on to the floor. The hairy little bastard scurried away into chemo-demon obscurity. I slept well that night.

​

 

shit bamboo, when i finished reading that i actually was shocked to find myself sitting in a computer chair instead of actually being there!
amazing how interesting a normal school day actually is when you pay attention.

 

Bamboo, man, you should write a book. That was great.

 

Well written, I hung off every word. What a time to live in.

 

that was an amazing story, like mellow just said, i hung off every single word, more stories!

 

Haha no! Our carpet is just the color of sand with dark specks in it. But it sure as hell looked and felt like sand when I said that!

 

i was really stoned today and i was putting my pipe back in this fish puppet that i keep it in. i smelled it and i was like, 'o shit it kinda smells'
then i looked in the mirrior and my relfection and it said 'haha dont be silly! people dont go around smelling your fishes anus!'

 

Your reflection talked to you...

Right on!

 

me looking over at my friend: a piece of your hair kinda looks like a pheasant (acid + weed)

another time a few weeks later, friend: dude you kinda look like charlie brown. (weed)