Once upon a time, back when I was in my early twenties, there was this cool, old, homeless guy who hung out in front of the local liquor store almost daily. He’d sit out there as long as it took to cleverly persuade the droves of customers coming in and out of the place to cough up enough spare change so he could buy the booze necessary to get through the misery of the day. Admittedly, I got caught up in this racket on more than one occasion. I’d be on my way through the door and he’d say something like, “Young man, young man… could you help a brother get an ice cold beer.” Sometimes I was flush enough to facilitate. Other times, not so much. But the one thing I remember him saying to me on those days when I could afford to give a few bucks to put a bottle of brew in his shaky, wrinkled hands was, “The only thing better than a cold beer is a joint. And if you got both, well, son, there ain’t nothing better than that.” Then he’d ask me if I had any weed. He was always trying to squeeze me for little more, that guy. [Read more at Forbes]