Hot-Boxing is just a hoax
by Carl

I’m not high. I don’t feel high. Guys, I am absolutely honest-to-Gus, not high. Did you just say How Dank is Your Love, Rufus? Is that a Bee Gees song? Jeez, I hated that band. Not so much for their music, but for the way they walked. 

I’ll tell you what, I totally don’t buy those hotboxing s’conspiracies. You guys can go ahead and smake but there’s no way that I’m gonna get high because I’m not smaking. Woah, now you’re gonna roast a blunt too? Man, this trip is taking long. Where are we going again? The Roadhouse? Ha. But seriously, what did you say? Oh, just a roadie? 

If you can give me some science to support the whole second-hand high thing, well then I guess I might consider that proof, but then again, maybe not, because it’s science! And what has science ever proved? Freakin’ protons and neutrons. Mmm. Can we stop at the store for fig neutrons? 

You are clearly hot-box stoned, Carl
by Rutherford Jenkins

Carl, you may not think so, but you are high as a weather balloon. Don’t agree? You’ve been smashing ants on the dashboard now for two minutes, and there are no ants. There are no ants, Carl. 

Hot-boxing is real. When you roll all the windows up in the car, or cram into a small closet with a bunch of people and the smake gets so thick that you can cut it with a knife, well that’s hot-boxing. And we’re sweatlodge high, bud, which means you must be at least halfway to the thermosphere with us. Yea, Carl, I’m talking to you!

See how you just spilled your lunch all over the floor? And then remember how you just stared at it for a few minutes before deciding to go through with eating your burger, piece by piece off the carpet? I’m not a freaking scientist, but the car is clearly getting warmer and it’s not even worth debating whether you are monkey-throwing-crap-level high right now.