Ass-essing The Situation: Cannabis Suppositories

Daniel Williston
Cannabis Suppositories

The legal recreational cannabis industry is a relatively new phenomenon, and every company is trying to be THE FIRST.

This has led to a race to increase potency, get good tasting beverages, have the largest 510 cartridge; the works. Normally these new innovations are met with at least warm curiosity if not enthusiastic glee.

But (and it’s a real but) the latest craze to hit shelves has some people scratching their heads. Companies have launched their branded Cannabis Suppositories.

Always ready to throw myself into a story, I pitched my editors on an experiential, first person quest to try one of these new products.

Friday January 20th 2022.

I put an English muffin in the toaster. “Courage, damn you” a voice in my head like Ernest Hemingway belittled me. “You’re stalling.”

I walked to my room and found my cat lounging like Cleopatra against the pillows. “There’s still time for you to go,” I told him. He merely stared. The horrors to which he was about to bear witness…

I thought about trying to romance myself, maybe lighting a candle or playing some music. But no. This was not some bedroom romp. This was merely a scientific experiment, and I needed to have my wits about me. How else would I be able to convey these dark matters to the good readers of Kindling Media?

I dropped my sweatpants and boxers unceremoniously on the floor.

I stared at them, abandoned, begging for me to forget this foolishness, slide them back on and go play a video game. But I had the package in my grasp, and bottomless in a t-shirt like Winnie The Pooh, I soldiered on.

I will spare you as many of the details as I can while not recoiling from the truth.

The product was through my prescription at Emblem. They carry the Assuage brand (much of the entrepreneurial stoner’s identity is wrapped up in their fascination and dexterity with puns) which gives you a package of eight suppositories. The strength is a 1:3, with 10 mg of THC and 30 mg of CBD. Good, I thought. The heavy CBD should help relax me after this violation.


I thought back to a simpler time, rolling a joint or smoking a bong in my college bathroom.

But Pioneer, oh, Pioneer, here we are today. An incredible feat for a patient who cannot smoke or has trouble ingesting. But the recreational market? Where was the demand? Who would these be marketed to, when options like a spray or a drink are available? The mystery plagued me as I hugged my knees to my chest on the bed, the cat staring in bemused wonder. I thought about Steve-O in Jackass Number Two, and his skit with the butt chug. Given he was paid far more than I would be, and the demand on me not nearly as humiliating, I pressed on. I opened the case to see little individually wrapped cylinders, about the size of a bullet. I unwrapped one and it fell to the bed. I gripped it as it immediately began melting in the warmth of my fingers.

There was a time limit. I felt my forehead begin to sweat. I am a big man, and as such, mid process, I realized a finger would not be long enough to get the product into… its holster. The sounds of my struggle made me regret not putting on music. But what song would I seek to ruin by association with this event?

Forever remember this day every time I hear the stalwart pangs of Stan Roger’s “Northwest Passage?” I reached over to my nightstand to rummage through the drawer to see what I could find to aid me in my quest. Used bullet casings from the first gun I fired, a rail gun mounted to a flatbed truck when I was an actor in the horror movie V/H/S/94. Too large, and with a hole in the centre. No help to me here.

A pen, but one I intended to use again. Even with a thorough cleaning, the memory would stain just as deeply as the destination. At the bottom of the drawer I found an Allair dab pen from years ago, pre-Oct 17 2018. I haven’t used it since. It was small, much smaller than the 510 batteries I used now. And I could throw it away. As the Allair battery allowed me to encompass the suppository to a greater extent, I thought of all the times it had been in my mouth. Those days were gone. That pen and I now knew each other in the most intimate and extensive of ways.

A ding from the kitchen.

I shot up like I had been caught doing something untoward. The english muffin. I had forgotten. My heart raced as I stood up. I looked at my cat. He stared the blank expression of a construction worker holding the “Stop” and “Slow” signs for traffic along Eglinton.

But I knew was he was thinking. “You’ll get paid for the article and maybe some people will chuckle. But you and I will need to contend with this memory for the rest of our lives.” I pulled up my boxers and waddled to the kitchen. I thought about stoners using these. Would I ever invite friends over to get high just to have them see me Penguin my way around my apartment? I washed my hands thoroughly. I turned off the tap, turned it back on and washed them again. I had never sung Happy Birthday in my head so many times consecutively.

I ate my English muffin and looked in the mirror. I wondered if my mother would ever be reading this article. My tolerance is such that 10 mg of THC relaxed me, but did not cause a buzz in me. Certainly not enough to forget that I had come up with this pitch: I had done this to myself. I came into the bedroom later to see my Allair pen sitting on a Kleenex on my nightstand.

I gingerly picked it up and tossed it. Happy Birthday was sung a few more times as I washed up. Back in the bedroom I contemplated the direction of my life and looked over at open box of product. With seven more unused suppositories inside. I sighed, and thought about how I could pitch Kindling a first person article on smoking a joint. Wouldn’t that be novel.

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