The Great Canadian Stoner Struggle: Life, Laughter, and Lost Lighters

Nothing strikes fear into a Canadian stoner’s heart like a Tim Hortons drive-thru speaker crackling to life.

You thought you were ready. You even rehearsed your order in your head. But the moment the employee asks, “Welcome to Tim Hortons, what can I get for you?”, your brain reboots.

Do I want a Boston Cream? A Cruller? Is a Double Double just two coffees in one cup? Panic sets in. You were going to get a breakfast sandwich, but now you’re ordering Timbits like your life depends on it.

You drive away, sweaty and stressed, only to realize you forgot your coffee.

Every stoner has had that moment of absolute peace. One deep inhale, one long exhale, and then the sinking. Your body molds into the couch like you were forged in its cushions. Suddenly, time no longer exists. The remote is too far. The bathroom trip you planned? Not happening.

Is this what enlightenment feels like? Probably. Will you ever get up? Unlikely.

Smoking outside in a Canadian winter is a test of determination, survival skills, and regret.

Step one: Flick the lighter. Nothing.
Step two: Try again. Still nothing.
Step three: Question your life choices.

At this point, your fingers are frozen solid, your joint is unsmoked, and you’re starting to think maybe hotboxing your garage isn’t such a bad idea, mom would never know!

But no, you came this far. You are a warrior. You cup the lighter, breathe warm air on it like it’s your firstborn child, and after 37 attempts—success.

You take a hit, feel like a champion, and then realize your mustache is frozen to your face!

You’re outside, vibing, enjoying a nice toke under the crisp Canadian sky. Life is good.

And then—tragedy strikes.

Your fingers betray you. The joint slips. You watch, in slow motion horror, as it plummets into the abyss of fresh, untouched snow.

You drop to your knees, frantically digging like a crazed archaeologist, but it’s gone. Vanished.

Your friends try to console you: “Let it go, man.” But you can’t. That was a perfectly rolled joint. A masterpiece. A dream unfulfilled.

Gone. But never forgotten.

Being high is like having a genius brain on steroids. You get an idea so brilliant, so life-changing, that you can’t believe no one has thought of it before.

And then you forget it.

You scramble for your phone, but by the time you open your notes app, you’ve somehow ended up watching a YouTube video about raccoons stealing hot dogs.

That billion-dollar idea? Gone.
That hilarious joke? Erased from existence.
That invention that would revolutionize snack technology? Lost in the void.

You vow to write things down from now on. You never do...

You start the day with ambition. You’re going to be productive, get things done, maybe even clean your apartment.

And then you take one hit off the dirty bong!

Cut to six hours later: You’re still in your pajamas, halfway through a documentary about ducks, surrounded by crumbs with stains everywhere from a snack you don’t remember eating.

You tell yourself, “I’ll get to it later.”
You never get to it.

But hey—you answered one email today. That counts, right?