JEFF’S MOTHER’S HOUSE, GREEKTOWN – “Man, weed hasn’t ever killed anyone,” puffed Jeff Papadopoulos, resting his blunt on a pile of dry leaves and paper scraps, “Name one guy who died because of weed.”
Papadopoulos, 23, lives in his mother’s home just off of the Danforth. Built in 1918 and almost immediately purchased by his maternal great grandparents, Jeff’s home is a priceless piece of Greek-Canadian history – a multi-million dollar architectural marvel which has withstood a hundred Toronto winters and twenty-five Tastes of the Danforth.
After a few moments, Jeff’s small bonfire reached what can only be described as a Looney Tunes-ian fire hazard, igniting a complex trail of kerosene that terminated in a large pile of sawdust underneath a rope that was suspending an ACME-brand anvil that was hanging above several rounds of WWI-era white phosphorus explosives that, according to Jeff’s late grandfather, were but “hilarious accent pieces.”
“Never, in the history of mankind, has weed harmed anyone or anything. My brain is perfectly fine,” slurred Jeff as the basement began to fill with carbon monoxide and the fumes from burning hair. His brother’s handmade wig collection caught fire. The flames from the wigs quickly consumed the priceless family photo albums, Jeff’s birth certificate, and his teddy bear from childhood, Mr. Snuggs.
The self-igniting phosphorus and the flaming sawdust being blown around by Jeff’s Dyson-brand tower fan created a small firestorm that gnawed at the asbestos-filled walls and his great-grandmother’s mahogany table from the old country. Though I myself untouched by the nonsensical shitstorm, Jeff wasn’t so lucky, his beanie having been blown off by the tower fan.
“Aw, man. It reeks of weed. It’ll take, like, three washes to get this out. Never say never, huh?”