We know it’s late, but this Father’s Day, the only list DabsMag was worried about was the Top 5 Dad Dabs– an epic fan mail call-in, asking you, the Dabsers of the mighty Unitey, to give us your best Dad Dabs stories.
Choosing from thousands of accounts– ranging from Dabbing with Dad to Dabbing on Dad, our staff cut the crop down to a favorite final five. We now list them, in no particular order.
DabsMag’s Post-Fathers’ Day Top 5 Dad Dabs
- Dosing Sleeping Dad with Dabs
My dad started smoking weed again two years ago after my mom passed away, not as a coping mechanism or anything like that, but more just because she didn’t like him doing it before. So whenever I’m around, he and I will get down together.
Last time, we were smoking and drinking, and got a little bubbly, and he went off about how he wasn’t getting high enough. When I told him about dabs, he said something like “That’s trash. I’m not smoking chemical garbage.” When I tried to explain what it really was, he wouldn’t hear it.
So like any good child, I waited until he went to bed. Knowing he’s a heavy snorer–and would be fully unawares at my disposal–I snuck into his bedroom at night will he slept, full rig and torch at the ready. After heating up the nail good and hot, I pounced on an extra large and gargly inhale, catching him with a face-full hit of some goopy goodness.
He awoke in an almost Jabba the Hutt-being-strangled-like scare, and after calling himself back from the grips of a near heart attack, went on to be the highest he’s ever been in his life for the next six hours. Happy Father’s Day!
- Back-to-Back Dabs-with-Dad Camping-Dumping
My family went on a camping trip last summer to the Adirondacks in New York. Basically a beautiful mountain range covered in maples and pines with great hiking trails and tent or cabin campsites.
On our third day there, we went to the lake for a barbeque. Swimming, grilling, a nice little time. After we ate, my dad asked if anyone wanted to go on a hike round the lake, and my sister and mom both declined. I said sure, so we went off, just the two of us.
About halfway round the lake, my dad stops and asks if I had any pot. I didn’t, I told him. But I did have this. I pulled out my mini rig. And some wax. He was a bit perplexed. But ultimately, intrigued. So I demonstrated. Then gave him one. He coughed like the world had ended. Then pulled out his flask of whiskey to quell the storm. He gave me some. And we sat down to have some more. About twenty minutes later, The barbeque starts to roll over on us. Sausage and ribs and hot dogs and chicken. And whiskey. And dabs. Both of us look at eachother like “we’ve nearly got the same bowel systems. This is happening to the both of us.” And without saying anything, my dad gets up and holds out a hand. He says, “come on.”
Hoisting me up, we rummage off the trail a bit, and then he stops again. He says, “we gotta do this, if not for any real reason, than for basic bonding purposes. …We’re shitting back-to-back.”
I don’t know if it was the dab, or the fact that we’re pretty much the same person, but I saw no other way. I agreed. If for no other reason, I should shit back-to-back with my father before he’s gone. So we did. And we used our socks to wipe. Happy Father’s Day.
- Dabbed for Speech at Dad’s Retirement Party
My dad retired from the fire department about four months ago, and he was the chief so they had this huge party for him at this grand catering hall ballroom place. My mom asked me to give a speech. When I went up for it, I pulled out a rig and did a giant fucking dab. Almost didn’t get it lit before they ran up and pulled me down.
Happy Father’s Day.
- Dad Dabbed in Drag During Desert Dawn
I took my parents to Burning Man last year and had the greatest time ever.
My Dad Dab memory/story was at sunrise, when one of our friends lit a dab for my Dad, who was fully decked out in stilettos and Divine makeup.
Standing next to him as the sun came up and that smoke hit his lungs, I knew exactly where I came from. And it felt good.
- Dab-Off with Dad for Control of Free World
My name is Norman Rothschild, and I am the heir to the Rothschild family and fortune.
My father Mayer and I were recently at a disagreement as to whether myself or he should take up control of the Free World, unbeknownst to said world at large, of course, as is the rigid tradition of our bloodline, when the next son comes of age in his undergarments.
After bets placed on several fencing bouts and hand-to-hand plebian death matches turned up no one for the better, we were put onto a little tradition from the seedier side of the family.
Two at-odds parties would partake in the finest cannabinoid extracts from diamond-carved smoking vessels continuously until one or both of the parties should back out.
Using two of the indentured servants lying about the manse, we dove into this competition. Mere minutes passed before one of the boys toppled over himself and fell into the deepest of slumbers. He was my own.
Four more years I must wait until I can challenge my father again. Four more years…
Photo via Morgue File