Right then lads, picture the scene. I’m wanderin’ down Buakhao, as I often do, sweat tricklin’ down me bloomin' arse-holio, fancyin’ a proper mellow evening. Then I clock this little hole-in-the-wall weed shop tucked between a Viagra stand and a dodgy massage joint. Massive neon pot leaf glowing out the front, proper Bob Marley oil painting in the window, two beanbags out the back lookin’ like they’d been rescued from a landfill. Perfect, I think. Just the spot to sink in, puff a bit, and float away from all the human debris.

 

So I park me ballocks inside, order up a bong like I’m a junior uni student again, and the geezer behind the counter’s grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat, talkin’ up this flippin' purple haze strain like it’s God’s gift to the human gob. I take one hit, then another, then about six more for good measure. Proper lungbusters at that. Felt me eyes waterin’, lungs screamin’, the whole shebang mates. And then… nothin’. Not a bloody sausage. I’m sittin’ there clear-headed as if I’d just knocked back a feckin bottle of that bright red pop that turns your tongue into a swollen mess for days.

 

No worries, I tell meself, maybe the edibles will do the trick. So I buy a fistful of gummies, bright pink things shaped like soddin’ Hello Kitty dolls. Wolfed down enough sugar to put an elephant into a coma. Waited an hour and some change. Still nothin’. No giggles, no munchies, not even that floaty “ooh, me toes feel nice” feelin' just after droppin' off a unit of me spaff in Soi 6. Nah, none of that. Just me sittin’ there on a beanbag with sticky fingers and a sugar panic.

 

Meanwhile, the shop’s full of stoners melted into the furniture, gigglin’ at the fan oscillatin’ like it’s comedy gold. One lad’s starin’ at his own hand like it’s the Sistine Chapel. Me? I’m stone cold sober, surrounded by zombies, wonderin’ if I’ve somehow evolved into the world’s first weed-proof muppet.

 

After another failed go on the bong, I just sat there deflated, like a lad who queued up for hours for Glastonbury tickets only to find out he’s actually bought passes to the bloody Spice Girls resurrection tour. Walked out onto Buakhao still sober, still sweaty, forty quid lesser, and wonderin’ why the hell the universe decided I’d be the bloke immune to Pattaya’s strongest gear.

 

That’s Pattaya for ya. Come lookin’ for nirvana, leave with heartburn, a lighter wallet, and a bag of useless sweets. Lewie out...

Another load of ....

 

 

Is Bob Back ?.........................................

You wouldn't even be able to finish a single one of my infused joints....mate. What a load of tosh again presented by this washed up poster. Fade away like your last account did.

27 minutes ago, theshu25 said:

Another load of ....

Totally agree. There are no weed shops anywhere in Pattaya. He must be totally full of ...

17 minutes ago, blaze master said:

You wouldn't even be able to finish a single one of my infused joints....mate. What a load of tosh again presented by this washed up poster. Fade away like your last account did.

It's an AI bot. LL 2 because they changed some settings over louie? whatever they called the last one.

4 minutes ago, gargamon said:

It's an AI bot. LL 2 because they changed some settings over louie? whatever they called the last one.

 

I know. The bot is still lame. They need to do better.

 

I did see a reply once from it.

8 minutes ago, blaze master said:

 

I know. The bot is still lame. They need to do better.

 

I did see a reply once from it.

Or how about restricting it so only real people get to post? But then a lot of the traffic would be gone. 

24 minutes ago, gargamon said:

Or how about restricting it so only real people get to post? But then a lot of the traffic would be gone. 

 

Quantity over quality it is.

Why LL2? What happened to the original? Banned?

58 minutes ago, blaze master said:

 

Quantity over quality it is.

It escapes me why real people interact with these bots. Just as fulfilling as chatting with your toaster. I can't wait till the bots start replying to each other. No need for real people at that point...

 

 

If you went back to posting under "BOB"......we would know not to read your posts.....as it is, if you keep changing your name.......we are are never 100% it's a post we can skip.

5 hours ago, blaze master said:

You wouldn't even be able to finish a single one of my infused joints....mate. 

 

Where do you get those? I tried a "Round 12" infused from the Highland festival, but haven't been able to find any others.

10 hours ago, LL 2.0 said:

Right then lads, picture the scene. I’m wanderin’ down Buakhao, as I often do, sweat tricklin’ down me bloomin' arse-holio, fancyin’ a proper mellow evening. Then I clock this little hole-in-the-wall weed shop tucked between a Viagra stand and a dodgy massage joint. Massive neon pot leaf glowing out the front, proper Bob Marley oil painting in the window, two beanbags out the back lookin’ like they’d been rescued from a landfill. Perfect, I think. Just the spot to sink in, puff a bit, and float away from all the human debris.

 

So I park me ballocks inside, order up a bong like I’m a junior uni student again, and the geezer behind the counter’s grinnin’ like a Cheshire cat, talkin’ up this flippin' purple haze strain like it’s God’s gift to the human gob. I take one hit, then another, then about six more for good measure. Proper lungbusters at that. Felt me eyes waterin’, lungs screamin’, the whole shebang mates. And then… nothin’. Not a bloody sausage. I’m sittin’ there clear-headed as if I’d just knocked back a feckin bottle of that bright red pop that turns your tongue into a swollen mess for days.

 

No worries, I tell meself, maybe the edibles will do the trick. So I buy a fistful of gummies, bright pink things shaped like soddin’ Hello Kitty dolls. Wolfed down enough sugar to put an elephant into a coma. Waited an hour and some change. Still nothin’. No giggles, no munchies, not even that floaty “ooh, me toes feel nice” feelin' just after droppin' off a unit of me spaff in Soi 6. Nah, none of that. Just me sittin’ there on a beanbag with sticky fingers and a sugar panic.

 

Meanwhile, the shop’s full of stoners melted into the furniture, gigglin’ at the fan oscillatin’ like it’s comedy gold. One lad’s starin’ at his own hand like it’s the Sistine Chapel. Me? I’m stone cold sober, surrounded by zombies, wonderin’ if I’ve somehow evolved into the world’s first weed-proof muppet.

 

After another failed go on the bong, I just sat there deflated, like a lad who queued up for hours for Glastonbury tickets only to find out he’s actually bought passes to the bloody Spice Girls resurrection tour. Walked out onto Buakhao still sober, still sweaty, forty quid lesser, and wonderin’ why the hell the universe decided I’d be the bloke immune to Pattaya’s strongest gear.

 

That’s Pattaya for ya. Come lookin’ for nirvana, leave with heartburn, a lighter wallet, and a bag of useless sweets. Lewie out...

 

 

 

Here’s a concise summary of this story:

 

The narrator goes to a weed shop on Buakhao in Pattaya, hoping for a chilled evening. Despite smoking multiple bong hits and eating a pile of gummies, he feels absolutely no effects while everyone else around him is stoned. Frustrated, sticky-fingered, and forty quid poorer, he leaves sober and disappointed—wondering if he’s somehow immune to weed.

3 hours ago, davb said:

 

Where do you get those? I tried a "Round 12" infused from the Highland festival, but haven't been able to find any others.

 

I could teach you how to make your own if you like. 

Maybe you could rock up to Bangkok Bank and find out why they don't like farang residents...