By Zuckerman | HempToday
A Frenchman, an Italian and a Dane are sitting around in a tavern, when an American walks in and goes straight to the bar.
“Hey guys,” Smith beams from across the room. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“I can’t stand these cheery Americans,” DuBois mutters. “And trust me, they’ll be the death of Our People’s Hemp Movement once they get their laws straightened out and their big combines and corporations rolling. And zey have all zat land!”
“Oh, I’m not so sure,” says Jensen, his blue eyes flashing in the sunlight streaming through the window. “I think they’ll come in handy. Remember, they have Hollywood.”
“What does Hollywood have to do with it?” Rossi says, looking perplexed.
“I’ll have a Merlot,” DuBois shouts to Smith across the room, “And bring Jensen another double vodka. Chilled.”
“A glass of Chianti Classico,” Rossi yells.
“Yes, Hollywood, that’s right,” Jensen says, gazing at the future. “How do you think Our People’s Hemp Movement is going to get anywhere if we can’t begin to get some product placement in a blockbuster Woody Harrelson movie with a Willie Nelson soundtrack that’s translated into at least 27 languages?”
“Who’s Woody Harrelson?” asks DuBois.
Smith juggles the Merlot, the Chianti, the vodka and a tall brown bottle to the table and sits down.
“You guys got some nice bars here in Europe,” Smith says, grinning.
DuBois scowels.
After a long pause, Jensen says: “Hey, Smith. Do you know any movie producers?”
“You mean, like Hollywood?” Smith responds. “Not really, but hell, I went to high school with Woody Harrelson.”
“Who’s Woody Harrelson?” asks DuBois.
“Interesting,” says Jensen, flashing his blue eyes at Smith. “Do you think he’d be willing to star in a blockbuster movie with a Willie Nelson soundtrack that would be translated into at least 27 languages? We’re looking to do some product placement.”
“Roberto Benigni,” says Rossi. “Now there’s an actor. Maybe we could get him too.”
“Who’s Roberto Benigni?” asks DuBois, taking a sip from his Merlot.
Smith pushes back his chair and throws his feet up on the table, revealing a pair of two-toned ostrich-skin cowboy boots. “I think Woody might be interested,” he says, popping open the pearl-snap button on his shirt to pull out his smart phone. “Let me call him.”
Smith gets up from the table and walks to a quiet corner of the room where he paces back and forth talking into his smart phone. After a while he returns to the table.
“Woody’s in!” he announces, grinning and pulling a draught from his bottle.
“Just like that!” says Jensen. “See, boys?”
“Hey, Smith,” Rossi says. “What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Hey, Honey,” Smith waves to the barmaid, holding up his bottle. “Bring three more of these for my buddies.”
“This?” Smith asks, hoisting his bottle for a toast. “That’s hemp beer — 2.66 pounds per square inch of carbon dioxide by volume. Where I come from we call that CO2 sequestration in a bottle, boys.
“Drink up.”
