Cannabis Culture meets Southampton

Part 2 of sketch comedy series

The morning sun insisted on waking Isadore Moukatel from his narcotic slumber that Sunday morning. “What a night!” he thought to himself. Who knew? Turns out they still make Lemon 747’s. The last time he did a quaalude was in the balcony of studio 54 with a woman, he would later find out had a hairy ass and a penis. Izzy, or “The Mook”, as his friends liked to call him, flung his CPAP mask onto his nightstand, sending the silver ashtray he stole from his favorite hotel on the French Riviera careening to the floor. As he sat on the edge of the bed, bending over to pick up the scattered remains of yesterday’s pack of Marlboro Lights, his attempt was thwarted not by the length of his arms, but by the sheer girth of his belly. Izzy crammed his oedemic feet into a pair of monogrammed purple velvet bedroom slippers from Stubbs and Wootton, and lumbered toward his bathroom. He fished a fine-tooth comb out of his dob kit and styled the 6 greasy strands of hair that were left on top of his head.

“When are you gonna get rid of that bacon strip on top of your head?” His wife Barbara, naked from the waist up, stood in the doorway watching him. Her mascara from the night before was everywhere but on her eyes.
“Jeezus Barbara, put on some clothes.” He said half joking. During their 20-year marriage, her nipples had grown to the size of saucers, and her perky C cups were now the shape of overgrown eggplants that had been accidentally left on the vine after harvest. Izzy didn’t mind. He loved every inch of her.

“You look like Alice Cooper with tits.” Izzy laughed.
“God you’re repulsive.” She said under her breath as she sat on the toilet in front of him. “I’m repulsive? That’s rich coming from a woman taking a shit in front of her husband. You didn’t think I was so repulsive last night... did ya? Eh?”
“Did we make love? I was so high; I forgot.” Casually joking.
“I hope the neighbors can forget as easily as you. You were screaming like a banshee.” “Gosh I love ludes.” She said wistfully, while looking at herself sideways in the mirror. “Ludes and Fiorrucci; Now those were the days. I remember trying on jeans that were two sizes too small. I had to lay faceup on that poofy thing in the middle of the store while the salesgirl zipped me up. What happened to me Izzy? Jeezus, look at all this overhang! I can’t even see my hoo haa!” Barbara shook her head in disgust.
“Don’t worry, it’s still there.” One corner of Izzy’s mouth slid upward into a sly smile. “Aren’t you glad I got you that gift certificate at that laser spa.”
“Who do you think you’re kidding Isadore? You got that for you; not for me. I can’t believe you still LIKE doing THAT after all these years.”
“It’s my happy place, what can I say? I told the guys at the club that I’m a member of the clean plate club.”

Hey, is this all we have left?” Barbara plucked a roach from the ledge of the giant Jacuzzi bathtub. From the looks of things, the bathtub saw some action last night.
“I’ll stop at the dispensary. Kill two birds with one stone. I made a sample t-shirt I think could be a big seller for us. It’s all about the merch baby!

“Really? Let me see.” “It’s in my trunk.”

Izzy and Barbara had been working together, manufacturing jeans for “husky” juniors since the start of their marriage nearly twenty years ago. Barbara waltzed into Izzy’s office

dressed like a “Material Girl” with a ring of stretch denim swatches to sell, and that was it. Izzy was smitten. “Game over” as he would later say.
“Do me a favor, while you’re there, can you get me some gummies? Anything but watermelon or sour apple.” Barbara pecked him on the cheek at the front door as he was leaving.

Izzy took the long way to the dispensary. He enjoyed driving down Main Street through Southampton Village with the top of his Bugatti type 57 convertible down so everyone could see him. This was his time to shine. He’d been working hard since he was nine years old. His love of the garment industry began while he worked at his uncle Abner’s notions shop to help his father put meat on the dinner table. After dropping out of Thomas Jefferson High in his junior year, Izzy started his blue jean company out of the garage and never looked back. He now had a five-car garage in an oceanfront mansion on Gin Lane. Their home was modeled after a castle he and Barbara had visited in the Loire Valley on their honeymoon. They even built an indoor ocean fed mote filled with tropical fish so he and his wife could snorkel.

The pink haired receptionist stationed in a Plexi-glass booth at the entrance of the dispensary studied Izzy’s driver’s license intently. Looking down at the photo and then up at him more than a few times.
“It’s me.” He assured her. “Fifty pounds ago.” Truth be told, it was more like solid 75 pounds ago... but who’s counting he thought? He reasoned to himself.
“You’re good to go.” She buzzed him through the bullet- proof door and returned to her game of Candy Crush.
“Welcome to Thunder Cloud. How can I help you?” A budtender called out from behind one of the display cases in the showroom. This is not your mother’s drug den Izzy thought to himself as he eyed wide peg and plank walnut floors, a gracious skylight, and a temperature-controlled , walk- in marijuana humidor, just like the one in the Davidoff store on Madison.
“Is the Chief here?”
“The Chief went to Canyon Ranch for some much-needed R and R.”
“Really? My wife and I love it there! Which one does he like? Tucson the Berkshires?” Not catching on to the young man’s sarcasm.
“I’m the manager. Can I be of help?”
“Looking around here I see you don’t do much merchandising. You’re missing out on a lot of revenue ya know. All I need is a few minutes of your time.” He plopped a small double bag on top of the display case and began to pull out its contents.
“See this? This is retail gold! It’s all about the merchandising, if you get my drift. You’re in luck my young man... you just happen to be in the presence of the “Chief” of all merchandising!” Izzy knew this script by heart proudly holding up a black tee shirt with an illustration of a tomahawk on the chest. The letters M.A.O.A. emblazoned on the shaft.
The young man looked confused.
“And it doesn’t stop there...” Izzy pulled out a cobee mug, a baseball cap, and a hoody all with the letter M.A.O.A.
“Skies the limit!” He gushed.
“What ‘s M.A.O.A? I never heard of that word before.”

“It stands for Make. America. Ours. Again. Trust me. These things’ll fly of the shelf.” Izzy beamed with confidence.
“Go on...” Izzy peaked the bud tender’s curiosity.
We could do M.A.O.A. dream catchers, moccasins, papooses, loin cloths, even peace pipes. Trust me, by the time I get through with this, your tribe will be so rich there’ll be a Mustang in every driveway... you know...the kind with wheels. Ocean front teepees, indoor plumbing, you name it”. Heavy beads of sweat began to appear on Izzy’s upper lip. He always sweat when he was in salesman mode.

“Wait a minute...are you ready for this one? Garden gnomes.” He fished out a garden gnome with a reddish-brown complexion wearing a tiny M.A.O.A. t-shirt.
“You can make everything right here. Use the kids from your tribe to do the sewing like we do in China. Here, I’ll leave the samples so you can show them to the chief when he gets back from Canyon Ranch. Don’t worry, I won’t ask for any of it back... cause I’m no Indian giver.” As he smiled his best salesman smile, his perspiration fell on to the glass display case.

“You don’t have to give me an answer right away. Take your time and think about it.” Izzy pushed a few hundred-dollar bills toward the young man. Just then he remembered his wife’s request. “Say, do you guys sell those wacky weed gummies?”
“Sure, I got watermelon and green apple.”